BOUGHT  FROM 
Mulhern  Donation 


Jj 


THE 


OETRY 


OF 


IRELAND. 


EDITED    BY 

JOHN   BOYLE  Q'REILLY, 

EDITOR  OF  "THE  BOSTON  PILOT;"  AUTHOR  OF   "SONGS  FROM   SOUTHERN  SEAS;  '  "  SONGS,  LEGENDS 

AND  BALLADS;"    "MOONDYNE;"    "THE  STATUES  IN  THE  BLOCK;"   "!N  BOHEMIA,"  AND 

"THE  KING'S  MEN:  A  TALE  OF  TO-MORROW." 

WITH    THE 

PUBLISHER'S  SUPPLEMENT  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION. 

THE  WHOLE  FORMING  A  STANDARD 


AND 


A  BIOGRAPHICAL  PORTRAIT  GALLERY  OF  HER  POETS. 


ILLUSTRATED  WITH  OVER  ONE  HUNDRED  CHOICE  ENGRAVINGS. 


NEW  YORK : 

GAY     BROTHERS    &    CO., 

3O,  32  A  34  READE  STREET. 


»    •   ?•    9       » 

•*:•*:  '..• 


COPYRIGHTED     1887, 

BY 

JOHN    BOYLE    O'REILLY. 

COPYRIGHTED  1889,  BY  GAT  BROTHERS  &  Co. 


PUBLISHERS'  ANNOUNCEMENT. 


"  THE  Poetry  and  Song  of  Ireland  "  is  the  outgrowth  of  a  most  excellent 
collection  of  poems,  for  which  the  Publishers,  in  1886.  secured  Mr.  John  Boyle 
O'Reilly  as  Editor,  to  make  such  revision  and  additions  as  seemed  necessary,  as 
well  as  to  prepare  biographical  notices  of  all  the  poets  embraced  in  the  work. 

The  first  edition,  issued  in  1887,  as  prepared  by  Mr.  O'Reilly  (which  is  retained 
unaltered  in  the  present  volume),  was  so  well  received  that  the  Publishers 
immediately  decided  to  greatly  enlarge  the  scope  of  the  work  and  make  it  a 
Standard  Encyclopaedia  of  Erin's  Poetry  and  Song."  The  result  will  be  seen 
in  the  "  Publishers'  Supplement,"  beginning  at  page  815,  wherein  selections  in 
great  number  and  variety  are  given  from  many  authors  not  previously  repre- 
sented in  the  compilation. 

The  biographies  of  the  poets  appearing  in  the  "  Supplement  "  have,  for  the 
convenience  of  the  reader,  been  arranged  in  the  same  alphabetical  series  with 
those  printed  in  the  previous  edition. 

It  is  believed  that  the  present  edition  of  "  The  Poetry  and  Song"  embraces 
selections  from  a  larger  number  of  the  Irish  poets  than  has  hitherto  appeared  in 
any  one  volume.  The  principle  followed  in  admitting  new  selections  to  the 
present  edition  of  the  work  has  been  to  admit  verses  of  real  merit,  regardless  of 
the  degree  of  fame  enjoyed  by  the  author. 

In  the  biographical  department  of  the  work  will  be  found  a  brief  sketch  of 
each  poet.  If  in  a  few  instances  the  sketches  are  not  as  full  as  might  be  desired, 
we  trust  that  the  difficulty  of  securing  material  of  this  kind  will  be  taken  into 
account,  as  much  of  it  has  never  before  appeared  in  permanent  form.  In  con- 
nection with  the  biographies  the  publishers  have  given  portraits  of  all  poets 
whose  likenesses  they  have  been  able  to  secure,  having  put  forth  no  inconsider- 
able effort  and  expense  in  the  attempt  to  secure  portraits  of  all. 

The  Publishers  are  greatly  indebted,  and  desire  to  express  their  thanks  to 
the  many  friends  of  the  work  who  have  given  aid  in  the  preparation  of  the 
present  edition,  and  trust  that  the  same  kindly  interest  and  co-operation  will  be 
extended  by  both  old  and  new  friends  for  the  further  enrichment  of  succeeding 
editions. 

The  Publishers  are  confident  that  the  compilation  will  prove  to  be  a  thor 
oughly  representative  one  of  the  best  work  of  the  Irish  poets,  and  will  fill  a  long 
felt  want  in  giving  within  the  com  pass  of  one  volume  a  collection  of  verse  worthy 
of  the  poetic  genius  of  the  "  Land  of  Poets." 

They  are  assured  that  the  present  edition  of  "  The  Poetry  and  Song  "  will 
afford  to  all  lovers  of  Ireland's  muse  a  rich  symposium  of  the  choicest  fruit  of 
Erin's  bards  in  every  land  and  every  age. 


71  205 


THE  EDITOR'S  SHARE  IN  THE  WORK. 


Upon  the  appearance  of  the  first  edition  of  "Poetry  and  Song,"  a  question 
was  raised  in  the  public  press  regarding  Mr.  John  Boyle  O'Reilly's  share  in 
the  work  as  editor,  and  the  publishers'  right  to  use  his  name.  Mr.  O'Reilly  has 
not  conceded  the  necessity  and  importance  of  his  publicly  correcting  these  ad- 
verse comments.  Under  these  circumstances  the  publishers,  as  a  matter  of 
public  interest,  and  in  order  to  protect  their  reputation,  think  themselves  just- 
ified, and  guilty  of  no  breach  of  good  faith,  if  to  settle  this  question  beyond 
all  doubt  they  print  herewith,  in  full,  a  fac-simile  of  the  document  drawn  up  in 
Mr.  O'Reilly's  own  handwriting,  outlining  in  advance  the  work  he  deemed 
proper  to  be  done. — which  he  afterward  undertook,  consummated,  and  received 
pay  for  as  stipulated. 

The  publishers  not  only  had  full  authority  to  use  the  editor's  name  but 
it  was  obligatory  upon  them  to  do  so,  as  will  be  seen  by  reference  to  the 
clause  in  which  Mr.  O'Reilly  wrote  "  my  name  to  follow  the  book  and 
copyright." 

If  further  evidence  were  wanting  as  to  whether  Mr.  O'Reilly  personally 
edited  the  volume,  his  desire  to  be  held  fully  responsible  therefor,  expressed 
in  an  unsolicited  letter  to  the  publishers,  dated  June  llth,  1886,  should  be  con- 
clusive. In  this  letter,  written  upon  his  completion  of  the  work,  he  states  in  re- 
gard to  his  relation  thereto  <;  The  literary  part  is  mine,  the  business  part  yours." 

The  entire  work  prepared  by  Mr.  O'Reilly,  including  the  biographical 
sketches,  is  retained  unaltered  in  the  present  volume  which  also  contains  the 
"  Publishers'  Supplement "  to  the  second  edition. 


INTRODUCTION. 


THE  many-sided  Celtic  nature  has  no  more  distinct  aspect  than  its  poetic 
one.  The  Celt  is  a  born  poet  or  lover  of  poetry.  His  mental  method  is  sym- 
bolic like  a  Persian  rather  than  picturesque  like  an  Italian  or  logical  like  an 
Anglo-Saxon. 

The  Poet  has  been  more  highly  honored  by  the  Irish  race  than  by  any  other, 
except  perhaps,  the  Jews.  But  the  Jewish  poet  was  removed  from  the  masses, 
a  man  apart,  a  monitor,  a  Prophet.  The  Irish  poet  and  bard  was  the  very 
voice  of  the  people,  high  and  low,  sad  and  merry — the  song-maker,  the  croon- 
chanter,  the  story-teller,  the  preserver  of  history,  the  rewarder  of  heroes. 

In  the  old  days  of  Celtic  freedom,  art  and  learning,  the  poet  was  part  of  the 
retinue  or  household  organization  of  every  Irish  prince  or  chieftain. 

The  claim  of  the  poet  in  Arthur  O'Shaughnessy's  exquisite  ode  is  nowhere 
more  readily  allowed  than  in  Ireland: — 

"  WK  are  the  music-makers, 

And  we  are  the  dreamers  of  dreams, 
Wandering  by  lone  sea-breakers, 

And  sitting  by  desolate  streams: 
World-losers  and  world -forsakers, 

On  whom  the  pale  moon  gleams; 
Yet  we  are  the  movers  and  shakers, 

Of  the  world  forever,  it  seems. 

"  With  wonderful  deathless  ditties, 
We  build  up  the  world's  great  cities, 

And  out  of  a  fabulous  story 

We  fashion  an  empire's  glory; 
One  man  with  a  dream,  at  pleasure, 

Shall  go  forth  and  conquer  a  crown; 
And  three  with  a  new  song's  measure, 

Can  trample  a  kingdom  down. 

"  A  breath  of  our  inspiration, 
Is  the  life  of  each  generation; 

A  wondrous  thing  of  our  dreaming, 

Unearthly,  impossible-seeming, 
The  soldier,  the  king  and  the  peasant 

Are  working  together  in  one, 
Till  our  dream  shall  become  their  present, 

And  their  work  in  the  world  be  done." 


Ti  INTRODUCTION. 

The  true  nature  of  a  developed  race  is  best  tested  by  its  abstractions.  Not 
by  the  digging  of  mines,  the  building  of  cities  or  the  fighting  of  battles,  but  by 
the  singing  of  songs,  the  weaving  of  folk-lore,  the  half -unconscious  plaint  or 
laugh  of  the  lilted  melody.  These  are  the  springs  from  the  very  heart  of  the 
mountain,  and  the  subtle  meanings  of  the  whole  descending  river  of  centuries 
are  only  the  hidden  voices  of  the  fountain-head. 

To  the  end  of  the  stream,  the  art-voice  of  a  distinct  people  is  distinct.  An 
Irish  song  is  as  peculiarly  Irish  as  a  round  tower  or  the  interwoven  decoration 
traced  on  a  Celtic  cross. 

The  latest  expressions  of  Irish  poets  are  even  more  purely  characteristic  of 
the  race  than  those  of  a  century  ago,  or  half  a  century.  A  century  ago,  the 
Irish  mind  had  hardly  begun  to  think  in  English,  and  the  heart  had  absolutely 
no  voice  but  the  beloved  and  eloquent  language  of  the  Gael.  All  the  cultivated 
poetry  of  the  18th  century  was  cast  in  English  moulds.  The  old  songs  of  Ire- 
land were  lost  in  the  transition;  and  for  a  whole  century  or  more  the  Irish 
people  made  no  songs  or  only  those  of  a  rude  versification.  They  carried  the 
ancient  wordless  music  in  their  hearts;  the  wandering  piper  and  harper  played 
the  dear  melodies  and  planxties  to  them;  the  ploughboy  whistled  and  the  milk- 
maid sung  the  archaic  airs;  and  so  they  were  preserved  like  the  disconnected 
jewels  of  a  queen's  necklace,  till  the  master-singer  came,  eighty  years  ago,  and 
gathered  them  up  lovingly  and  placed  them  forever  in  his  precious  setting  of 
the  "  Melodies."  Ireland's  indebtedness  to  Thomas  Moore  is  inestimable. 

English  has  now  become  the  Irishman's  native  tongue;  and  his  oriental  mind 
is  putting  it  to  strange  and  beautiful  uses.  For  instance:  a  few  years  ago,  the 
lamented  poet,  Dr.  Eobert  Dwyer  Joyce,  who  was  a  physician  in  Boston,  was 
returning  to  Ireland  in  broken  health — (he  returned  only  to  die  in  the  land  of 
his  love).  A  brother  Irishman  and  poet  of  Boston,  the  Rev.  Henry  Bernard 
Carpenter,  sent  after  him  a  "Vive  Valeque,"  (the  complete  poem  is  contained 
in  this  collection,)  a  superb  illustration  of  Celtic  imagery,  pathos,  and  rhythm: — 

"  O  SADDEST  of  all  the  sea's  daughters,  lerne,  dear  mother  isle, 
Take  home  to  thy  sweet,  still  waters  thy  son  whom  we  lend  thee  awhile. 
Twenty  years  has  he  poured  out  his  song,  epic  echoes  heard  in  our  street, 
Twenty  years  have  the  sick  been  made  strong  as  they  heard  the  sound  of  his  feet. 
For  few  there  be  in  his  lands  whom  Apollo  deigns  to  choose 
On  whose  heads  to  lay  both  his  hands  in  medicine-gift  and  the  muse. 
Double-grieved  because  double-gifted  now  take  him  and  make  strong  again 
The  heart  long  winnowed  and  sifted  on  the  threshing-floor  of  pain. 
Saving  others,  he  saved  not  himself,  like  a  shipmaster  staunch  and  brave 
Whose  men  leave  the  surge-beaten  shelf  while  he  sinks  alone  in  the  wave. 
The  child  in  the  night  cries  '  mother,'  and  straight  one  dear  hand  gives  peace; 
lerne,  be  kind  to  our  brother;  speak  thou,  and  his  plague  shall  cease. 
Thou  gavest  him  once  as  revealer  song-breath  and  the  starry  scroll, 
Give  him  now  as  his  heart's  best  healer,  life-breath  and  balms  for  the  soul." 

And  nowhere  could  a  bolder  example  of  the  facility  of  the  Celt  to  use  outer 


INTRODUCTION.  vii 

things  to  express  the  inward  image  than  these  lines  from  John  Savage's  poem 
on  "  Washington  :"- 

•  "  Could  I  have  seen  thee  in  the  council  bland, 

Firm  as  a  wall,  but  as  deep  stream  thy  manner; 
Or  when,  at  trembling  Liberty's  command, 
Facing  grim  havoc  like  a  flag-staff  stand, 
The  squadrons  rolling  round  thee  like  a  banner!  " 

But  among  the  latest  and  surely  one  of  the  best  examples  of  true  Celtic 
passion  and  poetry — a  voice  as  mystical  and  as  spiritual  as  the  winds  of  Ossian 
—are  the  poems  of  Fanny  Parnell.  Crushed  out,  like  the  sweet  life  of  a  bmised 
flower,  these  "  Land  League  Songs  "  are  the  very  soul-cry  of  a  race.  The  life 
of  the  singer  was  fast  wearing  away  when  they  were  written;  and  she  hurried 
their  publication  in  the  form  most  suited  to  circulation  among  the  poorest 
readers,  wishing  to  see  the  little  book  before  she  died.  All  her  poems  breathe 
depths  of  love  that  seem  like  the  actual  breath  of  existence.  Here  is  one  that 
is  the  utterance  of  an  antique  Celtic  soul:— 

"As  the  breath  of  the  musk-rose  is  sweetest  'mid  flowers, 
As  the  palm  like  a  queen  o'er  the  forest-trees  towers, 
As  the  pearl  of  the  deep  sea  'mid  gems  is  the  fairest, 
As  the  spice-cradled  phoanix  'mid  birds  is  the  rarest, 
As  the  star  that  keeps  guard  o'er  Flath-Innis  shines  brightest. 
As  the  angel-twined  snow-wreaths  "mid  all  things  are  whitest, 
As  the  dream  of  the  singer  his  faint  speech  traiiscendeth, 
As  the  rapture  of  martyrs  all  agony  endeth, 
As  the  rivers  of  Aidenn  'mid  earth's  turbid  waters, 
As  Una  the  Pure  One  'mid  Eve's  fallen  daughters, 

So  is  Erin,  my  shining  one, 

So  is  Erin,  my  peerless  one!" 

If  there  existed  no  other  specimen  of  Gaelic  verse,  this  poem,  "Erin,  my 
Queen  !  "  might  be  taken  as  a  translation  of  a  high  order.  In  the  form  of  her 
verse,  as  well  as  in  its  purpose,  Fanny  Parnell  was  an  inspired  Irish  poet,  ex- 
pressing in  sound,  sense,  and  sight  the  symbolic  meaning  of  the  Gael. 

In  all  the  history  of  poetry,  I  know  nothing  more  sadly  beautiful  than  the 
song  she  wrote  just  before  her  death,  when  the  awful  vision  must  have  already 
come  to  her  in  the  night,  and  when  the  pure  spirit  was  only  held  down  strongly 
by  one  great  sacrificial  earthly  love.  With  the  shadow  upon  her  face,  she 
bravely  wrote  down  as  the  title  of  her  poem  the  words  "  POST-MORTEM,  "  and 
after  them  placed  the  date,  "August  27,  1881,"  as  if  she  had  measured  the  dis- 
tance to  be  traversed,  and  had  grown  so  familiar  with  the  desolate  path  as  to 
mark  it  as  she  went.  I  was  in  constant  communication  with  her  at  this  time, 
in  relation  to  the  publication  of  her  book;  and  I  know  that  if  ever  poet  died 
with  the  love-cry  on  her  lips,  it  was  this  dear  singer  in  her  death-song:— 


viii  INTRODUCTION. 

POST-MORTEM. 

AUG.  27,  1881. 

"  SHALL  mine  eyes  behold  thy  glory,  O  my  country? 

Shall  mine  eyes  behold  thy  glory? 

Or  shall  the  darkness  close  around  them,  ere  the  sun-blaze 
Breaks  at  last  upon  thy  story? 

"  When  the  nations  ope  for  thee  their  queenly  circle, 

As  a  sweet,  new  sister  hail  thee, 

Shall  these  lips  be  sealed  in  callous  death  and  silence, 
That  have  known  but  to  bewail  thee? 

"  Shall  the  ear  be  deaf  that  only  loved  thy  praises, 

When  all  men  their  tribute  bring  thee? 
Shall  the  mouth  be  clay,  that  sang  thee  in  thy  squalor, 
When  all  poets'  mouths  shall  sing  thee? 

"  Ah!  the  harpings  and  the  salvos  and  the  shoutings 

Of  thy  exiled  sons  returning! 

I  should  hear,  though  dead  and  mouldered,  and  the  grave  damps 
Should  not  chill  my  bosom's  burning. 

"  Ah!  the  tramp  of  feet  victorious!  I  should  hear  them 

'Mid  the  shamrocks  and  the  mos.ses, 

And  my  heart  should  toss  within  the  shroud  and  quiver, 
As  a  captive  dreamer  tosses. 

"  I  should  turn  and  rend  the  cere-clothes  round  me, 

Giant-sinews  I  should  borrow, 
Crying,  '  O  my  brothers,  I  have  also  loved  her, 
In  her  lowliness  and  sorrow. 

"  '  Let  me  join  with  you  the  jubilant  procession, 

Let  me  chant  with  you  her  story; 
Then  contented  I  shall  go  back  to  the  shamrocks, 
Now  mine  eyes  have  seen  her  glory."  " 

No  land  in  human  history  has  evoked  deeper  or  more  sacrificial  devotion 
than  Ireland;  and,  it  is  fitting  that  her  poets  should  be  the  voice  of  this  pro- 
found feeling.  There  are  joyous  notes  in  their  gamut,  they  sing  at  times  mer- 
rily, boldly,  amorously;  but  the  unceasing  undertone  is  there,  like  a  river  in  a 
forest.  -How  touching  is  the  question  of  D'Arcy  McGee,  written  in  a  strange 
country,  where  he  had  earned  fame  and  power:— 

"  AM  I  remember'd  in  Erin — 

I  charge  you,  speak  me  true — 
Has  my  name  a  sound,  a  meaning 

In  the  scenes  my  boyhood  knew  ? 
Does  the  heart  of  the  Mother  ever 

Recall  her  exile's  nume  ? 
For  to  be  forgot  in  Erin, 

And  on  earth  is  all  the  same." 


INTRODUCTION'.  ix 

But  the  days  of  gloom  and  travail  are  passing  away  from  Ireland,  and  her 
scattered  children  "are  like  the  ocean  sand."  Generations  intensely  Irish  in 
blood  and  sympathies  have  never  seen  Ireland.  They  have  been  born  under 
American,  Australian  and  Argentine  skies;  they  wander  by  Canadian  rivers 
and  vast  American  lakes;  they  tend  their  flocks  on  South  African  and  New 
Zealand  valleys.  And  the  fancy  of  the  poet  must  feed  on  what  it  sees  as  well 
as  on  what  it  dreams.  Arthur  O'Shaughnessy's  noble  poem,  "  The  Song  of  a 
Fellow  Worker,"  unconsciously  brings  to  mind  a  street  in  London— for  his  life 
was  passed  in  the  vast  city.  In  his  almost  peerless  prefatory  ode  (to  "  Music 
and  Moonlight,")  he  is  abstract  as  a  Greek  of  old — one  of  the  singers  for  man- 
kind, unrelated,  unrestrained.  There  is  a  rare  far-sighted  philosophy  in  this 
dream  of  a  poet,  calmly  placing  his  non-productive  class  highest  and  apart  from 
the  industrious,  the  potential,  the  ambitious,  the  utilitarian. 

"Among  eminent  persons,"  says  Emerson,  "those  who  are  most  dear  to 
men  are  not  of  the  class  which  the  economist  calls  producers:  they  have  nothing 
in  their  handp;  they  have  not  cultivated  corn  nor  made  bread;  they  have  not 
led  out  a  colony  nor  invented  a  loom."  So  sings  Arthur  O'Shaughnessy:— 

"  But  we,  with  our  dreaming  and  singing, 

Ceaseless  and  sorrowless  we! 
The  glory  about  us  clinging 

Of  the  glorious  futures  we  see, 
Our  souls  with  high  music  ringing: 

O  men!  it  must  ever  be 
That  we  dwell,  in  our  dreaming  and  singing, 

A  little  apart  from  ye. 

"  For  we  are  afar  with  the  dawning 

And  the  suns  that  are  not  yet  high, 
And  out  of  the  infinite  morning 

Intrepid  you  hear  us  cry — 
How,  spite  of  your  human  scorning, 

Once  more  God's  future  draws  nigh, 
And  already  goes  forth  the  warning 

That  ye  of  the  past  must  die." 

Patriots,  too,  in  other  causes  than  Erin's  are  "the  sea-divided  Gael."  No 
love  for  Ireland  was  ever  more  passionately  laid  around  her  feet  than  Father 
Abram  Ryan's  devotion  to  the  South  and  her  "  Lost  Cause. "  There  is  no  deeper 
note  of  manly  dejection,  no  more  poignant  word  of  defeat  than  his  "Con- 
quered Banner."  The  sweat  and  smoke-stain  of  the  battle  are  on  his  face 
when  the  waved  hand  puts  aside  the  beloved  flag:— 

"  Furl  the  Banner,  for  'tis  weary. 
Round  its  staff  'tis  drooping  dreary, 
Furl  it,  fold  it- it  is  best 
For  there's  not  a  man  to  wave  it, 
And  there's  not  a  sword  to  save  it, 


x  INTRODUCTION. 

And  there's  not  one  left  to  lave  it 
In  the  blood  which  heroes  gave  it; 
And  its  foes  now  scorn  and  brave  it; 
Furl  it,  hide  it,— let  it  rest." 

Father  Ryan  is  a  fitting  voice  for  a  Lost  Cause.  At  his  brightest  he  is  sad. 
The  shadow  of  the  South's  failure  in  the  field  seems  hardly  ever  to  lift  from  his 
spirit.  His  is  the  yearning  of  a  soul  that  cannot  compromise — that  walks  with 
death  "  down  the  valley  of  Silence  "  sooner  than  accept  new  and  strange  condi- 
tions. But  with  the  indestructible  will  of  the  poet  and  patriot  he  sends  out 
"  Sentinel  Songs  "  to  keep  watch  and  ward  over  those  who  fell  in  the  brave 
fight,  that  the  victor  may  not  trample  on  their  graves  and  blot  out  their  names 
forever: — 

"  Songs,  march!  he  gives  command, 

Keep  faithful  watch  and  true; 
The  living  and  dead  of  the  conquered  land 
Have  now  no  guards  save  you. 

"  List!  Songs,  your  watch  is  long, 
The  soldiers'  guard  was  brief; 
Whilst  right  is  right,  and  wrong  is  wrong 
Ye  may  not  seek  relief." 

Another  phase  of  the  Irish  poetical  nature,  and  a  noble  one,  is  moral,  pro- 
phetic, and  symbolical.  This  is  well  exemplified  by  William  Allingham,  a  poet 
who  touches  two  strong  Irish  keys,  the  peasant's  song  and  the  philosopher's 
vision,  on  consecutive  pages — as  for  instance,  his  popular  "Fare well  to  Bally- 
shannoii  and  the  Winding  Banks  of  Erin,"  and  his  wonderful  little  poem,  "  The 
Touchstone."  Another  poem  of  Allingham 's  seems  to  me  to  be  one  of  the  best 
examples  of  an  Irish  song,  for  its  melody  and  spirit — "Among  the  Heather." 
Observe  the  flow  of  these  lines:— 

' '  One  evening  walking  out,  I  o'ertook  a  modest  colleen, 
When  the  wind  was  blowing  cool  and  the  harvest-leaves  were  falling: 
"  Is  our  road  by  chance,  the  same?    Might  we  travel  on  together?  " 
"  O  I  keep  the  mountain-side,"  (she  replied,)  "among  the  heather." 

But  Allingham's  "Touchstone"  is  a  poem  of  another  kind  altogether.  It 
is  the  utterance  of  a  deep  thought  in  allegory — the  only  means  of  expressing  it 
whole,  or  without  the  cheap  setting  of  mere  intellectuality.  The  very  rhythm 
suits  the  story  as  if  invented  for  it:— 

"A  man  there  came,  whence  none  can  tell, 
Bearing  a  touchstone  in  his  hand; 
And  tested  all  things  in  the  land 
By  its  unerring  spell." 

The  poem  will  be  read  many  times  during  a  lifetime  by  him  who  reads  it 
once;  and  it  will  never  be  forgotten.  It  will  feed  the  mind  with  rare  fancy  to 
reflect  on  the  strewn  ashes,  each  grain  of  which  "  conveyed  the  perfect  charm." 


INTRODUCTION.  ri 

There  is  one  remarkable  feature  absent  from  modern  Irish  poetry,  from  the 
work  of  poets  born  in  Ireland  and  other  countries:  the  song- maker  is  rare,  and 
becoming  rarer.  Allingham  has  written  only  a  few  songs;  McCarthy  not 
many;  Alfred  Peroeval  Graves  a  good  many,  and  very  good  ones.  In  America, 
the  poets  of  the  Irish  have  had  only  one  eminent  song-maker,  Dr.  Robert  Dwyer 
Joyce.  His  volume  "Songs  and  Poems,"  is  a  most  notable  book  of  songs, 
written  mainly  to  old  Irish  airs,  which  adds  to  their  value  and  charm.  Joyce 
had  in  a  high  degree  the  melody-sense  and  the  brief  one-idead  and  richly -chased 
song  method.  His  ballads  are  stirring  songs,  as  anyone  knows  who  has  ever 
heard  the  chorus  of  "  The  Iron  Cannon  "  or  "  The  Blacksmith  of  Limerick." 
In  "Deirdre  "  and  "  Blanid,"  both  noble  epics,  the  songs  interspersed  are  the 
high -water  mark  of  Joyce's  genius.  We  range  the  fields  of  literature  to  find 
more  exquisite  songs  than  "  Forget  me  not,"  and  "  0,  Wind  of  the  West  that 
Bringest."  Not  only  sweet  to  the  ear  but  to  the  soul,  the  cry  of  the  little  blue- 
eyed  blossom  in  the  deadly  embrace  of  the  "  bitter- fanged  strong  East  wind:  " 

"  O  woods  of  waving  trees!    O  living  streams, 
In  all  your  noontide  joys  and  starry  dreams, 

Let  me,  for  love,  let  me  be  unforgot! 
O  birds  that  sing  your  carols  while  I  die, 
O  list  to  me!    O  hear  my  piteous  cry — 

Forget  me  not!  alas!  forget  me  not!" 

Joyce's  life  was  a  poem  in  its  unrealities,  achievements,  agony  and  gloom. 
He  died  in  the  strength  of  manhood,  beloved  by  the  friends  whom  he  had  made, 
proudly  secretive,  but  beyond  hope,  and  heart-broken.  He  was  so  strong,  so- 
wise,  and  so  harmless  to  man  or  woman,  that  his  life,  under  fair  conditions, 
would  have  been  as  fair  and  natural  as  the  flow  of  a  river.  He  wrote  his  songs- 
in  his  happier  years.  He  composed  as  he  walked  in  the  crowded  city  streets. 
On  his  daily  rounds  as  an  over-burdened  physician,  the  strongly-marked  face 
was  usually  pre-occupied,  the  sight  introverted.  He  was  always  "making  a> 
song,"  or  working  some  of  his  characters  in  or  out  of  difficult  positions.  A 
friend  met  him  once  in  Boston  and  was  passed  unnoticed.  He  stopped  the 
Doctor  by  touching  his  arm,  and  the  spell  was  broken.  "  Oh  man  !  "  cried  the 
poet,  with  his  rich  Limerick  utterance,  "  I  was  getting  Deirdre  down  from  the 
tower !  she's  been  up  there  for  three  months,  with  the  ladder  stolen;  and  I 
could'nt  think  how  I  was  ever  to  get  her  down,  without  a  balloon." 

But  in  the  streets,  too,  the  chill  of  the  secret  grief  would  strike  his  heart  like 
a  breath  from  the  grave,  and  the  powerful  form  would  shudder  with  the  spirit's 
suffering.  It  was  then  he  wrote  the  woful  nameless  little  song  in  "Blanid," 
which  I  have  called  in  this  collection  "  The  Cry  of  the  Sufferer."  There  was  no> 
dainty  seeking  after  artificial  misery  when  Joyce  wrote  these  lines: 

"  The  measured  rounds  of  dancing  feet, 
The  Kongs  of  wood-birds  \\ild  and  sweet, 


xii  INTRODUCTION. 

The  music  of  the  horn  and  flute, 
Of  the  gold  strings  of  harp  and  lute 
Unheeded  all  shall  come  and  go— 
For  I  am  suffering,  and  I  know! 

No  kindly  counsel  of  a  friend 

With  soothing  balm  the  hurt  can  mend; 

I  walk  alone  in  grief,  and  make 

My  bitter  moan  for  her  dear  sake, 

For  loss  of  love  is  man's  worst  woe, 

And  I  am  suffering,  and  I  know  !  " 

Dr.  Joyce  won  a  distinct  and  deserved  renown  in  America's  literary  capital. 
Respect  and  affection  met  him  in  the  street,  the  garret,  and  the  drawing- 
room.  Old  Harvard  honored  him  with  a  degree.  The  poor,  among  whom  he 
labored  unceasingly,  and  to  whom  he  gave  unstintedly  of  money  and  gratuitous 
attendance,  repaid  him  with  love.  A  physician,  who  took  his  vacant  place  and 
much  of  his  practice,  and  who  did  not  know  Joyce,  has  since  said : — ' '  He  was 
an  extraordinary  man,  and  a  very  good  man.  His  charity  was  never-ending. 
I  find  traces  of  it  in  every  poor  street  and  tenement-house  I  visit." 

The  splendid  "  Hymnos  Paionios,"  or  song  of  healing,  by  the  Eev.  Henry 
Bernard  Carpenter,  was  sent  after  him  to  Ireland  as  a  message  of  love,  when 
he  went  there  to  die.  The  poem  reached  him  in  time  to  bring  joy  to  his  heart 
with  the  knowledge  that  the  men  whom  he  loved  in  America  had  given  love  in 
return,  and  would  keep  his  memory  green.  Very  beautiful  are  these  strong 
lines:— 

"  O  saddest  of  all  the  sea's  daughters,  lerne,  sweet  mother  isle 
Say  how  canst  thou  heal  at  thy  waters  the  son  whom  we  lend  thee  awhile? 
When  the  gathering  cries  implore  thee  to  help  and  to  heal  thy  kind, 
When  thy  dying  are  strewn  before  thee,  thy  living  ones  crouch  behind, 
When  about  thee  thy  perishing  children  cling,  crying,  '  Thou  only  art  fair, 
We  have  seen  through  their  maze  bewildering  that  the  earth-gods  never  spare: ' 
And  the  wolves  blood-ripe  with  slaughter  gnaw  at  thee  with  fangs  of  steel; 
Thou,  Niobe-Land  of  the  water,  hast  many  children  to  heal. 
Yet  heal  him,  lerne,  dear  mother,  thy  days  with  his  days  shall  increase, 
At  the  song  of  this  Delphic  brother,  nigh  half  of  thy  pangs  shall  cease. 
Nor  art  thou,  sweet  friend,  in  a  far  land,— all  places  are  near  on  the  globe,— 
Our  greeting  wear  for  thy  garland,  our  love  for  the  festival  robe. 
While  we  keep  through  glory  and  gloom  two  altar-candles  for  thee, 
Thy  '  Blanid  '  of  deathless  doom  and  thy  dead  but  undying  '  Deirdre.'  " 

In  adding  to  this  fine  collection  of  Irish  poems,  originally  compiled  some 
years  ago  by  another  hand,  I  am  necessarily  restricted  in  space  and  in  the 
number  of  the  later  Irish  and  Irish- American  poets  represented.  But  the  names 
here  are  likely  to  "  hold  their  own  "  tiU  another  generation  gleans  the  literary 
field  and  throws  away  the  crumbling  ears. 

It  is  remarkable  that  Boston,  the  literary  centre  of  the  Anglo-American  stock, 


INTRODUCTION.  xiii 

should  also  promise  a  similar  harvest  for  the  Irish-American.  Here  at  one  and 
the  same  time  were  Dr.  Joyce,  Rev.  H.  B.  Carpenter,  Louise  Imogen  Guiney, 
James  Jeffrey  Roche,  Mrs.  M.  E.  Blake  and  Katharine  Con  way  —poets  winning 
garlands  outside  the  limits  of  their  own  race.  Indeed,  no  truer  New  England 
singer  than  Louise  Guiney  has  come  in  a  generation.  Her  "  Gloucester  Harbor  " 
is  a  memorable  poem.  How  striking  are  these  stanzas:— 

"  North  from  the  beautiful  islands, 
North  from  the  headlands  and  highlands, 

The  long  sea-wall, 

The  white  ships  flee  with  the  swallow; 
The  day-beams  follow  and  follow,  • 

Glitter  and  fall. 

"  The  brown  ruddy  children  that  fear  not, 
Lean  over  the  quay,  and  they  hear  not 

Warnings  of  lips; 

For  their  hearts  go  a-sailing,  a-sailing, 
Out  from  the  wharves  and  the  wailing 

After  the  ships!" 

It  may  be  that  the  sweetest  songs  are  sung  in  sorrow.    An  Irish  air 

"  is  full  of  farewells  for  the  dying 
And  murmurings  for  the  dead.1' 

It  surely  is  true  that  "Affliction  is  a  mother  whose  painful  throes  yield  many 
sons,  each  fairer  than  the  other."  In  the  past,  for  nearly  1000  years,  the  Irish 
heart-song  has  been  shaded  by  the  woe  of  desolation.  Dane  and  Saxon  have 
oppressed  and  harried  the  land  There  is  no  sorrow  so  piteous  as  the  cry  of 
weakness  in  the  strangling  grasp  of  Power.  This  cry  is  heard  in  all  the  songs 
of  the  Gael — even  in  the  most  joyous. 

The  future  has  a  hoarded  summer  time  for  Ireland — when  her  ancient  glory 
may  be  revived  and  surpassed.  In  the  dream  of  Clarence  Mangan  he  pictures 
the  Irish  realm  of  the  13th  century:— 

"  I  walked  entranced 

Through  a  land  of  morn; 
The  sun,  with  wondrous  excess  of  li^ht. 

Shone  down  and  glanced 

Overseas  of  corn, 
And  lustrous  gardens  aleft  and  right. 

Even  in  the  clime 

Of  resplendent  Spain, 
Beams  no  such  sun  upon  such  a  land; 

But  it  was  the  time, 

'Twas  in  the  reign, 
Of  Cahal  Morof  the  Wine-red  Hand." 

The  despair  of  the  past  is  now  rarely  expressed  by  an  Irish  poet— and  never 


xiv  INTRODUCTION. 

by  the  poet  of  the  exiled  race.  Those  who  have  wholly  sung  for  Americans 
have  expressed  as  deep  love  as  those  who  had  to  stay  and  see  the  mother- 
country  in  her  sufferings.  The  poems  of  Daniel  Connolly  and  James  J.  Eoche 
are  notable  illustrations,  as  for  instance  this  fine  poem  from  Mr.  Eoche:— 

ANDROMEDA. 

THEY  chained  her  fair  young  body  to  the  cold  and  cruel  stone; 
The  beast  begot  of  sea  and  slime  had  marked  her  for  his  own; 
The  callous  world  beheld  the  wrong,  and  left  her  there  alone. 
Base  caitiffs  who  belied  her,  false  kinsmen  who  denied  her, 
Ye  left  her  there  alone  ! 

My  Beautiful,  they  left  thee  in  thy  peril  and  thy  pain; 
The  night  that  hath  no  morrow  was  brooding  on  the  main; 
But  lo  !  a  light  is  breaking  of  hope  for  thee  again. 
'Tis  Perseus'  sword  a-flaming,  thy  dawn  of  day  proclaiming 

Across  the  western  main. 
O  Ireland  !  O  my  country  !  he  comes  to  break  thy  chain  ! 

When  the  foreign  blight  is  removed  from  Ireland;  when  the  valleys  and  hills 
and  rivers  ring  with  happy  Irish  voices,  the  voices  of  the  owners  of  the  land; 
when  the  long  silence  is  broken  by  the  whirr  of  busy  wheels;  when  the  dark 
treasures  are  dug  from  the  earth  and  fashioned  into  lovely  Art;  when  the  nets 
of  the  fishers  in  lough  and  river  and  ocean  are  burdened  daily  with  the  heaping 
wealth;  when  the  ships  sail  in  and  out  on  every  tide  from  the  harbor-serried 
coast;  when  Irish  marbles  and  porphyries  are  carved  into  precious  forms  of 
beauty,  and  Irish  metals  are  worked  into  shapes  of  loveliness  and  use;  when  the 
Irishman  stretches  out  his  hand  to  the  world  full  of  his  kindred  and  rejoices  in 
other  men's  joy  instead  of  constantly  grieving  over  his  own  grief — then  there 
shall  come  poets  to  Ireland  with  songs  attuned  to  a  new  spirit,  and  the  voice  of 
the  Celt  shall  be  heard  through  a  thousand  years  of  triumph  as  it  has  been 
through  a  thousand  years  of  pain. 

JOHN  BOYLE  O'EEILLY. 


LIST  OF  PORTRAITS. 


"Michael  Joseph  Balfe xxxviii 

-John  Banim xxxix 

Right  Rev.  George  Berkeley xl 

Joseph  Brenan xli 

John  Brougham xlii 

Very  Rev.  Thomas  N.  Burke xliii 

Rev.  T.  A.  Butler xliv 

William  Carleton xlv 

Gerald  Carleton xlvi 

Henry  Bernard  Carpenter xlvi 

P.  S.  Cassidy xlvii 

Michael  Cavanagh xlviii 

Joseph  I.  C.  Clarke xlix 

Richard  W.  Collender 1 

William  Collins li 

Katharine  E.  Con  way lii 

Rev.  John  Costello liii 

Daniel  Crilly liv 

John  Philpot  Curran liv 

Thomas  Davis Iv 

Francis  Davis Iv. 

Eugene  Davis Ivi 

Michael  Davitt Ivii 

Aubrey  De  Vere Iviii 

Michael  Doheny lix 

Eleanor  C.  Donnelly lix 

Bartholomew  Dowling Ix 

Charles  Gavan  Duffy Ixii 

Maurice  Francis  Egan Ixiii 

Robert  Emmet Ixiii 

Samuel  Ferguson Ixiv 

Una  (Mrs   A.  K.  Ford.) Ixv 

William  (iooghegan Ixv 

Minnie  Gilmore  Ixvii 

Oliver  <iolilsmith Ixviii 

Lawrence  G.  Goulding Ixix 

Alfred  Percival  Graves Ixix 

<  in-ald  Griffin Ixx 

Charles  G.  Halpine  (Miles  O'Reilly) Ixxii 

Mrs.  Felicia  D.  Hemans Ixxiii 

Robert  Dwyer  Joyce Ixxv 

Charles  J.  Kirkham Ixxvi 

Charles  J.  I  .ever 1  \  \  \  i  i 

John  Locke Ixxviii 

Samuel  Lovrr ..I\\ix 


Daniel  R.  Lyddy Ixxix 

Edward  Lysaght \m 

Michael  Joseph  McCann Ixxxi 

Denis  Florence  McCarthy Ixxxii 

Justin  Huntly  McCarthy Ixxxiii 

Rev.  William  James  McClure Ixxxi v 

Hugh  Farrar  McDermott Ixxxv 

Thomas  D' Arcy  McGee Ixxx vi 

John  J.  McGinnis Ixxxvii 

Richard  Machale Ixxx viii 

Dr.  William  Maginn Ixxxviii 

Francis  Mahoriey  (Father  Prout) Ixxxix 

James  Clarence  Mangan xc 

Thomas  Francis  Meagher xci 

Rev.  C.  P.  Meehan xcii 

Thomas  Moore. xciii 

Lady  Sidney  Morgan xciv 

Rosa  Mulholland xcv 

Fitz-James  O'Brien xcvii 

T.  O'D.  O'Callaghan xcviii 

Mary  Eva  Kelly  (Mrs.  O'Doherty) xcix 

Judge  O'Hagan c 

M.  J.  O'Mahony ci 

E.  J.  O'Reilly cii 

John  Boyldl  O'Reilly Frontispiece 

Fanny  Parnell civ 

Thomas  Parnell cv 

Thomas  Buchanan  Read cvi 

James  Whitcomb  Riley cvi 

Hon.  W.  E.  Robinson cvii 

James  Jeffrey  Roche cviii 

O'Donovan  Rossa cviii 

Rev.  Matthew  Russell,  S.  J cix 

Rev.  Afcram  J.  Ryan ex 

John  Savage cxi 

Michael  Scanlan cxii 

Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan cxiii 

A.  M.  Sullivan cxiv 

T.  D.  Sullivan eon 

Dean  Swift «  \\ 

Katharine  Tynan cxvi 

Mi<-liael  J.  Walsh cxviii 

Richard  Henry  Wilde cxviii 

Lady  Wilde  (Speranza) ex 

Oscar  Wilde  ..  .  .cxx 


TAMLU  OF  COXTKXTS. 


THOMAS  MOORE. 

PAGE 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH xciii 

IRISH  MELODIES. 

Preface 27 

Go  where  Glory  waits  Thee 31 

War  Song — Remember  the  Glories  of 

Brien  the  Brave 81 

Erin !  the  Tear  and  the  Smile  in  thine 

Eyes 32 

Oh,  Breathe  not  his  Name 32 

When  He  who  adores  Thee 32 

The  Harp  that  once  through  Tara's  Halls  32 
Oh  think  not  my  Spirits  are  always  as 

light 33 

Fly  not  yet 33 

Though  the  Last  Glimpse  of  Erin  with 

Sorrow  I  see 33 

The  Meeting  of  the  Waters 34 

Rich  and  Rare  were  the  Gems  she  Wore  34 
As  a  Beam  o'er  the  Face  of  the  Waters 

may  Glow 35 

St.  Senanus  and  the  Lady 35 

How  Dear  to  me  the  Hour 35 

Take  Back  the  Virgin  Page, — Written  on 

Returning  a  Blank  Book 35 

The  Legacy 36 

How  oft  has  the  Benshee  Cried 36 

We  may  Roam  through  this  World. . .  36 

Eveleen's  Bower 37 

The  Song  of  Fionnuala 37 

Let  Erin  Remember  the  Days  of  Old 38 

Come,  Send  round  the  Wine 38 

Srblime  was  the  Warning 88 

Believe  me,  if  all  those  Endearing  Young 

Charms 89 

Erin!  O  Erin  ! 39 

Drink  to  Her 40 

Oh,  Blame  not  the  Bard 40 

While  Gazing  on  the  Moon's  Light 41 

III  Omens 41 

Before  the  Battle 42 

After  the  Battle 42 

Oh,  'tis  Sweet  to  Think 42 

The  Irish  Peasant  to  his  Mistress 43 

On  Music 43 

The  Origin  of  the  Harp 44 

It  is  not  the  Tear  at  this  Moment  Shed . .  44 

Love's  Young  Dream  44 

I  saw  thy  Form  in  Youthful  Prime 45 

XVli 


The  Prince's  Day.  % 45 

Lesbia  hath  a  Beaming  Eye 46 

Weep  on,  Weep  on 46 

By  that  Lake  whose  Gloomy  Shore 47 

She  is  far  from  the  Land 47 

Nay,  tell  me  not 47 

Avenging  and  Bright 48 

Love  and  the  Novice 48 

What  the  Bee  is  to  the  Flowret 49 

This  Life  is  all  Checkered  with  Pleasures 

and  Woes 49 

O,  the  Shamrock 49 

At  the  Mid-hour  of  Night 50 

One  Bumper  at  parting 50 

'Tis  the  Last  Rose  of  Summer 51 

The  young  May  Moon 51 

The  Minstrel  Boy 51 

The  Song  of  O'Ruark,  Prince  of  Breffni.  51 
Oh  1  had  we  some  Bright  Little  Isle  of 

our  Own 52 

Farewell !  but  Whenever  you  Welcome 

the  Hour 53 

You  Remember  Ellen 53 

Oh  I  Doubt  me  Not 53 

I'd  Mourn  the  Hopes 53 

Come  o'er  the  Sea 54 

Has  Sorrow  thy  Young  Days  Shaded  ?. .  54 

No,  not  More  Welcome 55 

When  First  I  Met  Thee 55 

While  History's  Muse 55 

The  Time  I've  Lost  in  Wooing 56 

Oh  !  Where's  the  Slave  so  Lowly 56 

'Tis  Gone,  and  Forever 57 

I  Saw  from  the.  Beach 57 

Come,  Rest  in  this  Bosom 58 

Fill  the  Bumper  Fair  ! 58 

Dear  Harp  of  my  Country 58 

Remember  Thee 59 

Oh  for  the  Swords  of  Former  Time  ! 59 

Wreath  the  Bowl 59 

The  Parallel 60 

Oh,  Ye  Dead  ! 60 

O'Donohue's  Mistress 61 

Shall  the  Harp  then  be  Silent 61 

Oh,  the  Sight  Entrancing 62 

Sweet  Innisfallen 63 

'Twas  one  of  those  Dreams 63 

Fairest !  put  on  Awhile 64 

As  Vanquish'd  Erin 64 


3CV111 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


Desmond's  Song 65 

I  wish  I  was  by  that  Dim  Lake 65 

Song  of  I n M iwfui 1 65 

Oh  I  Arranmore,  loved  Arranmore 66 

Lay  his  Sword  by  his  Side 66 

The  Wine-cup  is  Circling 67 

Oh  !  could  we  do  with  this  World  of  Ours  67 

The  Dream  of  those  Days 67 

Silence  is  in  our  Festal  Halls 

:LALLA  ROOKH 69 

The  Veiled  Prophet  of  Khorassan 70 

Paradise  and  the  Peri 108 

The  Fire-worshippers 118 

The  Light  of  the  Harem 146 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

Fragment  of  College  Exercises 160 

The  Same 160 

Song—"  Mary,  I  Believe  thee  True  " 160 

To  the  Large  and  Beautiful  Miss . . .  161 

Inconstancy 161 

To  Julia 161 

To  Rosa 161 

'Written  in  the  Blank  Leaf  of  a  Lady's 

Common-place  Book 162 

.Anacreontic 162 

Anacreontic 162 

Elegiac  Stanzas 162 

•Go  and  Sin  No  More 162 

'To  Rosa 162 

The  Surprise 163 

A  Dream 163 

Writtei  in  a  Common-place  Book  called 

"  The  Book  of  Follies.": 163 

The  Ballad 163 

The  Tear 164 

uSong--"Have  you  not  Seen  the  Timid 

Tear?" 164 

Elegiac  Stanzas 164 

A  Night  Thought 164 

Song — "Sweetest  Love!  I'll  not  Forget 

Thee" 164 

The  Genius  of  Harmony 165 

:Song — "When    Time,    Who    Steals  our 

years  Away  " 166 

Peace  and  Glory 166 

To  Cloe 167 

Lying 167 

Woman 167 

A  Vision  of  Philosophy 167 

A  Ballad— "The  Lake  of    the  Dismal 

Swamp  " 168 

At  Night 169 

Odes  to  Nea  (1) 169 

"     (2) 170 

Lines — Written  in  a  Storm  at  Sea 170 

The  Steersman's  Song — Written  aboard 

the  Boston  Frigate,  28th  April 170 

.Lines — Written  on  Leaving  Philadelphia  171 


Lines — Written  at  the  Cohoes,  or  Fall  of 

the  Mohawk  River 171 

Ballad  Stanzas 172 

A  Canadian  Boat  Song — Written  on  the 

River  St.  Lawrence 172 

Black  and  Blue  Eyes 172 

Love  and  Time 173 

Dear  Fanny ...  173 

From  Life,  without  Freedom 178 

Merrily    every    Bosom    Boundeth — The 

Tyrolese  Song  of  Liberty 174 

Sigh  not  thus 174 

SACRED  SONGS. 

Thou  art,  O  God 175 

The  Bird  let  Loose 175 

Fallen  is  thy  Throne 175 

O,  Thou  who  dry'st  the  Mourner's  Tear.  176 

But  Who  shall  See 176 

This  World  is  all  a  Fleeting  Show 176 

Almighty  God  !  Chorus  of  Priests 177 

Sound  the  Loud  Timbrel — Miriam's  Song  177 
O,  Fair  I    O,  Purest ! — Saint  Augustine 
to  his  sister 177 

SAMUEL  LOVER. 

BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH Ixxix 

The  Angel's  Whisper 179 

The  Fairy  Boy 179 

True  Love  can  ne'er  Forget 180 

Nymph  of  Niagara 180 

How  to  Ask  and  Have 181 

The  Land  of  the  West 181 

Sweet  Harp  of  the  Days  that  are  Gone. .  182 
Oh  yield  not,  thou  Sad  One,  to  Sighs. . .  182 

Widow  Machree 182 

Molly  Bawn 183 

Mother,  He's  Going  Away 183 

The  Quaker's  Meeting 184 

Native  Music 185 

The  Charm 185 

The  Four-leaved  Shamrock 186 

Oh,  Watch  you  Well  by  Daylight 186 

Rory  O'More  ;  or,  Good  Omens 186 

The  Blarney 187 

The  Chain  of  Gold 187 

Give  me  my  Arrows  and  give  me  my 

Bow 188 

The  Hour  Before  Day. 188 

Macarthy's  Grave  (A  Legend  of  Killar- 

ney) 189 

St.  Kevin  (A  Legend  of  Glendalough). . .  189 

The  Indian  Summer 190 

The  War-Ship  of  Peace 190 

An  Honest  Heart  to  Guide  Us 190 

The  Birth  of  Saint  Patrick 191 

The  Arab 191 

Fag-an-bealach 192 

The  Bridge  of  Sighs 192 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


xiz 


The  Child  and  Autumn  Leaf 193 

Forgive,  but  Don't  Forget 193 

The  Girl  I  Left  Behind  Me 193 

The  Flag  is  Half-mast  High  (A  ballad  of 

the  Walmer  Watch) 194 

I  Can  Ne'er  Forget  Thee 195 

Love  and  Home  and  Native  Land 195 

Memory  and  Hope 195 

Molly  Carew 195 

My  Dark-Haired  Girl 196 

Nora's  Lament 197 

The  Silent  Farewell 197 

'Twas  the  Day  of  the  Feast 197 

What  will  You  do,  Love  ? 198 

Who  are  You? 198 

GERALD  GRIFFIN. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH Ixx 

The  Bridal  of  Malahide  (An  Irish  Legend)  199 

Hark !  Hark  !  the  Soft  Bugle 201 

A  Soldier — a   Soldier    To-night    is  our 

Guest 201 

Aileen  Aroon 201 

Know  ye  not  that  Lovely  River  ? 202 

'Tis,  it  is  the  Shannon's  Stream 202 

I  love  my  Love  in  the  Morning 203 

Orange  and  Green 203 

Sleep  that  like  the  Couched  Dove 205 

Gilli  Ma  Chree 205 

Old  Times  !  Old  Times  ! 206 

A  place  in  thy  Memory,  Dearest 206 

For  I  am  Desolate 207 

The  Bridal  Wake 207 

Adare 208 

The  Poet's  Prophecy 208 

Twilight  Song 209 

The  Mother's  Lament 209 

You  never  Bade  me  Hope,  'tis  True 210 

Like  the  Oak  by  the  Fountain 210 

The  Phantom  City 210 

War  !  War  !  horrid  War 210 

Gone  I  Gone !  forerer  Gone 211 

Sonnets — Addressed  to  Friends  in  Amer- 
ica, and  prefixed  to  "  Card  Drawing," 
one  of  the  tales  of  the  Munster  festivals  211 

War  Song  of  O'Driscol 211 

My  Spirit  is  of  pensive  Mould 212 

Impromptu— On  seeing  an  Iris  formed  by 
the  Spray  of  the  Ocean,  at  Miltown, 

Malbay 212 

Friendship 212 

Fame 218 

Written  in  Adare  in  1820 21JJ 

The  Wake  of  the  Absent 218 

On  pulling  some  Campanulas  in  a  Lady's 

Garden 214 

They  speak  of  Scotland's  Heroes  bold ...   ','  14 


0,  Brazil,  the  Isle  of  the  Blest— A  Spectre 
Island,  said  to  be  sometimes  visible  on 
the  Verge  of  the  Western  Horizon,  in 
Atlantic,  from  the  Isles  on  Arran 214 

Lines  addressed  to  a  Sea-gull,  seen  off 
the  Cliffs  of  Moher,  in  the  County  of 

Clare 215 

The  Sister  of  Charity 216 

To  Memory 217 

The  Song  of  the  old  Mendicant 217 

Would  you  choose  a  Friend  ? 218 

JONATHAN  SWIFT. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH cxv 

Corinna 219 

Epigram 219 

Lines    written    on  a  Window    Pane  at 

Chester 219 

On  Mrs.  Biddy  Floyd  ;  or  the  Receipt  to 

Form  a  Beauty 219 

Would-Be  Poets 220 

Twelve  Articles 220 

Lesbia 220 

Epigram 2-20 

REV.  FRANCIS  MAHONY. 

BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH Ixxxix 

Vert- Vert,  the  Parrot — From  the  French 

of  the  Jesuit  Gresset 221 

Hys  original  Innocence 221 

Hys  fatall  Renowne 222 

Hys  evil   Voyage 223 

The  awfull  Discoverie 225 

The  Si  Ik- worm.    (A  Poem  from  the  Lati  n 

of  Jerome  Vida) 227 

The  Shandon  Bells 238 

The  Red-breast  of  Aquitania 284 

L'Envoy  to  W.  H.  Ainsworth,  Esq 235 

The  Legend  of  Arethusa 236 

The  Ladye  of  Lee 286 

Life,  a  Bubble.     A  Bird's-eye  View  there- 
of   237 

BLARNEY  SONGS. 

1.  Jack  Bellew's  Song 237 

IL     Friar  O'Meara's  Song 238 

HI.    Terry  Callaghan's  Song -j:w 

The  Lament  of  Stella 239 

Epitaph  on  Father  Prout 2:«» 

The  Attractions  of  a  fashionable  Irish 

Watering  Place 239 

From  Gresset's  Farewell  to  the  Jesuits. .  240 
Don  Ignacio  Loyola's  Vigil  in  the  Chapel 

of  our  Lady  of  Montserrat 240 

The  Song  of  "the  Cossack  241 

Popular  Recollections  of  Bonaparte 243 

Address  to  the  Vanguard  of  the  Freiu-li. 

under  the  Duke  D'Alen9on,  1521 248 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


Ode  on  the  Signal  Defeat  of  the  Suitun 
Osman,  by  the  Army  of  Poland  and  her 

Allies,  September,  1621 243 

Ode  on  the  taking  of  Calais,  addressed  to 
Henry  II.,  King  of  France,  by  George 

Buchanan 244 

Michael  Angelo's  Farewell  to  Sculpture  246 
The  Song  of  Brennus,  or  the  Introduc- 
tion, of  the  Grape  into  France 247 

Wine  Debtor  to  Water 247 

Popular  Ballad  on  the  Battle  of  Lepanto.  248 
The  three-colored  Flag.     (A  prosecuted 

song) 248 

Malbrouck 249 

The  Obsequies    of    David    the  Painter. 

From  the  French  of  Beranger 250 

To  Prostrate  Italy 251 

Ode  to  the  Statue  of  Moses,  at  the  Foot 
of  the  Mausoleum  of  Pope  Julius  II., 
in  the  Church  of  Saint  Peter  ad  Vin- 
cula,  Rome.  The  Masterpiece  of 

Michael  Angelo 251 

Lines  addressed  to  the   Tiber,  by  Ales- 

sandro  Guildi 251 

The  Angel  of  Poetry.     To  L.  E.  L 252 

"  Good  Dry  Lodgings,"  according  to  Be- 
ranger, Songster 253 

The  Carrier-dove  of  Athens—  A  Dream, 

1822 254 

The  Fall  of  the  Leaves.    From  the  French 

of  Millevoye 254 

Lines  on  the  Burial  of  a  Friend's  Daugh- 
ter, at  Passy,  July  16,  1832.  From  the 

French  of  Chateaubriand 255 

Pray  for  Me.  A  Ballad  from  the  French 
of  Millevoye,  on  his  Death-bed  at  the 

Village  of  Neuilly 255 

The  French  Fiddler's  Lamentation 256 

Consolation,  addressed  by  Lamartine  to 
his  Friend  and  Brother  Poet,  Manoel, 

banished  from  Portugal 256 

The  Dog  of  the  three  Days.     A  Ballad, 

September,  1831 257 

The  Mistletoe.  A  Type  of  the  Heaven- 
born 258 

Shooting  Stars 259 

A  Panegyric  on  Geese,  (1810) 259 

Ode  to  Time 260 

The  Garret  of  Beranger 260 

Political  Economy  of  the  Gypsies 261 

The  God  of  Beranger 261 

The  Autobiography  of  P  J.  De  Beranger  262 
Meditations  in  a  Wine  Cellar.     By  the 

Jesuit  Vaniere 263 

Lines  on  a  Moth-eaten  Book.     From  the 

Latin  of  Beza 265 

The  Fountain  of  Saint  Nazaro.  From  the 
Latin  of  Sanuazar. .  .  266 


Petrarca's  Dream.     (After  the  Death  of 

Laura) 266 

On  Solar  Eclipses.     (A  new  Theory).  For 

the  use  of  the  London  University 266 

The  Flight  into  Egypt.     A  Ballad 267 

The  Veil.    An  Oriental  Dialogue.    From 

the  French  of  Victor  Hugo 268 

The  Bride  of  the  Cyn^baleer.     A  Ballad 

from  Victor  Hugo 268 

The  Military  Profession  in  France 270 

Time  and  Love 270 

Petrarca's  Address  to  the  Summer  Haunt 

of  Laura 271 

The  Porch  of  Hell.     (Dante) 272 

A  True  Ballad.  Containing  the  Flight  of 
Napoleon  Bonaparte,  with  the  Loss  of 
his  Sword,  his  Hat,  and  imperial  Baton, 
besides  a  Wound  in  the  Head  ;  the  good 
Luck  of  the  Prussians  in  getting  hold  of 
his  Valuables,  in  Diamonds  and  other 
Properties ;  and  lastly,  the  happy 
Entry  of  his  Majesty,  Louis  Dix-huit, 
into  Paris.  From  the  Italian  of  Nicode- 

mus  Lermil 273 

The  Wine-cup  bespoken.  From  the  Ital- 
ian of  Claudio  Tolomei 273 

Village  Song 274 

The  Vision  of  Petrarca 274 

A  Venetian  Barcarolle 274 

Ode  to  the  Wig  of  Father  Boscovich,  the 
celebrated  Astronomer.  From  the  Ital- 
ian of  Julius  Csesar  Cordara 275 

The  Intruder.     From  the  Italian  of  Men- 

zini 275 

A  Serenade.     By  Vittorelli 276 

The  Repentance  of  Petrarca 276 

ODES  OF  HORACE. 

Ode  I. —To  Mecaenas 276 

Ode  II 277 

Ode  III. — To   the  ship  bearing  Virgil  to 

Greece 278 

Ode  IV 279 

Ode  V. — Pyrrha's  Inconstancy 279 

Ode  VI 280 

Ode  VII.— To  Munatius  Plancus 280 

Ode  VIII. 281 

Ode  IX 281 

Ode  X.— Hymn  to  Mercury 281 

Ode  XI.— Ad  Leuconoen 282 

Ode  XII.— A  Prayer  for  Augustus 282 

Ode  XIII.— The  Poet's  Jealousy 283 

Ode  XIV.— To  the  Vessel  of  the  State. 

—An  Allegory 283 

Ode  XV.— The   Sea-God's    Warning    to 

Paris 283 

Ode  XVI.— The  Satirist's  Recantation . . .  284 
Ode   XVII. — An   Invitation  to  Horace's 
Villa..  .  285 


TAHI.K  ()K  CONTKNTS. 


xxi 


Ode  XVIII  .............................  285 

Ode  XIX.—  De  Glycera  .................  285 

Ode  XX.—"  Pot  Luck  "  with  Hoi-ace.  .  .  286 
Ode  XXI.—  To  the  Rising  Generation  of 

Rome  ................................  286 

Ode  XXII  ..............................  286 

Ode  XXIII.  —  A  Remonstrance  to  Chole, 

the  Bashful  ..........................  28?' 

Ode  XXIV.—  To  Virgil.  A  consolatory 

Address  ..............................  287 

Ode  XXVL—  Friendship  and  Poetry— 

the  best  Antidote  to  Sorrow  .........  287 

Ode  XXVII.  —  A  Banquet  Scene—  Toast 

and  Sentiment  .......................  288 

Ode  XXIX.—  The  Sage  Turned  Soldier..  288 
Ode  XXX.—  The  Dedication  of  Glyceras 

Chapel  ..............................   289 

Ode  XXXI.—  The  Dedication  of  Apollo's 

Temple  ..............................  289 

Ode  XXXII.—  An  occasional  Prelude  of 

the  Poet  to  his  Songs  .................  289 

Ode  XXXIV.—  The  Poet's  Conversion..  290 
Ode  XXXV.—  An  Address  to  Fortune...  290 
Ode  XXXVI.—  A  Welcome  to  Numida.  .  291 
Ode  XXXVII.  —The  Defeat  of  Cleopatra. 

A  joyful  Ballad  ......................  291 

Ode  XXXVIIL—  Last  Ode  of  Book  the 

First  ...............................  292 

Lib.  II.—  Ode  I.—  To  Pollio  on  his  Med- 

itated History  .......................  292 

Ode  II.  —  Thoughts  on  Bullion  and  the 

Currency  ............................  293 

Ode  III.—  A  Homily  on  Death  ..........  293 

Ode  IV.—  Classical  Love  Matches  .......  294 

Ode  VI.  —  The  Attractions  of  Tibur  and 

Tarentum  ............................  294 

Ode  VII.—  A  Fellow  Soldier  Welcome 

from  Exile  ...........................  295 

Ode  VIII—  The  Rogueries  of  Barin6  ____  295 

DENIS  p.  MCCARTHY. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH  .............  Ixxxii 

The  Voyage  of  St.  Brendan  ............  297 

Part  I.—  The  Vocation  .............  298 

Part  11.—  Ara  of  the  Saints  .........  300 

Part  III.—  The  Voyage  .............  303 

Part  IV.—  The  Buried  City  .........  305 

Part  V.—  The  Paradise  of  Birds  .....  309 

Part  VI.—  The  Promised  Land  ......  312 

LEGENDS  AND  LYRICS 

Tli.-  I  'i  liar  Towers  of  Ireland  ...........  314 

The  Lay  Missioner  .....................  315 

Summer  Longings  .....................  817 

A  Lament  .............................  317 

Tli.-  (  Han  of  Mucran  ra  ..................  :;]'.» 


Over  the  Sea.  .  .   :;.-j 


Home  Preference :v.'vJ 

The  Fireside 323 

The  Vale  of  Shanganah 324 

The  Window 325 

Advance 325 

The  Emigrants,  Part  1 327 

"      11 327 

To  Ethna 328 

Wings  for  Home 329 

To  an  Infant 329 

Home  Sickness 330 

Youth  and  Age 330 

Sunny  Days  in  Winter 331 

Duty 331 

Order 331 

The  First  of  the  Angels 332 

Spirit  Voices 333 

Truth  in  Song :',:::{ 

All  Fools'  Day 334 

The  Birth  of  the  Spring 335 

JAMES  C.  MANGAN. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH Ixxxix 

GERMAN  ANTHOLOGY. 
The  Lay  of  the  Bell. 

Preparations  for  Founding  the  Bell .  337 

Offices  of  the  Bell 3:<7 

The  Birth-day  Bell 337 

The  Wedding  Bell 338 

The  Fire  Bell 339 

The  Passing  Bell 340 

The  Tocsin,  or  Alarm  Bell 341 

The  Destination  of  the  Bell 341 

The  Diver.     A  Ballad 342 

The  Maiden's  Plaint 344 

The  Unrealities 345 

The  Words  of  Reality 346 

The  Words  of  Delusion 347 

The  Course  of  Time 347 

Hope 347 

Spirits  Everywhere 348 

Spring  Roses 348 

The  Castle  Over  the  Sea 349 

Durand  of  Blonden 349 

Life  is  the  Desert  ami  the  Solitude 350 

Light  and  Shade 351 

The  Midnight  Bell 351 

The  Wanderer's  Chant 351 

Not  at  Home 352 

Hope 

O  Maria,  Regina  Misericunlia-  ! 3-">3 

Love  Ditty 354 

Charlemagne  and  the  Bridge  of  Moon 

beams :'"»4 

The  Minstrel's  Motherland :t.V> 

Holiness  to  the  Lord 

The  Grave,  the  Grave 


XX11 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


The  Minstrel 356 

The  Rose 357 

A  Voice  from  the  invisible  World 357 

A  Song  from  the  Coptic 357 

Another  Coptic  Song 358 

To  Ebert 358 

The  Brother  and  the  Sister 360 

The  Field  of  Kunnersdorf 361 

The  aged  Landman's  Advice  to  his  Son.  362 

And  then  no  more 363 

The  Cathedral  of  Cologne 364 

Dale  and  Highway :J64 

A  Sigh 365 

The  Sheik  of  Mount  Sinai 365 

Grabbe 366 

Freedom  and  Right 368 

To  the  Beloved  One 369 

Cheerfulness 369 

Freedom 370 

The  Grave 371 

The  German's  Fatherland 371 

Be  Merry  and  Wise 372 

The  Revenge  of  Duke  Svverting 372 

The  Student  of  Prague 373 

Andreas  Hofer , 375 

Tiie  Death  of  Hofer 375 

The  Bereaved  One 376 

Song.     When  the  Roses  blow 377 

Good  Night 377 

The  Midnight  Review 378 

IRISH  ANTHOLOGY. 

Dark  Rosaleen 379 

Shane  Bwee  ;   or,  the  Captivity  of  the 

Gaels 380 

A  Lamentation  for  the  Death  of  Sir  Mau- 
rice Fitzgerald,  Knight  of  Kerry  Sars- 

field " 381 

Part  I 381 

Part  IT. 382 

Lament  over  the  Ruins  of  the  Abbey  of 

Teach  Molaga 383 

The  Dawning  of  the  Day 385 

The  Dream  of  John  MacDonnell 385 

The  Sorrows  of  Innisfail 387 

The  Testament  of  Cathaeir  Mor 387 

Rury  and  Darvorgilla 390 

The    Expedition    and    Death    of    King 

Dathy 392 

Prince  Aldfrid's  Itinerary  through  Ire- 
land   393 

Kinkora 394 

Lament  for  the  Princes  of  Tyrone  and 

Tyrconnell 395 

O'Hussey's  Ode  to  the  Maguire 39S 

Kathaleen  Ny-Houlahan 399 

Welcome  to  the  Prince 400 

Lament  for  Banba .  401 


Ellen  Bawn 401 

Love  Ballad 4QZ 

The  Vision  of  Conor  O'Sullivan 403 

Patrick  Condon's  Vision 403 

Sighile  Ni  Gara  404 

St.  Patrick's  Hymn  before  Tara 406 

.  APOCRYPHA. 

The  Karamanian  Exile 407 

The  Wail   and  Warning  of  the  Three 

Khatettdeers 408 

The  Time  of  the  Barmecides 409 

The  Mariner's  Bride 410 

To  the  Ingleezee  Khafir,  calling  himself 

Djaun  Bool  Djenkinzun 410 

MISCELLANEOUS. 

Soul  and  Country 411 

Siberia 412 

A  Vision  of  Connaught  in  the  Thirteenth 

Century 412 

An  Invitation 413 

The  Warning  Voice 413 

The  Lovely  Land 415 

The  Saw-Mill 415 

Cean-Salla 416 

Irish  National  Hymn 416 

Broken-Hearted  Lays 417 

The  One  Mystery 418 

The  Nameless  One 418 

The  Dying  Enthusiast 419 

To  Joseph  Brenan 420 

Twenty  Golden  Years  Ago 430 

RICHARD  B.  SHERIDAN. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH cxiii 

Ah  !  Cruel  Maid  422 

How  oft,  Louisa 422 

Had  I  a  Heart  for  Falsehood  Framed 422 

Oil  Yield,  Fair  Lids 423 

A  Bumper  of  Good  Liquor 423 

We  Two 433 

Could  I  her  Faults  Remember 433 

By  Coelia's  Arbor 433 

Let  the  Toast  Pass 434 

O,  the  Days  when  I  was  Young 424 

Dry  be  that  Tear 434 

What  Bard,  O  Time,  Discover 425 

Alas  !  Thou  hast  no  Wings,  oh  !  Time. .  435 

I  ne'er  could  any  Lustre  see 425 

When  Sable  Night 435 

The  Mid-watch 433 

Marked  You  her  Cheek  ? 436 

OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH lxvii 

The  Deserted  Village 437 

The  Traveller 433 

The  Hermit 439 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

The  Double  Transformation 441 

Stanzas  on  the  taking  of  Quebec 442 

Epitaph  on  Edward  Purdon 443 

Stanzas  on  Woman 443 

An  Elegy  on  the  Glory  of  her  Sex,  Mrs. 

Mary  Blaize 443 

Epitaph  on  Dr.  Parnell 443 

A  Prologue,  written  and  spoken  by  the 

Poet  Laberius,  a  Roman  Knight,  whom 

Caesar  forced  upon  the  Stage 444 

Epilogue  to  the  Comedy  of  "  She  Stoops 

to  Conquer  " 444 

Emma 444 

AUBREY  DeVERE. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH Ivii 

Song.     Love  laid  down  his  golden  Head.  445 

Creep  slowly  up  the  Willow  Wand 445 

Spenser 445 

Holy  Cross  Abbey 446 

Self-Deception 446 

Our  King  sat  of  old  in  Emania  and  Tara.  446 

The  Malison 448 

Hymn,  on  the  founding  of  the  Abbey  of 
St.  Thomas  the  Martyr,  ('A  Becket)  in 

Dublin,  A.  D.,  1177 448 

Dead  is  the  Prince  of  the  Silver  Hand. . .  449 

The  Faithful  Norman 4">0 

St  Patrick  and  the  Bard 450 

'Twos  a  Holy  Time  when  the  King's  long 

Foemen 452 

King  Laeghaire  and  St.  Patrick 452 

The  Bier  that  Conquered  ;  or,  O'Donnell'fc 

Answer.     A.D.,   1257 454 

Peccatum  Peccavit 455 

The  Dirge  of  Athunree.     A.  D.,  1316 455 

Between  Two  Mountains 456 

Ode.     The  unvanquished  Land. ...   456 

The  Statue  of  Kilkenny.     A.  D.  1367 457 

The  True  King.     A.  D.,  1399 457 

Queen  Margaret's  Feasting.     A.  D.,  1451.  458 

Plorans  Flora  vit     A.  D.,  1583 459 

War  Song  of  MacCarthy 459 

Florence  MacCarthy's    Farewell    to  his 

English  Love 459 

War  Song  of  Tirconnell's  Bard  at  the  Bat- 
tle of  Blackwater.     A.  D.,  1597 460 

The  March  to  Kinsale.    December,  A.  D., 

1601 403 

A.  D.,  1602 404 

Dirge  of  Rory  O'More.     A.  D..  1642 464 

Tli.-  Bishop  of  Ross.     A.  D.,  1650 465 

Archbishop  Plunket.     A.  D.,  1681 465 

A  Song  of  the  Brigjul.' 466 

A  Ballad  of  Sarsfteld  ;  or,  the  Bui-sting  of 

1 1 1.«  Guns.     A.D.,1690 466 

Oh   that  the  Pines   which    Crown  Yon 
Steep 466 


The  Last  MacCarthymore 467 

Hymn  for  the  Feast  of  St  Stephen 468 

Grattan 468 

Adduxit  in  Tenebris 468 

The  Cause 469 

Gray  Harper,  Rest ! 469 

Sonnet.  Sarsfield  and  Clare 469 

Song.  A  brighten'd  Sorrow  veils  her 

Face 469 

St.  Columkill's  Farewell  to  the  Isle  of 

Arran,  on  setting  sail  for  lona 470 

Sonnet.  Christian  Education 470 

Death 470 

The  Graves  of  Tyrconnel  and  Tyrone  on 

San  Pietro,  in  Montorio 471 

Wayside  Fountains 471 

THOMAS  PARNELL. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH cv 

The  Hermit 472 

A  Night-Piece  on  Death 475 

An  Allegory  on  Man 476 

Hymn  to  Contentment 477 

THOMAS  DAVIS. 

INTRODUCTION    AND    BIOGRAPHICAL 

SKETCH.—    (See  page  Iv.)        479 

PART    I.— NATIONAL     BALLADS     AND 
SONGS. 

The  Men  of  Tipperary 483 

The  Rivers 484 

Glengai-iff 484 

The  West's  Asleep 485 

Oh  !  For  a  Steed 485 

Cymric  Rule  and  Cymric  Rulers ... . .  486 

A  Ballad  of  Freedom 486 

The  Irish  Hurrah 488 

A  Song  for  the  Irish  Militia 488 

Our  Own  Again 489 

Celts  and  Saxons 489 

Orange  and  Green  will  Carry  the  Day. . .  490 

PART  II.— NATIONAL  SONGS  AND  BAL- 
LADS. 

The  Lost  Path 491 

Love's  Longings 492 

Hope  Deferred , 492 

Eibhlin,  a  Ruin 4 '.'2 

The  Banks  of  the  Lee 493 

The  Girl  of  Dunbwy 493 

Duty  and  Love 494 

Annie,  Dear 494 

Blind  Mary 494 

The  Bride  of  Mallow 495 

The  Welcome 495 

Tli-  Mi-Na-Meala 490 

Mai  re  Bhan  a  Stoir 497 

Oh  !  The  Marriage 497 

A  Plea  for  Love  ..  498 


XXIV 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


The  Bishop's  Daughter. . , 
The  Boatman  of  Kinsale. 

Darling  Nell 

Love  Chant 

A  Christmas  Scene 

The  Invocation 

Love  and  War 

My  Land 

The  Right  Road 


PAGE 

.  498 

,  498 

499 

,  499 

,  499 

500 

500 

500 

501 


PART  m.— BALLADS  AND  SONGS  IL- 
LUSTRATIVE OF  IRISH  HISTORY. 

A  Nation  Once  Again 

Lament  for  the  Milesians 

The  Fate  of  King  Dathi 

Argan  M6r 

The  Victor's  Burial 

The  True  Irish  King 

The  Geraldines 

O'Brien  of  Ara 

Emmeline  Talbot 

O'Sullivan's  Return 

The  Fate  of  the  O'Sullivans 

The  Sack  of  Baltimore 

Lament  for  the  Death  of  Eoghan  Ruadh 
O'Neill 

A  Rally  for  Ireland 

The  Battle  of  I  imerick,  August  27,  1690. 
PART  IV.— BALLADS  AND  SONGS  IL- 
LUSTRATIVE OF  IRISH  HISTORY. 

The  Penal  Days 

The  Death  of  Sarsfield 

The  Surprise  of  Cremona  (1702) 

The  Flower  of  Finae 

The  Girl  I  Left  Behind  Me 

Clare's   Dragoons 

When  South  Winds  Blow 

The  Battle  Eve  of  the  Brigade 

Fontenoy  (1745) 

The  Dungannon  Convention  (1782) 

Song  of  the  Volunteers  of  1782 

The  Men  of  'Eighty-Two 

Native  Swords  

Tone's  Grave 

PART  V.— MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Nationality 

Self  Reliance 

Sweet  and  Sad 

The  Burial 

We  Must  Not  Fail. 

O'Connell's  Statue 

The  Green  Above  the  Red 

The  Vow  of  Tipperary 

A  Plea  for  the  Bog-Trotters 

A  Second  Plea  for  the  Bog-Trotters 

A  Scene  in  the  South 

William  Tell  and  the  Genius  of  Switzer- 
land. . 


501 
502 
503 
504 
504 
505 
506 
507 
508 
510 
511 
513 

514 
515 
516 


517 
518 
518 
519 
520 
520 
521 
522 
522 
524 
524 
525 
526 
526 

527 
527 
528 
529 
530 
530 
531 
532 
532 
533 
533 

534 


PAGE 

The  Exile 535 

My  Home 536 

Fanny  Power 537 

Marie  Nangle  ;  or,  the  Seven  Sisters  of 

Navan 537 

My  Grave 538 

Appendix 539 

J.  J.  CALLANAN. 

BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCH xliv 

The  Recluse  of  Inchidony 551 

Accession  of  George  the  Fourth 560 

Restoration  of  the  Spoils  of  Athens 563 

The  Revenge  of  Donal  Comm 564 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Gougane  Barra  575 . 

To  a  Sprig  of  Mountain  Heath 576 

Spanish  War  Song 576 

SONGS,  LYRICAL  PIECES,  &c. 

"  Si  Je  Te  Perds,  Je  Suis  Perdu  " 577 

How  Keen  the  Pang 577 

Written  to  a  Young  Lady  on  entering  a 

Convent 578 

Lines  on  a  Deceased  Clergyman 578 

Lines  on  the  Death  of  an  Amiable  and 

Highly  Talented  Young  Man,  who  fell 

a  Victim  to  Fever  in  the  West  Indies.  578 

And  must  we  Part 579 

Pure  to  the  Dewy  Gem 579 

To  *    *    *    *    *_Lacly,  the  Lyre  thou 

bid'st  me  take 579 

Stanzas.     Hours  like  those  I  Spent  with 

You 580 

The  Night  was  Still 580 

Serenade.     The  Blue  Waves  are  Sleeping  580 

Rousseau's  Dream 581 

When  each  Bright  Star  is  Clouded 581 

Hussa  Tha  Measg  Na  Real  tan  More 581 

SACRED  SUBJECTS. 

The  Virgin  Mary's  Bank 582 

Mary  Magdalen 583 

Saul 583 

The  Mother  of  The  Machabees 583 

Moonlight 584 

TRANSLATIONS  FROM  THE  IRISH. 

Dirge  of  O'Sullivan  Bear. 535 

The  Girl  I  Love 536 

The  Convict  of  Clonmel 587 

The  Outlaw  of  Loch  Lene 587 

JACOBITE  SONGS. 

O  Say,  My  Brown  Drimin 588 

The  White  Cockade 589 

The  Avenger. .  .589 


T.MJU-:  OK  I'ONTKNTS. 


XXV 


PAGE 

Tin-  Lament  of  O'Gnive 590 

On  tin;  Last  Day 590 

A  Lay  of  Mizen  Head 591 

The  Lament  of  Kirke  Whit.- 592 

Lines,  written  to  a  Young  Lady,  who,  in 
the  author's  presence,  had  taxed  the 
Irish  with  want  of  gallantry,  proving 
her  position  by  the  fact  of  their  not 
serenading,  as  the  Italians,  etc.,  do. . .  593 

St;in/:is   to  Erin 593 

Lines  to  Miss  O.  D , 594 

Lines  to  Erin 594 

Wellington's  Name 595 

Tli.-  Exile's  Farewell 595 

Song.   Awake  thee,  my  Bessy,  the  Morn- 

ingis  Fair 595 

1 ).-  la  Villa  del  Cielo 596 

The  Star  of  Bethlehem 596 

Lines  to  the  Blessed  Sacrament 596 

Though  Dark  Fate  hath  reft  me 597 

WILLIAM  ALLINGHAM. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH xxxvii 

The  Winding  Banks  of  Erne 598 

The  Abbot  of  Innisfallen 599 

Abbey  Asaroe 601 

The  Wondrous  Well 602 

The  Touchstone 602 

Among  the  Heather 602 

The  Statuette 603 

The  Ballad  of  Squire  Curtis 603 

SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH Ixiii 

LAYS  OF  THE  WESTERN  GAEL. 

The  Tain-Quest 604 

The  Abdication  of  Fergus  MacRoy 612 

The  Healing  of  Conall  Carnach 614 

The  Burial  of  King  Cormac 618 

Aideen's  Grave 620 

The  Welshmen  of  Tirawley 623 

Owen  Bawn 628 

Grace  O'Maly 629 

BALLADS  AND  POEMS. 

The  Fairy  Thorn 631 

Willy  Gilliland 632 

The  Forging  of  the  Anchor 634 

The  Forester's  Complaint 636 

The  Pretty  Girl  of  Loch  Dan 637 

Hungary 637 

Adieu  to  Brittany 688 

Westminster   Abbey 639 

VERSIONS  AND  ADAPTATIONS. 

The  Origin  of  the  Scythians 640 

The  Death  of  Dermid 641 

The  Invocation 643 

Archytas  and  the  Mariner 648 


VERSIONS  FROM  THE  IRISH. 

Deirdra's  Farewell  to  Alba 645 

Deirdra's  Lament  for  the  Sons  of  Usnach  645 

The  Downfall  of  the  Gael 646 

O'Byrno's  Bard  to  the  Clans  of  Wicklovv.  647 
Lament  over  the  Ruins  of  the  Abbey  of 

Timoleague 648 

To  the  Harper  O'Connellan 649 

Grace  Nugent 649 

Mild  Mabel  Kelly 649 

The  Cup  of  O'Hara 650 

The  Fair  Haird  Girl 650 

Pastheen  Fin 650 

Molly  Astore 651 

Cashel  of  Munster 651 

The  Coolun 653 

Youghall  Harbor 653 

Cean  Dubh  Deelish 653 

Boatman's  Hymn 653 

The  Dear  Old  Air 653 

The  Lapful  of  Nuts 653 

Mary's  Waking 65 1 

Hopeless  Love 654 

The  Fair  Hills  of  Ireland 654 

Torna's  Lament  for  Core  and  Niall 655 

Una  Phelimy 656 

JOHN  BANIM. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH xxxix 

Ailleen 658 

Soggarth  Aroon 658 

The  Fetch 659 

The  Irish  Maiden's  Song 659 

The  Reconciliation 660 

CHARLES  JAMES  LEVER. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH Ixxvii 

Bad  Luck  to  this  Marching boi 

It's  Little  for  Glory  I  Care 661 

Larry  M'Hale 663 

Mary  Draper 663 

Now  Can't  You  be  Aisy  ? 663 

Oh  !  Once  we  were  Illigant  People 663 

Potteen,  Good  Luck  to  Ye,  Dear 664 

The  Bivouac 664 

The  Girls  of  the  West 665 

The  Irish  Dragoon 665 

The  Man  for  Gal  way 665 

The  Pope  he  Leads  a  Happy  Life 666 

The  Pickets  are  Fast  Retreating,  Boys. .  666 
Widow  Malone 667 

JOHN  STERLING. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH ,  xiii 

The  Mariners 668 

The  Dreamer  on  the  Cliff 668 

The  Dearest. .  .  W.t 


xxvi 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


Lament  for  Daedalus  ' 669 

The  Husbandman 670 

Louis  XV 670 

BEV.  CHARLES  WOLFE. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH cxxi 

Go  !  Forget  Me 672 

The  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore 672 

The  Chains  of  Spain  are  Breaking 673 

Oh  !  Say  not  that  my  Heart  is  cold.   . . .  673 

Gone  from  her  Cheek 673 

Oh,  My  Love  has  an  Eye  of  the  Softest 

Blue 673 

If  I  had  thought  Thou  Could'st  Have 

Died 674 

JOHN  ANSTEB. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH xxxvii 

Dirge  Song.     Like  the  Oak  of  the  Vale.  675 

The  Harp 675 

The  Everlasting  Rose 676 

If  I  Might  Choose 676 

Oh  !  If,  as  Arabs  Fancy. 676 

WILLIAM  CONGREVE. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH H 

A  Cathedral 677 

JOHN  PHILPOT  CUBBAN. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH liv 

Oh  !   Sleep 678 

The  Deserter's  Lamentation 678 

The  Monks  of  the  Order  of  St.  Patrick, 
commonly    called  the  Monks  of    the 

Screw 678 

The  Green  Spot  that  Blooms  o'er  the 
Desert  of  Life 680 

DB.  WILLIAM  MAGINN. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH Ixxxviii 

The  Sack  of  Magdeburgh 681 

The  Soldier-Boy 682 

The  Beaten  Beggarman 682 

CHABLES  GAVAN  DUFFY. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH Ixii 

The  Irish  Rapparees 685 

The  Irish  Chiefs 685 

Innishowen 686 

The  Muster  of  the  North.    (1641) 687 

The  Voice  of  Labor 689 

The  Patriot's  Bride 690 

Sweet  Sibyl 692 

A  Lay  Sermon  692 

O'Donnell  and  the  Fair  Fitzgerald 693 

WILLIAM  CABLETON. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH xlv 

Sir  Turlough,  or  the  Church  Yard  Bride.  695 

A  Sigh  for  Knockmany 698 


EDWABD  WALSH. 

PAGE 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH cxvii 

A  Munster  Keen 699 

Battle  of  Credran.    (1257) 700 

Margread  Ni  Chealleadh 701 

O'Dono van's  Daughter 702 

Brighidin  Ban  Mo  Store 703 

Mo  Craoibhin  Cno 703 

Aileen  the  Huntress 704 

BOBEBT  DWYEB  JOYCE. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH Ixxiv 

Forget  me  not 707 

The  Doves , 707 

What  is  this  Love  ? 707 

The  Blacksmith  of  Limerick 708 

In  Life's  young  Morning ". . . .  709 

The  Cannon 710 

The  Mountain  Ash 711 

Song.     (From  "Blamd") 711 

Song  of  the  Sufferer 711 

JAMES  JEFFBEY  BOCHE. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH cvii 

The  V— a— s— e 712 

Andromeda 712 

Netchaieff 713 

A  Sailor's  Yarn 713 

The  Corporal's  Letter 714 

The  Way  of  the  World 715 

For  the  People 716 

LOUISE  IMOGEN  GUINEY. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH Ixxi 

Gloucester  Harbor 717 

Private  Theatricals 717 

Brother  Bartholomew 718 

A  Ballad  of  Metz 718 

The  Rival  Singers 719 

An  Epitaph  for  Wendell  Phillips 720 

The  Caliph  and  the  Beggar 720 

KA.THABINE  TYNAN. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH cxvi 

Waiting 721 

Two  Wayfarers 724 

An  Answer 724 

Fra  Angelico  at  Fiesole 725 

Eastertide    725 

Olivia  and  Dick  Primrose  726 

The  Lark's  Waking 726 

Charles  Lamb 727 

August  or  June 727 

Faint-hearted 727 

Thoreau  at  Walden 728 

A  Sad  Year.     (1882) 728 

A  Song  of  Summer 729 

A  Bird's  Song 729 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


TXVll 


ABTHUR    O'SHAUOHNESSY 

(WILLIAM  EDGAR.) 

PAOK 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH ciii 

Ode 780 

Song  of  a  Fellow-worker 731 

A  Parable  of  good  Deeds 732 

A  Fallen  Hero 734 

Black  Marble 735 

In  the  Old  House 736 

REV.  ABRAM  J.  RYAN. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH cix 

The  Conquered  Banner 736 

Sentinel  Songs 737 

March  of  the  Deathless  Dead 738 

Song  of  the  Mystic 738 

Lines.    (1875) 739 

The  Song  of  the  Deathless  Voice 740 

FANNY  PARNELL. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH ciii 

Ireland,  Mother  ! 742 

She  is  not  dead! 742 

Ireland 743 

What  shall  we  weep  for? 744 

Michael  Davitt 745 

To  my  Fellow-women 745 

John  Dillon 747 

Buckshot  Forster 749 

JOHN  BOYLE  O'REILLY, 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH ciii 

The  Fame  of  the  City 751 

Heart^hunger 751 

Jacqueminots 752 

My  Native  Land 752 

Western  Australia 753 

Waiting 753 

Living 754 

Her  Refrain 754 

A  Savage 755 

Love's  Secret 755 

Love's  Sacrifice 756 

At  Fredericksburg.     (Dec.  13,  1862) 756 

Released,  Jan.  1878 758 

A  Nation's  Test 759 

LADY  WILDE. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH cxix 

The  Brothers.    A  Scene  from  '98 762 

The  Voice  of  the  Poor 763 

Budris  and  his  Sons 764 

Suleima  to  her  Lover 765 

A  la  Sombra  de  mis  Cabellos 766 

The  Itinerant  Singing  Girl 766 

The  Poet  at  Court 766 

KATHARINE  E.  CON  WAY. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH lii 

Two  Vines. .  .  767 


The  first  Red  Leaf 767 

Remembered 767 

In  Extremis 768 

The  Heaviest  Cross  of  all 768 

MARY  E.  BLAKE. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH xi 

Women  of  the  Revolution 769 

How  Ireland  answered 771 

With  a  Four-leafed  Clover 772 

The  First  Steps 772 

The  Little  Sailor  Kiss 773 

Our  Record 778 

A  Dead  Summer 774 

Sonnet 774 

Dead 775 

O'DONOVAN  ROSSA. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH cviii 

Jillen  Andy 776 

My  Prison  Chamber  is  Iron  lined 778 

A  Visit  from  my  Wife 779 

A  Visit  to  my  Husband  in  Prison.  (May, 

1866) 780 

Edward  Duffy 781 

In  Millbank  Prison,  London.     (1866) 782 

Smuainte  Broin — Thoughts  of  Sorrow. ..  783 

HENRY  BERNARD  CARPENTER. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH xlvi 

Vive  Aleque 785 

Fryeburg 787 

A  Vacation  Prelude 789 

The  Reed 791 

Theodosius 792 

Beyond  the  Snow 796 

The  Syrens 796 

Sonnet 797 

A  New  England  Winter  Song 797 

Ode  to  General  Porfirio  Diaz 798 

PRANCES  BROWNE. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH xli 

Losses 800 

Songs  of  Our  Land 800 

JOHN  SAVAGE,  LL.D. 

BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH cxi 

The  Muster  of  the  North 802 

Shane's  Head 805 

Washington 806 

THOMAS  D'ARCY  McQEE. 

BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH Ixxxv 

Death  of  the  Homeward  Bound 808 

The  Ancient  Race 80» 

The  Exile's  Request 810 

The  Sea-divided  Gaels 810 

The  Gobhan  Saer 811 

The  Death  of  Hudson. .  .  811 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


OF  THE   PUBLISHERS'   SUPPLEMENT  TO  THE   SECOND  EDITION. 


LADY  DTJFFERIN. 

PAGE 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH Ixi 

Lament  of  the  Irish  Emigrant 815 

Terence's  Farewell    816 

BISHOP  BERKELEY. 

BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCH xxxix 

On  the  Prospect  of  Planting  Arts  and 
Learning  in  America 816 

JOHN  PRAZER  (J.  De  Jean). 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH Ixiv 

The  Poet  and  His  Son 817 

The  Holy  Wells 817 

The  Rejection 818 

ROBERT  EMMET. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH Ixiii 

Arbor  Hill 819 

R.  A.  MILLIKEN. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH xcii 

The  Groves  of  Blarney 820 

HON.  MRS.  NORTON. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH xcvi 

The  Mother's  Heart . .  821 

Love  Not 822 

The  Tryst  822 

JOHN  KEEGAN 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH Ixxv 

Caoch  O'Leary 823 

The  "  Holly  and  Ivy  "  Girl 824 

The  Irish  Reaper's  Harvest  Hymn 825 

LADY  MORGAN. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH xciii 

Kate  Kearney .   825 


DR.  CAMPION. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH  . . . 

"  Ninety-eight " 


PAGE 

.  xlv 

.  826 


MRS.  K.  I.  O'DOHERTY  (Eva). 

BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH xcviii 

Shadows 827 

The  People's  Chief 828 

ELLEN  DOWNING. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH Ixi 

St.  Agnes 829 

I  Love  You. 829 

The  Grave  of  Maccaura 829 

MICHAEL  J.  BALPE. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH xxxviii 

Killarney 830 

CHARLES  J.  KICKHAM. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH Ixxvi 

Patrick  Sheehan 831 

The  Irish  Peasant  Girl 832 

Rory  of  the  Hills 832 

MRS.  CRAWFORD. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH  liii 

Kathleen  Mavourneen 833 

FATHER  BURKE. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH xliii 

The  Irish  Dominicans 834 

JOHN  F.  O'DONNELL. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH . 

The  Green  Gift 835 

On  the  Rampart — Limerick 8J5G 


'I'. MILE   OF   m.\TK.\T>. 


XXIX 


JOHN  K.  CASEY. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH xlv'ii 

Doiuil  Kenny    83? 

Tin'  Rising  of  the  Moon 837 

FRANCIS  DAVIS. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH lv 

Nanny 888 

On  Again 839 

DENNY  LANE. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH Ixxvii 

K  ;i  I  e  of  Arraglen  . 839 

MICHAEL  JOSEPH  BARRY. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH xxxix 

The  Sword 840 

Hymn  of  Freedom 841 

The  Wexford  Massacre— Cromwell,  1649.  841 

JUDGE  JOHN  O'HAGAN. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH c 

( Jurselves  Alone 842 

Paddies  Evermore 842 

Dear  I,and 843 

JOHN  KELLS  INGRAM. 

BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH Ixxiii 

The  Memory  of  the  Dead 844 

Two  Sonnets 844 

M.  J.  M'CANN. 

BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCH Ixxxi 

O'Donnell  Abu 845 

The  Battle  of  Rat hd rum 846 

The  Battle  of  Glendalough 848 

Cashel 849 

JUSTIN  H.  MCCARTHY. 

BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCH Ixxxiii 

Earthly  Glory ar>2 

Life's  Change 852 

Adam  Lux 852 

OSCAR  O.  F.  WILDE. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH cxix 

Greftti  D'ltalia 853 

Li  bert; fit  is  Sacra  Fames 853 

A  Vision 854 

BARTHOLOMEW  DOWLING. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH lx 

Tin-  Brigade  at  Fontenoy,  May  11, 1745.  854 

JOHN  AUGUSTUS  SHEA. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH cxii 

The  n'Kavanagh 855 

The  Invocation 856 

The  Sword-Gift 856 

Th.-  Leiwr  857 


THOMAS  FRANCIS  MEAGHER. 

PAOE 

BIOGKAIMIIC'AL  SKETCH xc 

Prison  Thoughts 857 

The  Young  Enthusiast   858 

W.  P.  MULCHINOCK. 

BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCH .\c-iv 

Music  Everywhere 859 


The  Rose  of  Tralee 

THEODORE  O'HAHA. 


MO 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH ri 

The  Bivouac  of  the  Dead 800 

RICHARD  HENRY  WILDE. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH cxviii 

My  Life  is  like  the  Summer  Rose 801 

RICHARD  D'ALTON  WILLIAMS. 

BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH cxx 

Kathleen M;-J 

Ben  Heder 862 

Adieu  to  Innisfail M;:; 

JOSEPH  BRENAN. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH xl 

To  my  Wife 864 

A  Dirge  for  Devin  Reilly 865 

Water  Colors 867 

MICHAEL  DOHENY. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH Iviii 

Cuisla  Gal  Ma  Croidhe 869 

The  Star  of  Glenconnel    869 

FITZ-JAMES  O'BRIEN. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH .xcvii 

A  Fallen  Star 870 

Kane.  Arctic  Explorer    872 

GEN.  CHARLES  G.  HALPINE 
(Miles  O'Reilly.) 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH   Ixxi 

Janette's  Hair 873 

Honor  the  Brave 874 

The  Flaunting  Lie 875 

On  Raising  a  Monument  to  the  Irish 

Legion 875 

Sambo's  Right  to  be  Kilt 877 

JOHN  BROUGHAM. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH xlii 

My  Old  Woman  and  1 877 

The  Hymn  of  Princes 878 

MAURICE  FRANCIS  EGAN. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH IxU 

Like  a  Lilac 878 

Perpetual  Youth ••   879 


XXX 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS. 


My  Friend's  Answer 879 

When  Mothers  Watch 879 

St.  Patrick's  Day 880 

THOMAS  BUCHANAN  READ. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH cvi 

Sheridan's  Ride 880 

The  Brave  at  Home 881 

PATRICK  SARSPIELD  CASSIDY. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH xlvii 

Burial  of  MacSwyne  of  the  Battle  Axes.  881 

To  my  Irish  Goldfinch 883 

A  Kiss  in  the  Morning 884 

Why  I  Celebrate  the  Day 884 

Pat's  Marriage  Certificate 885 

Fanny  Parnell 887 

WM.  GEOGHEGAN. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH Ixv 

The  Groves  of  Ballymulvey 889 

The  Bunch  of  May-Blossoms  . 890 

May 892 

Memory's  Book 892 

Leaves  that  are  Fairest 898 

The  Days  of  Long  Ago 893 

Winter 894 

DANIEL  R.  LYDDY. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH Ixxix 

Christmas  Hymn 894 

WILLIAM  COLLINS. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH li 

A  Glen  in  the  Galtees 895 

The  Flag  of  Fontenoy 896 

Sunday  Morning  in  Ireland 897 

The  Mariner's  Evening  Hymn 898 

DANIEL  CONNOLLY. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH liii 

One  Summer  Night 899 

The  Eyes  of  an  Irish  Girl 899 

REV.  JAMES  KEEGAN. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH Ixxv 

Song  for  Ulster 900 

Creigharee 900 

They  Told  Me  to  Sing  a  Song  of  Mirth.  901 

HON.  W.  E.  ROBINSON. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH cvii 

The  American  Flag 901 

MRS.  M.  C.  BURKE. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH xlii 

Little  Shoes 902 

The  Beggar 902 


THOS.  AMBROSE  BUTLER. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH xliv 

An  Irish  Mariner 90S 

REV.  JOHN  COSTELLO. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH liii 

Sonnet 905 

Erin 905 

My  Motherland    905 

Human  Life 906 

The  Tomb  of  Alexander 906 

The  Rose 906 

The  Poppy  Flower 907 

Two  Sonnets 907 

MRS.  M.  P.  SULLIVAN. 

BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCH cxiv 

The  Irish  Famine— 1880 908 

A  Paper  Knife  of  Irish  Oak 910 

ISABEL  C.  IRWIN. 

BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCH Ixxiii 

On  an  Infant's  Death 910 

T.  C.  IRWIN. 

BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCH Ixxiv 

Minnie 911 

Song  of  All  Hallows'  Eve 911 

J.  P.  WALLER,  LL.D. 

BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCH cxvi 

A  Spinning- Wheel  Song 912 

Dance  Light,  For  My  Heart,   It  Lies 
Under  Your  Feet,  Love 913 

ALFRED  PERCIVAL  GRAVES. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH Ixix 

The  Black  '46— A  Retrospect 914 

Children  and  Lovers 914 

Irish  Spinning- Wheel  Song 915 

EUGENE  DAVIS. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH Ivi 

Cross  and  Crown 915 

A  Reverie 916 

T.  D.  SULLIVAN. 

BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCH cxiv 

O'Neil  in  Rome 917 

The  Old  Exile 918 

"  God  Save  Ireland  " 919 

DR.  WILLIAM  DRENNAN. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH Ixi 

When  Erin  First  Rose  . .  .920 


OF  CONTENTS. 


XXXI 


HUGH  FARRAR  McDERMOTT. 

PAOK 

BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCH Ixxxiv 

The  Parting  Hour     921 

A  Hidden  Sorrow 921 

Come  O'er  the  Hill 922 

Meagher's  Brigade 922 

Light  and  Shade 928 

EDWARD  LYSAGHT. 

BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH Ixxx 

The  Man  Who  Led  the  Van  of  Irish 

Volunteers 924 

Kate  of  Garnavilla , 925 

LAWRENCE  G.  GOULDING. 

BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCH Ixviii 

My  Native  Land 925 

The  Pen  and  Sword 926 

Robert  Emmet 927 

Soggarth   Aroon 927 

Ireland  and  America  928 

The  Slanderer 929 

O  Erin  !  I  Adore  Thee 930 

St.  Patrick's  Day 930 

T.  O'D.  O'CALLAGHAN. 

BIOGRAPH ICAL  SKETCH xcvii 

Moonlight  Musings 931 

The  River  of  Time 932 

Lament  for  the  Irish  Fairies 933 

In  Memoriam  :   Gen.  James  Shields  . . .  934 
An  Irish- American  Land  League  Ballad.  936 

Faith,  Hope  and  Love 937 

Our  'Prisoned  Irish  Chief 938 

The  March  of  Science . .  939 

WILLIAM  D.  KELLY. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH Ixxvi 

Fanny  Parnell 940 

An  April  Fancy 940 

JOSEPH  I.  C.  CLARKE. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH xlix 

Custer's  Last  Charge 941 

At  Liberty's  Feet 942 

A  Decade  of  Love. . .   943 

Speculum  Vitte 943 

Geraldine 944 

On  the  Sound 944 

MICHAEL  J.  WALSH. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH cxvii 

I  n  Memoriam 945 

An  Irish  Song 945 

O'Connell's  Birthday  Anniversary  Cele- 

I. ration 946 

Musings  Reminiscent 946 


GERALD  CARLETON. 

PAOE 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH xlv 

Aspiration 947 

Thomas  Moore 947 

MINNIE  GILMORE. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH Ixvi 

The  River  on  the  Plain 948 

A  Pioneer  Poet 949 

A  Sorghum  Candy-Pull 950 

After  the  Ball 952 

EDWARD  J.  O'REILLY. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH cii 

The  Emigrant's  Love 952 

Life 953 

July  the  Fourth 953 

The  Parting 953 

MICHAEL  SCANLAN. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH cxii 

Presenting  the  Shamrock 954 

The  Manchester  Martyrs 955 

A  Prison  Love  Song 956 

The  Spell  of  the  Coulun. .   957 

A  Christmas  Chant 957 

The  Fenian  Men 958 

Autumn  Leaves 959 

Our  Native  Land 960 

The  Spirit  of  Dreams 961 

The  Tribute  of  Song 962 

Love  Comes  but  Once  unto  the  Heart  .  962 

Adieu 962 

The  Beautiful  City  of  Deny 963 

MICHAEL  CAVANAGH. 

BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCH xlviii 

Mysteries 965 

Leath    Slighe'dir     Eochail's    Ceap-Ui- 

Chuinn 965 

A  Caoine  for  A.  O'M.  Cavanagh 966 

My  Irish  Blackthorn 967 

KATHARINE  MURPHY. 

BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCH     xrvi 

Sentenced  to  Death 968 

THOMAS  J.  M'GEOGHEGAN. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 1\ \  \ \  i 

The  Hero  of  the  Hour  ....  970 

JOHN  WALSH. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH cxvii 

The  Feast  of  Gilla  More 971 

The  Bride-Side 973 

Westward  H<» !  973 


XXX11 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS. 


MARCELLA  A.  FITZGERALD, 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 

A  Christinas  Thought 974 

MRS.  A.  E.  FORD. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH Ixiv 

A  Hundred  Years  From  Now 975 

The  Captive 976 

God  Pity  the  Poor 977 

The  Green  and  Gold 977 

MRS.  FELICIA  HEMANS. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH Ixxii 

The  Rhine 978 

Washington's  Statue 979 

The  Better  Land 979 

A  Parting  Song ...  979 

DANIEL  CRILLY,  M.P. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH liii 

"  The  End  o'  the  Roads  " 980 

The  Hills  of  Mourne 981 

Thomas  Davis 981 

JOHN  J.  McGINNIS. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH Ixxxvii 

My  First  Love 982 

The  Voice  of  Song 982 

Exiled  Reflections 983 

Answering  for  Love 983 

RICHARD  W.  COLLENDER. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH  1 

ASong 984 

To  H.  W.  Collender 985 

An  Elegy 986 

The  Knight  of  the  Blue  Plume 986 

JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH cvi 

McFeeters'  Fourth 989 

An  Old  Sweetheart  of  Mine 990 

The  Drum 991 

Babyhood 991 

ELEANOR  C.  DONNELLY. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH lix 

The  Maid  of  Erin 992 

The  Death  of  the  Lily 993 

JOHN  LOCKE. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH Ixxvii 

Morning  on  the  Irish  Coast  993 

The  Widow's  Farewell  to  Her  Son 994 

A    Thousand    Leagues    from    Carlow 

Town 995 

Milking-Time 995 

Song  of  the  Irish  Mountaineer 996 


MRS.  JOHN  LOCKE. 

PAGE 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH Ixxviii 

Echoes  that  Christmas  Brings 997 

Christmas  Memories   998 

Cis- Atlantic  Musing 998 

Ellie 999 

A  Patrick's  Day  Gift 1000 

RICHARD  MacHALE. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH Ixxxvii 

A  Lost  Friend 1001 

To  a  Shamrock 1002 

The  Fallen 1002 

I  Long  to  Serve  My  Land 1003 

The  Manly  Man 1003 

REV.  WM.  J.  McCLURE. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH Ixxxiii 

The  Crushed  Rose 1003 

The  Summer  Rain 1003 

Moore's  Centenary 1004 

The  Shamrock  and  Laurel 1004 

St.  Patrick's  Cathedral 1005 

Easter  Lilies .1005 

JAMES  MURPHY. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH xcv 

The  Advent  of  the  Milesians 1005 

The  Expulsion  of  the  Moors 1008 

St.  Patrick's  Day  by  the  Mississippi  . . .  1009 
Our  Cry 1010 

PATRICK  S.  GILMORE. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH Ixvi 

Ireland  to  England 1011 

REV.  CHARLES  P.  MEEHAN. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH xci 

Boyhood's  Years 1012 

REV.  MATTHEW  RUSSELL. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH cix 

Our  Midnight  Mass 1013 

The  First  Redbreast 1014 

The  Little  Flower-Strewers 1015 

ToT.  D.  Sullivan 1015 

LOUISIANA  MURPHY. 

BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCH xcvi 

"What  Would  You  Do  For  Ireland  ?".  1016 

Song 1016 

Chorus 1017 

Song 1017 

Ballad.... 1017 

ROSA  MULHOLLAND. 

BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCH xciv 

Emmet's  Love. . .  1018 


TABLK   OF   CONTENTS. 


XXXlll 


The  Builders 1020 

A  Fledgling 1021 

Hope  Deferred 1021 

A.  M.  SULLIVAN. 

BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCH cxiii 

The  Dying  Boy 1021 

M.  J.   O'MAHONY. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH ci 

A  Welcome  to  a  Friend 1022 

Washington 1023 

WILLIAM  BOWLING. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH Ixi 

Love's  Longings 1024 


Lines 1024 

"  Where  is  Little  Mucco  ?" 1024 

MICHAEL  DAVITT. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH Ivii 

Innisfail  1025 

JAMES  T.  GALLAGHER. 

BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTE 1020 

Our  Beloved  Dead 1026 

Annie 1027 

True  Love 1027 

Tell  Me  You  Love  Me 1027 

Grant  and  Death . .  . .  1027 


JAMES  MARTIN. 
The  March  of  the  Irish  Race. . 


.10','s 


PORTRAITS 


AND 


OF 


THE  POETS  OF  IRELAND. 


BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCHES 


OF    THE 


POETS  OF  IRELAND 


AND  GIVING  PAGE  WHERE  POEMS  OF  EACH  CAN  BE  FOUND  IN  THIS  VOLUME. 


WM.  ALLINGHAM. 

WM.  ALLINGHAM,  poet  and  writer,  born  1828  at  Ballyshannon,  County  Done- 
gal, Ireland,  to  which  picturesque  locality  he  often  refers  in  his  lyrics.  At  a 
very  early  age  he  displayed  marked  literary  taste.  He  served  in  the  English 
Customs,  meantime  contributing  to  the  Athenaeum,  Household  Words  and 
other  periodicals.  The  first  volume  of  his  poems  was  published  in  1850,  followed 
in  1854  by  his  "Day  and  Night  Songs."  In  1869  he  brought  out  "Laurence 
Bloomfield  in  Ireland,"  its  characteristic  features  of  Irish  life  being  a  subject 
new  to  narrative  poetry.  Retiring  from  the  Customs  in  1872  he  in  1874  suc- 
ceeded James  A.  Froude  as  Editor  of  Frazer's  Magazine.  His  marriage  with 
Miss  Helen  Patterson,  the  artist,  took  place  the  same  year.  (Poems,  page,  598.) 

JOHN  ANSTER. 

JOHN  ANSTER,  LL.D.,  a  distinguished  poet  and  essayist,  was  born  at  Charle- 
ville,  in  the  county  of  Cork  in  1796.  He  entered  Trinity  college,  Dublin,  in  the 
year  1810.  Some  of  his  earlier  pieces  were  published  before  he  took  his  degree. 
Subsequently  to  that  period,  he  published  a  prize  poem  on  the  death  of  the 
Princess  Charlotte,  and  in  1819  he  published  his  "  Poems,  with  translations  from 
the  German."  These  were  at  once  received  into  favor.  The  truth  and  vigor 
of  the  translated  extracts  from  "  Faust "  were  at  once  acknowledged,  and  it  is 
said  that  the  great  German  poet  himself  recognized  their  excellence.  These 
extracts  were  reprinted  in  England  and  America,  and  their  success  encouraged 
A iister  to  undertake  the  laborious  task  of  translating  the  entire  poem,  which 


xxxviii  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OF  THE  POETS  OF  IRELAND. 

he  completed  in  1835.  The  publication  of  this  work  established  the  reputation 
of  Anster.  It  is  a  production  of  rare  felicity  and  genius,  and  one  of  the  few 
instances  in  which  translation  attains  to  the  level  of  original  composition.  In 
1837,  Dr.  Anster  published  a  small  volume  of  poems  under  the  title  of  "  Xeniola, " 
which  contains  majny  ^pieces  of  merit.  He  also  contributed  largely  to  the  lead- 
ing British  periodicals,  and  was  a  constant  writer  in  "The  Dublin  University 
Magazine/.'  tod -the:  "..North  British  Review."  He  was  called  to  the  Irish  bar 
in  1824.  During  his  later  years  he  confined  himself  to  the  duties  of  his  chair  as 
regius  professor  of  civil  law  in  the  University  of  Dublin.  His  literary  services 
were  recognized  by  a  pension  on  the  civil  list,  conferred  upon  him  in  1841. 
(Poems,  page  675.) 


MICHAEL  JOSEPH  BALFE. 

M.  J.  BALFE,  one  of  the  most  distinguished  of  modern  musicians  and  com- 
posers, was  born  in  Dublin,  May  15,  1808.  In  his  eighth  year  he  appeared  in 
public  in  a  concert  at  the  Exchange,  Dublin.  At  sixteen  he  removed  to  London 
and  supported  himself  by  performing  in  the  orchestra  at  Drury  Lane.  In  1825, 


a  Russian  count,  Mezzara,  took  him  to  Italy  and  educated  him  at  his  own  ex- 
pense. For  many  years  he  remained  in  Italy,  where  he  prodaced  many  of  his 
operas,  and  won  an  European  reputation.  He  wrote  altogether  about  thirty 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OF  THE  POETS  OF  IRELAND,  xxxix 

years.  The  "  Bohemian  Girl"  and  *k  A  Talisman  "  are  his  best.  For  many  years 
he  was  conductor  in  Her  Majesty's  Theatre,  London.  He  died  Oct.  20,  1870. 
A  tahlet  was  erected  to  his  memory  in  Westminster  Abbey  a  few  years  ago. 
(Poem,  page  830.) 


JOHN  BANIM. 

JOHN  BANIM,  a  talented  and  popular  novelist,  was  born  in  Kilkenny,  April 
3,  1798.  After  a  collegiate  course,  his  artistic  tastes  urged  him  to  adopt  paint- 
ing as  a  profession.  Studying  faithfully  and  successfully  for  two  years  at  the 
academy  of  the  Royal  Dublin  Society,  he  returned  to  his  native  city  as  a  portrait 
painter;  he  also  edited  the  Leinster  Gazette.  In  1820,  we  find  him  again  in 
Dublin  engaged  in  literary  pursuits,  but  discouraged  and  disheartened  with  the 
product  of  his  labors,  until  the  production  of  his  tragedy  of  "Damon  and 
Pythias."  This  play,  which  was  brought  out  at  Covent  Garden  Theatre, 
Macready  and  Charles  Kemble  supporting  the  principal  characters,  established 
his  reputation.  The  first  series  of  the  popular  "  Tales  by  the  O'Hara  family  " 
was  published  in  1825,  the  last  in  1829.  They  are  "  The  Peep  o'  Day,"  "  The 
Smuggler,"  "The  Disowned,"  " The  Fetches, "  and  "The  Nowlans."  These 
tales  were  the,  joint  production  of  John  and  Michael  Banim,  and  although 
highly  sensational  are  well  and  powerfully  written.  John  Banim  was  a  hope- 
less invalid  from  his  thirty-first  year,  and  the  close  of  his  life  was  overshadowed 
by  much  privation  and  misfortune.  Death  ended  his  suffering  in  1842  in  the 
forty-fourth  year  of  his  age.  (Poems,  page  358.) 


MICHAEL  JOSEPH  BARRY. 

MICHAEL  JOSEPH  BARRY  was  a  prominent  member  of  the  young  Ireland  party 
—the  disciples  of  Davis,  the  founders  of  the  Irish  Confederation.  He  was  the 
author  of  the  first  prize  Repeal  Essay  and  a  frequent  contributor  to  the  Nation, 
in  prose  and  verse.  After  the  failure  of  '48,  he  openly  abandoned  the  national 
cause  of  Ireland  as  a  cause  lost  and  defeated  forever,  announcing  this  change 
boldly  and  explicitly,  and  advising  his  countrymen  to  make  the  best  of  British 
provincialism,  disagreeable  as  it  might  be.  He  was  for  some  years  editor  of  the 
Cork  Southern  Reporter,  and  later  on  held  a  minor  government  position. 
He  died  February,  1889.  He  was  a  nephew  of  the  renowned  Bishop  of  Charles- 
ton, the  late  Dr.  England.  (Poems,  page  840.) 


RIGHT   REV.  GEORGE  BERKELEY. 

GEORGE  BERKELEY,  Bishop  of  Cloyne,  was  born  at  Dysart  Castle,  on  the  river 
Nore,  March  12,  1683.  He  was  educated  in  Trinity  College,  and  in  1705  founded 
a  society  to  "promote  investigations  in  the  new  philosophy  of  Boyle,  Newton 


xl  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OF  THE  POETS  OF  IRELAND. 

and  Locke."  He  published  many  works,  the  principal  of  which  is  "  The  Prin- 
ciples of  Human  Knowledge."  He  was  the  friend  of  Steele.  Addison  and  Swift. 
He  conceived  the  idea  of  emigrating  to  America  and  establishing  a  college  for 
the  advancement  of  its  people.  He  procured  a  charter  for  a  college;  about  £5000 
was  subscribed,  the  government  promised  £20,000  more,  and  he  threw  all  his 


private  means  into  the  undertaking.  He  landed  at  Newport,  Khode  Island,  in 
1729.  The  government  grant  not  arriving,  he  returned  home  after  three  years, 
leaving  his  Rhode  Island  property  to  Yale  College  as  an  endowment.  His  house 
on  Rhode  Island  still  stands.  He  died  in  1753.  (Poem,  page  816.) 


MRS.    M.  E.   BLAKE. 

MRS.  MARY  E.  BLAKE  is  one  of  Boston's  sweetest  poets.  Her  maiden-name 
was  McGrath.  She  was  born  September,  1840,  at  Dungarvan,  county  Waterford, 
Ireland,  and  came  to  America  when  six  years  old.  She  married  Dr.  John  G. 
Blake,  of  Boston,  in  1865;  and  has  resided  since  in  Boston — formerly  in  Quincy, 
Mass.  Mrs.  Blake  is  a  poet  of  extensive  range.  She  published  a  volume  of 
"  Poems"  in  1882.  (Boston:  Houghton,  Mifflin  and  Co.)  (Poems,  page  769.) 


JOSEPH  BRENAN. 

JOSEPH  BRENAN  was  one  of  the  band  of  gifted  young  men  who  participated 
in  the  troubles  of  '48  in  Ireland.  After  the  failure  of  the  movement,  he  was 
obliged  to  seek  the  shores  of  America.  Here  he  devoted  himself  to  the  profes- 
sion of  journalism  and  soon  won  a  name  by  his  poetic  contributions  to  the  jour- 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OF  THE  POETS  OF  IRELAND.  xli 

nals  and  magazines  of  the  day.  He  died  in  New  Orleans  in  1857,  in  the  twenty- 
ninth  year  of  his  age.  He  was  totally  blind  the  year  before  his  death.  Joseph 
Brenan  married  Miss  Mary  Savage,  a  sister  of  Mrs.  Col.  Murphy,  of  San  Fran- 


cisco,  and  of  the  late  John  Savage.  Four  children  were  the  issue  of  the  mar- 
riage, only  one  of  whom  survives — a  daughter — who  was  named  after  Florence 
McCarthy,  a  bosom  friend  of  Brenan's.  She  is  now  Sister  Mary  Angela  of  the 
Convent  of  Mercy,  Omaha.  He  was  born  in  Cork,  Ireland.  His  poems  are  dis- 
tinguished for  their  power,  pathos,  and  exquisite  diction.  (Poems,  page  864.) 


FRANCES  BROWNE. 

FRANCES  BROWNE  (The  Blind  Poetess)  was  born  in  the  County  Donegal,  June 
16,  1818.     Her  loss  of  sight  was  owing  to  a  severe  attack  of  small  pox  during 

her  infancy,  which  left  this  deplorable  mark  of  its  presence.  Her  early  educa- 
tion was  acquired  through  the  attention  with  which  she  listened  to  the  instruc- 
tions given  her  sisters  and  brother;  her  natural  literary  tastes  requiring  but 
little  assistance  to  grow  to  perfect  fruition.  As  early  as  her  seventh  year,  her 
desire  for  verse-making  made  itself  manifest.  In  1844  her  first  volume  of  poems 
was  published  and  received  with  much  favor.  "The  Legends  of  Ulster,"  a 
volume  of  "  Lyrics  "  and  "  Miscellaneous  Poems  "  soon  followed.  Taking  up 
her  residence  in  London,  her  sister  accompanied  her,  acting  as  her  amanuensis. 
Here  she  became  a  contributor  to  the  leading  periodicals  of  the  day.  Her  novels 
"  The  Hidden  Sin  "  and  the  "  Ericksons  "  acquired  much  popularity.  In  1861 
she  published  "  My  Thoughts  of  the  World."  (Poems,  page  800.) 


xlii  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OF  THE  POETS  OF  IRELAND. 

JOHN  BROUGHAM. 

JOHN  BROUGHAM,  dramatist,  actor,  and  poet,  was  born  in  the  city  of  Dublin 
in  1810.  He  came  to  the  United  States  in  1842,  and  was  connected  with  the 
stage  until  his  death,  which  occurred  in  1880.  As  a  comedian  he  had  few  equals 


in  his  day.  For  a  time  he  published  in  New  York  a  comic  paper.  The  Lantern, 
in  which  many  of  his  fugitive  pieces  appeared.  He  was  the  author  of  many 
plays,  poems  and  stories,  of  high  literary  merit.  A  volume  of  his  select  works 
has  been  published  by  Osgood  &  Co.,  Boston,  Mass.  (Poems,  page  877.) 


MAEY  C.  BUEKE. 

MRS.  BURKE  was  born  in  the  city  of  Dublin.  Ireland,  and  was  brought  bv  her 
parents  to  this  country  when  about  six  years  old.  Her  father,  William  H.  Dunn, 
was  a  lawyer,  and  practised  in  Philadelphia,  where  he  was  well  known  as  a  man 
of  superior  education,  a  witty,  brilliant  writer  and  speaker,  a  high-minded,  gen- 
erous gentleman.  He  removed  with  his  family  to  New  York  where,  in  1854,  his 
eldest  daughter,  Mary  Catharine,  then  20  years  of  age  married  the  late  Dr.  John 
Burke,  one  of  New  York's  best  known  and  most  successful  physicians  Mrs, 
Burke,  encouraged  by  Dr.  Huntington,  Thomas  D'Arcy  McGee.  and  her  father, 
had  already  written  poems,  which  were  published  and  praised,  but  an  uncom- 
monly happy  home,  and  the  cares  of  a  large  family,  interfered  with  a  literary 
career  which,  under  less  fortunate  circumstances,  might  have  been  more  success- 
ful, as  all  that  she  has  written  has  been  most  favorably  received.  Her  poems 
are  simple  and  natural,  appealing  from  her  own  heart  to  others  of  the  same 
mind.  (Poems,  page  902.) 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OF  THE  POETS  OF  IRELAND.  xliii 

VERY  REV.  THOS.  N.  BURKE. 

VERY  REV.  T.  N.  BURKE,  one  of  the  most  distinguished  pulpit  orators  and 
lecturers  of  the  age,  was  born  in  the  city  of  Gal  way,  Ireland,  in  1830.  In  his 
sixteenth  year  he  went  to  Rome,  where  he  studied  for  five  years  and  was  then 
elevated  to  the  priesthood.  He  became  a  member  of  the  Order  of  Dominicans, 
and  labored  as  a  missionary  for  many  years  in  England  and  Ireland.  He 
quickly  distinguished  himself  by  his  zeal  and  energy  and  attracted  public  atten- 
tion by  his  eloquence  as  a  speaker  and  his  skill  as  a  debater.  He  again  went  to 
to  Rome,  was  made  Superior  of  St.  Clement's,  and  after  a  brief  stay  returned  to 
Ireland  and  resumed  his  labors.  While  Provincial  of  his  Order,  in  1872,  he 
visited  the  United  States.  Here  he  preached  and  lectured  to  vast  audiences  in 
all  the  principal  cities  of  the  Union.  As  indicated  by  his  portrait,  Father  Burke 
had  with  a  kindly  disposition  and  a  keen  sense  of  humor  an  intensely  combat- 
ive spirit.  While  on  this  tour  the  latter  element  of  his  character  found  full 
scope.  The  English  historian  Froude  was  on  a  mission  to  this  country  at  the 


time,  in  order  to  win  over  the  moral  support  of  the  American  people  for  the 
English  in  their  continued  course  of  oppression  of  the  Irish.  Father  Burke 
at  once  delivered  a  powerful  lecture  in  New  York  in  which  he  presented  the 
1 1  ish  side  of  the  case  with  remarkable  power.  This  led  to  a  vigorous  contro- 
versy. In  a  debate  wonderful  for  its  eloquence  and  conclusiveness,  Father 
Burke  defeated  the  English  representative,  and  sent  him  home  baffled  and  crest- 
fallen. The  lectures  of  the  eloquent  Father  were  printed  in  the  leading  daily 
papers  of  New  York.  No  other  priest  from  Ireland,  not  even  Father  Matthew, 
ever  gained  such  wide  popularity  by  means  of  his  public  utterances  in  the 
United  States.  His  lectures  were  widely  circulated  in  book  form  as  well  as  in 
newspapers.  They  were  first  issued  in  two  sumptuous  volumes  by  P.  M.  Haverty. 
Another  edition,  in  cheaper  form,  was  soon  put  out  by  another  publisher  and 
had  an  extensive  sale.  Father  Burke  was  the  author  of  several  volumes  of  ser- 
mons, lectures,  and  speeches.  He  died  at  Tallaght,  in  1883.  (Poem,  page  834.) 


xliv  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OF  THE  POETS  OF  IRELAND. 


REV.  T  .  A.  BUTLER. 

REV.  THOMAS  AMBROSE  BUTLER  is  a  native  of  Ireland,  where  he  was  born  in 
the  year  1837.     He  is  at  present  a  resident  of  St.  Louis,  Mo.     He  published  a 


few  years  ago  a  meritorious  volume  of  verse,  entitled  "  The  Irish  on  the  Prairies 
and  Other  Poems."     (Poem,  page  903.) 

J.   J.   CALLANAN 

J.  J.  CALLANAN  was  born  in  Cork  in  1795,  and  was  intended  by  his  parents 
for  the  priesthood.  After  a  preparatory  classical  course  in  his  native  city,  he 
entered  Maynooth  College  at  seventeen.  At  twenty,  he  found  that  he  had  mis- 
taken his  vocation,  and  he  left  the  college.  The  next  year  he  took  two  prizes 
in  a  poetical  competition,  and  this  decided  his  profession.  He  entered  Trinity 
College  to  study  medicine,  and  continued  there  for  two  years.  lie  was  full  of 
literary  projects;  but  they  were  not  carried  out.  He  was  morbidly  sensitive;  and 
his  unsettled  aim  and  dependence  increased  his  unrest.  In  1S27  he  was  a  teacher 
in  a  school  in  Lisbon,  Portugal,  where  his  fatal  illness  came  upon  him.  His 
moral  qualities  were  of  a  very  high  order.  Those  who  knew  him  well  speak  of 
him  as  scrupulously  truthful,  and  honorable  almost  to  romance.  He  was  meek 
and  charitable  in  speech  to  a  degree  not  very  common  in  those  days.  He  never 
spoke  ill  of  man;  no  injury  could  provoke  him  to  it.  Ingratitude  itself  did 
not  awaken  in  him  a  spirit  of  resentment.  Add  to  these  qualities  a  rare  gentle- 
ness of  manner,  and  it  is  no  wonder  that  he  was,  as  is  told,  very  dear  to  all  that 
had  intercourse  with  him.  (Poems,  page  551.) 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OF  THE  POETS  OF  IRELAND. 


xlv 


DR.  CAMPION. 

DR.  CAMPION  was  born  in  Ireland  in  the  early  part  of  the  present  century. 
He  was  a  physician  by  profession,  but  was  known  as  a  devoted  student  of  Irish 
historical  literature,  and  he  was  a  poet  of  more  than  ordinary  merit.  Many  of 
his  poems,  notably  those  on  historical  subjects,  display  uncommon  power.  He 
was  an  ardent  patriot.  (Poems,  page  826.) 


WILLIAM  CARLETON. 

WM.  CARLETON,  novelist,  was  born  at  Clogher,  county  Tyrone,  1798.  In- 
tended for  the  Church  he,  in  his  twelfth  year,  started  on  foot  to  attend  a  classi- 
cal school  in  Minister.  On  the  way  the  kindness  of  the  peasantry  provided  him 
with  bed  and  board.  Disheartened,  he  returned,  but  had  gained  such  a  knowl- 
edge of  the  manners  and  customs  of  the  people  that,  though  the  Church,  perhaps, 
lost  a  gifted  ornament,  literature  secured  the  most  successful  descriptive  writer 
of  the  peasant  character  of  Ireland.  In  turn  village  tutor  in  Louth  and  classical 
teacher  in  Dublin,  he  later  devoted  himself  to  literature,  producing  his  Traits 
and  Stories  of  the  Irish  peasantry.  He  died  in  Dublin,  is*;;).  (Poems,  page 
695.) 

GERALD  CARLETON. 
GERALD  CARLETON  is  a  native  of  Gal  way,  Ireland,  where  he  was  born  in 


xlvi 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OF  THE  POETS  OF  IRELAND. 


the  year  1844.     At  an  early  age  he  engaged  in  journalism,  and  was  for  many 
years  connected  with  leading  British  publications.     He  is  best  known  as  a  pop- 


ular novelist.     He  came  to  the  United  States  in  1866,  and,  exceping  eight  years 
which  he  spent  in  Europe,  has  since  resided  in  New  York.  (Poems,  page  947.) 


HENRY  BERNARD  CARPENTER. 

REV.  HENRY  BERNARD  CARPENTER,  the  successor  of  Rev.  Thomas  Starr  King, 
and  Pastor  of  Hollis  St.  Church,  Boston,  Mass.,  was  born  in  Ireland  in  the 
year  1840.  He  sprang  from  two  old  and  honored  families  in  Kilkenny  and 
Derry.  His  early  training  and  taste  for  ancient  and  modern  literature  he  de- 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OP  THE  POETS  OF  IRELAND.  ilvii 

rived  from  his  father,  a  clergyman  of  the  once  Established  Church  of  Ireland, 
and  an  excellent  classical  scholar.  After  five  years'  residence  at  Oxford,  where 
he  was  prizeman,  honorman,  and  exhibitioner  of  his  college,  he  was  appointed 
by  Her  Majesty's  Commissioners  of  Education  in  Ireland  as  tutor  and  assistant- 
master  in  the  upper  department  of  Portora  Royal  Collegiate  School,  often  called 
"the  Eton  of  Ireland."  As  a  lecturer  on  classic  and  historic  themes,  he  has 
obtained  celebrity  in  the  New  England  states  and  in  Canada,  where  he  began 
his  career  about  twelve  years  ago.  Discharging  all  the  duties  of  the  religious 
society,  to  which  he  has  ministered  for  nearly  eight  years,  Rev.  Bernard  Car- 
penter devotes  his  hard-earned  leisure  to  the  poetic  studies  to  which  he  is  most 
ardently  attached.  (Poems,  page  785.) 


JOHN  K.  CASEY. 

JOHN  KEGAN  CASEY,  better  known  by  his  nom  de  plume,  "Leo,"  was 
"born  in  the  county  Westmeath,  Ireland,  in  1846.  He  soon  made  a  name  by  his 
contributions  to  the  national  press,  and  he  was  arrested  March  13,  1867,  and 
confined  in  Roscommon  jail.  Being  of  a  delicate  constitution  his  health  gave 
way  under  his  harsh  treatment,  and  he  died  suddenly  of  hemorrhage  of  the 
lungs  shortly  after  his  release  from  prison,  1870.  He  is  the  author  of  a  volume 
of  poems  intensely  national  in  spirit  and  of  literary  excellence.  (Poems,  page  837.) 


P.  S.  CASSIDY. 

PATRICK  SARSFIELD  CASSIDY  was  born  in  the  county  of  Donegal,  Ireland,  Oct. 
31,  1852.  He  came  to  the  United  States  in  his  eighteenth  year,  and  entered  the 
field  of  journalism.  While  so  engaged  he  managed  to  steal  enough  hours  from 


xlviii  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OP  THE  POETS  OF  IRELAND. 


the  night  to  enable  him  to  write  the  thrilling  tale,  "Glenough:  or  Victims  of 
Vengeance,"  and  several  others.  He  was  a  member  of  the  staff  of  the  Associated 
Press, New  York,  for  eight  years.  During  part  of  that  time,  he  also  wrote  the 
editorial  pages  for  two  weekly  newspapers,  and  contributed  an  article  and  poem 
each  month  to  the  Celtic  Magazine,  of  which  he  was  part  owner. 

Starting  with  nothing  behind  him  but  a  thorough  honesty,  a  soldier-like  res- 
olution, and  a  tireless  desire  to  make  the  most  of  his  opportunities,  and  he  stead- 
ily forged  ahead  in  newspaper  life.  For  several  years  past  he  has  been  city 
editor  of  the  New  York  Mercury,  and  his  facile  genius  and  enormous  capacity 
for  work  finds  outlet  as  contributor  and  special  writer  upon  several  weekly  and 
monthly  literary  publications.  He  is  a  graceful  and  pleasing  writer  of  verse, 
and  several  of  his  poems  have  achieved  wide  circulation  and  popularity.  The 
warm  impulsive  heart  of  the  man  naturally  gives  itself  expression  through  the 
medium  of  poetry.  (Poems,  page  881.) 

MICHAEL  CAVANAGH. 

MICHAEL  CAVANAGH  was  born  in  Cappoquin,  county  of  Waterford.  Ireland. 
His  father  was  a  cooper,  and  his  mother  the  daughter  of  a  farmer.  She  was 
instructed  in  the  Irish  language,  and  from  her  the  son  derived  his  first  knowl- 
edge of  his  native  tongue  in  print,  as  well  as  his  love  for  the  traditional  lore  with 
which  her  mind  was  well  stored,  and  to  which  he  added  by  the  study  and  research 


of  after-years.  His  connection  with  revolutionary  movements  in  1840,  led  to 
his  self -expatriation  from  Ireland,  and  he  came  to  America  in  the  close  of  that 
year.  For  several  years  subsequently  he  worked  at  coopering,  and  it  was  not 
until  1868  that  he  commenced  writing  for  a  livelihood  in  the  Emerald,  a  literary 
illustrated  weekly  published  in  New  York.  To  this  periodical  he  contributed 
several  original  Irish  sketches  and  tales,  some  translations  from  Gaelic  poetry 


'.UOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH  KS  OF  THK   I'nKTS  OP  IRK  LAND.  xlix 

(which  met  the  commendation  of  eminent  Irish  scholars),  and  an  occasional 
English  song  on  some  Irish  subject. 

He  subsequently  became  connected  with  the  Celtic  Monthly  Magazine,  and  it 
was  in  this  periodical  that  the  greater  portion  of  his  published  poems,  original 
and  translated,  appeared ;  though  many  of  his  best  English  poems  were  pub- 
lished in  the  Boston  Pilot.  The  specimens  given  in  this  volume  may  be  consid- 
ered fair  samples  of  his  English  poetry,  though  but  few  of  his  literary  friends 
set  the  same  value  on  them  as  they  accord  to  his  prose  sketches  of  Irish  home 
life,  scenery,  and  character.  The  following  lines  are  copied  from  the  back  of  the 
photograph  from  which  the  above  portrait  of  Mr.  Cavanagh  was  engraved. 

MY   EXCUSE. 

The  graceless  King — before  a  "  cat " 

His  "  tile  "  can  sport  -Her  "  wig"  the  "Queen," 

And  surely  when  it  comes  to  that, 

A  "decent  man  "  may  wear  his  "  hat " 

By  fellow-Christians  to  be  seen  : — 

Nor  care  a  single,  bare  "  traneen "' 

If,  by  some  brainless  swell's  fiat — 

Because  his  name  be  "  Mick,"  or  "  Pat," 

He  should,  therefore,  be  counted — "  Green  !  " 

CLOCH-ON-CUINNE.    (Poems,  p.  9fin  )  ^ 


JOSEPH  I.    C.  CLARKE. 

JOSEPH  I.  C.  CLARKE  was  bom  in  Ireland  at  Kingstown,  near  Dublin,  on  July 
31,  1846.     With  his  family  he  crossed  to  London  when  a  boy  of  twelve.     In  1863 


he  entered  the  English  Civil  Service  in  the  Department  of  the  Board  of  Trad«>, 
and  remained  thereuntil  is<;s.     Tlu-  Irish  National  movement,  which  began  in 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OF  THE  POETS  OF  IRELAND. 


1861,  found  in  him  an  ardent  disciple,  and  this  it  was  which  led  to  his  resigna- 
tion from  the  Civil  Service.  He  went  to  Paris  from  London  and  thence  to 
America.  In  New  York  he  entered  the  ranks  of  journalism,  first  associating 
himself  with  the  Irish  Republic,  a  weekly  paper  brilliantly  edited  by  Michael 
Scanlan,  the  poet.  In  1870  he  entered  the  service  of  the  New  York  Herald  and 
remained  with  that  paper  thirteen  years,  filling  almost  every  position  on  it  from 
reporter  to  managing  editor.  In  1883  he  left  the  Herald  to  take  the  managing 
editorship  of  the  New  York  Morning  Journal  which  position  he  still  fills. 
Although  in  the  centre  of  the  maelstrom  of  journalism  Mr.  Clarke  has  found 
time  for  poetic  and  literary  effort.  Last  year  he  published  "  Eobert  Emmet, 
a  Tragedy  of  Irish  History."  and  stray  verses  from  his  pen  appear  from  time 
to  time  in  the  press.  He  is  always  proud  to  say  that  his  first  verses  that  found 
their  way  into  print  appeared  in  the  Dublin  Irish  People,  edited  by  John 
O'Leary.  (Poems,  page  941.) 

RICH  A  ED  W.  COLLENDER. 

RICHARD  W.  COLLENDER  was  born  in  Cappoquin,  county  of  Waterford,  Ire- 
land, in  the  year  1841.  He  was  educated  in  the  famous  school  of  Mount  Mel- 
lerey,  where,  though  a  mere  youth,  he  attracted  notice  by  his  talent  and  love  of 
knowledge.  He  came  to  the  United  States  in  18B9,  and  wrote  for  the  Celtic 
Monthly  Magazine  and  othe"r  publications.  Though  splendid  inducements  were 
before  him,  his  love  of  home  prevailed,  and  he  left,  in  1883,  for  Ireland.  Mr. 


Collender  is  an  ardent  Nationalist,  and  his  vigorous  posms  have  been  among  the 
most  attractive  features  of  United  Ireland  for  some  years  past.  He  has  also  writ- 
ten many  sketches,  stories  and  novelettes,  but  his  complete  works  have  never 
been  collected.  His  brother,  Mr.  Hugh  M.  Collender,  is  a  wealthy  merchant  of 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OF  THE  POETS  OP  IRELAND. 


li 


New  York.  Mr.  Collender  was  a  school- mate  and  life-long  friend  of  the  Cappo- 
quin  poet,  John  Walsh,  and  much  of  their  best  work  was  the  result  of  collab- 
oration. (Poems,  page  984.) 

WILLIAM  COLLINS. 

WILLIAM  COLLINS  was  born  in  the  town  of  Strabane,  County  of  Tyrone,  Ire 
land,  and  came  to  America  in  his  fourteenth  year.     He  resided  for  many  years 
in  the  neighborhood  of  the  Upper  Ottawa.  Canada,  and  while  yet  a  boy  contrib- 
uted largely  to  the  periodicals  of  the  day.     Having  passed  over  to  the  United 
States,  during  the  early  period  of  the  war,  he  enlisted  in  a  Western  regiment 


\       -    "  ~* 


and  served  till  the  close  of  the  conflict.  In  1866.  he  accompanied  Gen.  O'Neill 
in  the  Fenian  invasion  of  Canada,  and  participated  in  the  battle  of  Ridgeway, 
and  the  rout  of  the  "  Queens'  Own."  He  has  resided  in  New  York  for  many 
years  and  is  at  present  on  the  editorial  staff  of  the  New  York  Tablet.  Mr.  Col- 
lins has  published  a  volume  of  poems  that  has  had  an  extensive  sale,  besides 
several  prose  works  of  fiction.  He  is  a  contributor  to  many  of  the  periodicals 
of  the  day.  (Poems,  page  895.) 


WILLIAM  CONGREVE. 

WILLIAM  CONGREVE,  an  eminent  dramatist,  was  born  of  Dublin  parents,  at 
Bardsey  Grange,  near  Leeds,  in  1670.  Returning  to  Dublin  he  n-reived  his  early 
education  at  Kilkenny  and  afterward  at  Trinity  College,  Dublin.  While  study- 
ing law  at  the  Middle  Temple,  his  love  for  literature  asserted  itst-lf,  and  srttin^ 
aside  his  legal  studies  he  applied  himself  to  writing  for  the  stage.  The  novel 
Incognita  was  published  under  the  fictitious  name  of  "Cleophil."  \\\<  mmc-dy 


Ill 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OF  THE  POETS  OF  IRELAND. 


the  "  Old  Bachelor  "  was  received  with  great  favor  at  the  Drury  Lane  Theatre 
in  1693.  He  subsequently  produced  "  Love  for  Love,"  "  Double  Dealer,"  "  The 
Mourning  Bride,"  and  "  The  Way  of  the  World." 

"  Love  for  Love  "  is  Congreve's  masterpiece.  The  general  tone  of  his  writ- 
ings savors  much  of  immorality,  and  their  popularity  indicates  the  spirit  of  the 
times.  He  was  ruined  by  the  adulation  heaped  upon  him  by  the  most  distin- 
guished men  of  his  time.  Pope  honored  him  by  dedicating  to  him  his  Iliad. 
Dryden  was  extravagance  itself  in  his  praise.  After  years  of  suffering  from 
blindness  and  bodily  weakness  he  died  January  19,  1729.  (Poems,  page  677.) 


KATHARINE  E.   CONWAY. 

Miss  KATHARINE  E.  CONWAY  was  born  of  Irish  Catholic  parents  at  Roches- 
ter, New  York,  September,  1853.  Her  first  literary  work  was  contributed  to  the 
daily  press  of  that  city.  She  has  since  written  much  in  prose  and  poetry  for 
New  York  and  other  periodicals,  and  in  1883  produced  a  volume  of  poems  en- 
titled "  On  the  Sunrise  Slope."  She  was  for  some  years  a  member  of  the  edi- 
torial staff  of  the  Buffalo  Catholic  Union  and  Times,  and  is  now  connected  with 
the  Boston  Pilot.  (Poems,  page  767.) 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKKiCHES  OP  THE  POETS  OF  IRELAND.  liii 

DANIEL  CONNOLLY. 

DANIEL  CONNOLLY  was  born  in  Beleek,  Fermanagh  County,  Ireland,  in 
the  year  183G.  He  came  to  America  in  1851,  and  adopted  the  profession  of 
journalism.  He  was  for  some  time  the  special  war  correspondent  of  the  Now 
York  Daily  News,  during  the  Rebellion,  and  he  became  subsequently  asso- 
ciate editor  of  the  Metropolitan  Record,  a  New  York  weekly.  He  is  at  present 
engaged  in  commercial  business.  His  poetical  contributions  to  the  periodicals  of 
the  day  are  numerous,  and  are  distinguished  for  their  vigor  of  expression  and 
strong  patriotic  feeling  He  has  recently  compiled  an  excellent  collection  of 
Irish  poetry.  (Poems,  page  899.) 

REV.  JOHN  COSTELLO. 

REV.  JOHN  COSTELLO  is  at  present  parish  priest  at  Athens,  Pa.  He  has  been 
for  many  years  a  well-known  contributor  to  Irish  and  Catholic  publications.  He 


is  an  accomplished  linguist,  and  has  translated  into  English  many  of  the  gems 
of  poetic  literature  from  the  various  European  languages.  Some  of  his  transla- 
tions are  equal  to  those  of  Mangan  and  "  Prout."  (Poems,  page  905.) 

MRS.  CRAWFORD. 

MRS.  CRAWFORD  was  born  in  the  county  of  Cavan,  Ireland,  early  in  the  pres- 
ent century.  She  wrote  several  pieces  of  merit,  and  is  said,  on  good  authority, 
to  be  the  author  of  "  Kathleen  Mavourneen,"  for  which  Crouch  furnished  the 
music.  (Poems,  page  833.) 

DANIEL  CRILLY. 

DANIEL  CRILLY,  poet,  journalist,  and  politician,  was  born  near  Rostrevor,  in 
the  county  of  Down,  Ireland,  thirty-five  years  ago.  He  received  his  early  edu- 


Hv  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OF  THE  POETS  OF  IRELAND. 

cation  in  the  National  school  of  his  native  place,  and  afterward  spent  some 
time  in  the  Catholic  Institute,  Hope  Street,  Liverpool— whither  his  family 
removed— and  Sedgley  Park  College,  Wolverhampton,  England.  After  five 
years  passed  in  the  Cotton  Exchange  of  Liverpool,  his  desire  to  enter  political 


journalism  proved  irresistible.  He  became  a  contributor  to  the  Dublin  Nation, 
and  eventually  a  member  of  its  staff.  In  1885,  Mr.  Crilly  was  elected  a  Member 
of  Parliament  for  North  Mayo.  Besides  his  political  articles  and  journalistic 
correspondence,  and  burdensome  parliamentary  duties,  Mr.  Crilly  finds  time  to 
write  many  tales  and  sketches,  and  stirring  songs  and  lyrics.  He  is  one  of  Mr. 
Parnell's  ablest  lieutenants,  and  is  one  of  the  most  trusted  advisers  in  the  Irish 
Parliamentary  Councils.  (Poems,  page  980.) 


JOHN  PHILPOT  GUBRAN. 

JOHN  PHILPOT  CURRAN,  a  brilliant  popular  orator,  was  born  at  Newmarket, 
county  Cork,  July,  1750.  His  ready  wit  attracted  the  attention  of  the  Eector, 
Eev.  Wm.  Boyse,  who  sent  him  to  Middleton  College,  whence  he  was  trans- 
planted to  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  in  1767.  He  studied  Law  at  the  Middle 
Temple  and  on  his  call  to  the  Bar  returned  to  Ireland  in  1775.  From  1783  to 
1797  in  the  Irish  Parliament  he  advocated  emancipation  and  reform.  There 
he  was  the  "  assistant  most  demanded,"  whilst  in  court  "  he  was  the  advocate 
deemed  essential."  His  defence  of  Hamilton  Eowan  stands  unequalled.  He 
resigned  the  Mastership  of  the  Eolls  in  1816,  and  died  in  London  from  an 
apoplectic  attack,  October,  1817,  in  the  sixty-eighth  year  of  his  age.  (Poems, 
page  678.) 


. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OF  THE  POETS  OF  IRELAND. 


Iv 


THOMAS  DAVIS. 
See  memoirs  and  introduction  by  John  Mitchel,  preceding  Poems,  page  470. 


FRANCIS  DAVIS. 

FRANCIS  DAVIS,  more  widely  known  in  his  day  by  his  nom  deplume  of  "The 
Belfast  Man,"  was  a  native  of  Cork.  Ireland,  where  he  was  born  in  1810.     He 


Ivi  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OP  THE  POETS  OF  IRELAND. 

removed  to  Belfast  at  an  early  age.  where  he  lived  till  his  death,  supporting 
himself  for  many  years  by  his  occupation  of  weaver.  He  wrote  for  the  Dublin 
Nation  in  its  early  years,  and  contributed  to  most  of  the  national  journals. 
Many  of  his  finest  productions  were  composed  while  busy  with  the  loom.  In 
his  latter  years  he  received  from  his  townsmen  a  situation  more  congenial  to  his 
tastes.  Shortly  before  his  death  he  joined  the  Catholic  church.  His  complete 
poetical  works  were  published  in  Belfast  a  few  years  ago.  He  died  in  1885. 
(Poems,  page  838.) 


EUGENE  DAVIS. 

EUGENE  DAVIS  was  bora  in  Clonakilty,  county  of  Cork,  Ireland,  March  23, 
1857.  He  was  educated  at  the  University  of  Louvain,  Belgium,  and  subse- 
quently in  Paris.  He  was  a  contributor  at  an  early  age  to  the  Dublin  Irishman 
and  Shamrock  over  the  nom  de  plume  of  "Owen  Koe,"  the  series  of  articles 


being,  "Hours  with  Irish  Poebs,"  "The  Orators  of  Ireland,"  and  a  novel  of 
Belgo -Irish  life  entitled  "  The  True  Love  and  the  False. "  He  contributed  poetry 
also  to  the  same  papers.  Mr.  Davis  spent  a  large  portion  of  his  life  in  Paris, 
where  at  one  time  he  was  the  acting  editor  of  United  Ireland,  when  that  journal 
was  transferred  to  the  French  capital  after  having  been  suppressed  in  Dublin. 
He  was  expelled  from  France,  with  James  Stephens,  in  March,  1885.  at  the 
request  of  Lord  Lyons,  the  British  Ambassador,  for  political  reasons.  He  trav- 
elled, afterward,  over  almost  the  entire  continent  of  Europe,  and  contributed 
articles,  under  the  name  of  "Viator,"  on  social  life  in  Switzerland  and  Italy  to 
the  Sunday  edition  of  the  San  Francisco  Chronicle.  In  November,  1887,  he 
returned  to  Ireland,  and  was  appointed  to  a  post  on  the  editorial  staff  of  the 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OF  THE  POETS  OF  IRELAND.  Ivii 


Dublin  Nation.  Mr.  Davis  is  the  author  of  a  series  of  articles  entitled  "  Sou- 
venirs of  Irish  Footprints  over  Europe,"  which  appeared  in  tne  Dublin  Evenimj 
Telegraph  in  the  spring  of  1889,  and  will  soon  be  published  in  book  form.  A 
volume  of  his  poems,  entitled  •'  A  Vision  of  Ireland,  and  other  Poems,"  has 
recently  been  published,  and  he  'has  edited  the  posthumous  poems  of  the  late 
J.  K.  Casey.  (Poems,  page  915.) 


MICHAEL  DAVITT. 

* 

MICHAEL  DAVITT  was  born  near  the  village  of  Straid,  County  of  Mayo,  Ire- 
land, in  1846.  He  was  the  son  of  a  farmer,  who  was  evicted  from  his  home 
during  the  terrible  landlord  clearances  of  that  period.  When  four  years  of  age, 
Michael  went  with  his  parents  to  England,  and  when  still  little  more  than  a 
child  had  the  misfortune  to  lose  his  arm,  while  engaged  in  working  in  a  mill. 
In  1870,  he  was  arrested  in  London  and  sentenced  to  fifteen  years'  penal  servi- 


tude, for  participation  in  the  Fenian  movement.  He  was  released  in  1877.  Mr. 
Davitt  founded  the  Land  League  at  Irishtown,  Mayo,  April  20,  1879.  He  was 
afterward  arrested  and  imprisoned  in  connection  with  the  agitation.  His  sub- 
sequent career  is  identified  with  the  history  of  the  Land  League  and  the  National 
League.  Mr.  Davitt  has  published  a  record  of  his  prison  life,  and  is  the  author 
of  numerous  speeches  and  writings  on  contemporary  Irish  affairs.  (Poem,  page 
t025.) 

AUBREY  DE  VERE. 

THOS.  AUBREY  DE  VERB,  poet  and  political  writer  ;  born  in  county  Limerick 
in  1814.      Educated  at  Trinity  College,  Dublin.      Devoting  his  leisure  to  travel 


Iviii 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OF  THE  POETS  OF  IRELAND. 


and  literature,  almost  every  year  since  1842  beheld  some  production  of  his  pro- 
lific pen.     Amongst  his  poetic  works,  are   "  Recollections  of  Greece,"  and  1843, 


"  Poems  Miscellaneous  and  Sacred  ;"  1856,  "  Innisfail ;"  1861,  "  Alexander  the 
Great ;"  a  dramatic  poem.  1874.  His  prose  works  include  "  Church  Settlement 
of  Ireland,"  1886,  and  in  1878  Correspondence  Religious  and  Philosophical, 
entitled  "  Proteus  and  Amadeus. "  (Poems,  p.  445.) 


MICHAEL  DOHENY. 

MICHAEL  DOHENY,  orator,  poet  and  patriot,  was  born  at  Brookhill.  Tipperary, 
Ireland,  May  -22,  1805.  The  son  of  a  small  farmer,  the  first  twenty  years  of  his 
life  were  passed  on  the  farm.  He  devoted  all  his  spare  time  to  study,  and  when 
a  young  man  entered  the  Temple  in  London  as  a  law  student,  meantime  sup- 
porting himself  by  the  proceeds  of  his  pen.  After  being  admitted  to  the  bar,  he 
returned  to  Ireland  and  took  up  his  residence  in  the  town  of  Cashel,  Tipperary. 
He  was  one  of  O'Connell's  ablest  lieutenants  in  the  then  great  struggle  going  on 
for  popular  rights.  He  afterward  joined  the  young  Ireland  organization  and  de- 
voted all  his  talents  and  energies  to  the  revolutionary  movement.  After  many 
vicissitudes  he  succeeded  in  making  his  escape,  arriving  in  New  York  in  1849. 
There  he  resumed  his  profession,  and  became  an  active  and  untiring  worker  for 
the  diffusion  of  Irish  principles.  His  death  occurred  suddenly  April  ],  1863.  He 
is  the  author  of  "  The  Felon's  Track,"  descriptive  of  the  abortive  insurrection  of 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKKTCHKS  OF  THE  POETS  OP  IRELAND. 


lix 


'48.     His  poetic  contributions  to  the  periodicals  of  the  day  were  numerous. 
(Poems,  page  869.) 


ELEANOR  C.  DONNELLY. 

ELKANOK  C.  PONNI.I.I-V  is  a  resident  of  the  city  of  Philadelphia,  wlu'iv  she 
was  born  in  the  year  184S.     She  has  been  for  many  years  one  of  the  most  popu- 


Ix  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OF  THE  POETS  OF  IRELAND. 

lar  contributors  to  American  Catholic  periodicals.  Many  of  her  poems  are  on 
spiritual  subjects,  and  she  is  the  author  of  a  number  of  prose  works,  most  of 
them  being  of  a  religious  character.  Miss  Donnelly  is  a  sister  of  the  Hon.  Igna- 
tius Donnelly  of  Minnesota,  author  of  "Atlantis,"  and  the  Shakespeare  Bacon 
Cryptogram.  (Poems,  page  992.) 


BAKTHOLOMEW   DOWLLNG. 

BARTHOLOMEW  DOWLING  was  born  in  Listowel,  county  Kerry,  Ireland,  in 
1817.  His  parents  emigrated  to  Canada,  but  on  the  death  of  his  father,  while 
yet  a  mere  child,  his  mother  returned  with  him  and  her  other  children  to  her 
old  home  in  Limerick,  where  he  was  educated  and  commenced  a  successful 
business  career.  In  everything  relating  to  Ireland  he  was  an  ardent  enthusiast, 
and  when  the  young  Ireland  movement  culminated  in  disaster  for  the  leaders 
in  1848,  his  personal  interests  were  for  the  time  shipwrecked  with  those  of  many 
of  his  brave  companions.  Later  on,  he  resumed  business  in  Liverpool,  and  from 


thence  emigrated  a  second  time  to  America,  stimulated  by  the  grand  exodus  of 
the  Modern  Argonauts  to  the  golden  shores  of  California. 

Here  his  career  was  varied  and  honorable.  He  successfully  edited  the  San 
Francisco  Monitor  for  some  years,  and  in  conjunction  with  his  younger  brother 
conducted  a  large  farming  business  in  Contra  Costa  County. 

In  a  brief  notice  like  the  present  we  have  room  to  do  him  little  more  than 
passing  justice  by  referring  to  the  specimen  poem  from  his  pen  which  is  to  be 
found  in  this  volume,  and  saying  that  when  in  1863.  at  the  early  a,ge  of  46,  death 
summoned  him  to  judgment,  the  close  of  his  blameless  and  honorable  life  was 
cheered  by  the  love  of  a  host  of  warm  personal  friends.  (Poem,  page  854.) 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OF  THE  POETS  OF  IRELAND.  Ixi 


WILLIAM  DOWLING. 

WILLIAM  DOWLING  was  born  of  Irish  parents  in  Kingston,  Upper  Canada. 
While  very  young  his  father  died,  and  the  mother  returned  with  her  family  to 
her  old  home  in  Limerick,  Ireland.  Here,  under  his  mother's  care  and  that  of  his 
elder  brother  Batholomew  (whose  biography  appears  in  these  pages)  he  received 
his  education  and  imbibed  a  taste  and  love  for  all  that  was  beautiful  and  true. 
On  the  death  of  his  mother  and  the  breaking  up  of  the  old  home  he  emigrated 
to  America,  finally  settling  down  in  San  Francisco,  where  he  at  present  resides, 
surrounded  by  a  large  and  happy  family.  Mr.  Dowling  has  written  pretty  gems, 
which  occasionally  may  be  found  in  the  newspapers  without  credit.  But  they 
have  never  been  published  as  a  collection.  (Poems,  page  1024.) 


ELLEN  DOWNING. 

Miss  ELLEN  DOWNING  was  a  Munster  lady,  and  one  of  the  most  brilliant  con- 
tributors to  the  Nation  newspaper,  during  the  '48  period.  She  had  formed  an 
attachment  for  one  of  the  young  Ireland  writers,  who  was  forced,  on  the  failure 
of  the  movement,  to  seek  refuge  in  America.  In  the  new  land  he  learned  to 
forget  his  home  vows.  "Mary"  sank  under  the  blow,  and  in  utter  seclusion 
from  the  world  lingered  for  a  while,  but  ere  long  the  spring  flowers  bloomed  on 
her  grave.  She  died  a  nun  in  one  of  the  Convents  of  Cork.  (Poems,  page  829.) 


WILLIAM  DRENNAN. 

DR.  DRENNAN,  a  United  Irishman,  was  born  in  Belfast,  May  23,  1754.  He 
was  the  son  of  Thomas  Drennan,  a  Presbyterian  minister.  He  took  his  degree 
of  M.D.  at  Edinburgh  in  1778,  and  after  practising  some  years  in  Belfast  and 
Newry,  removed  to  Dublin  in  1789.  He  originated  the  establishment  of  the 
Society  of  United  Irishmen,  and  published  a  prospectus  in  June,  1791.  He 
vigorously  advocated  the  cause  of  Catholic  Emancipation  and  Parliamentary 
Reform.  In  1794,  he  was  tried  for  sedition  and  acquitted.  Relinquishing  his 
practise  in  1800,  he  returned  to  Belfast  and  commenced  the  Belfast  Magazine. 
In  1815,  he  published  a  volume  of  "  Fugitive  Pieces,"  and  in  1817  a  translation  of 
the  "  Electra"  of  Sophocles.  He  died  in  Belfast  June  5,  1820.  He  first  applied  to 
Ireland  the  epithet:  "  Emerald  Isle."  He  published  some  excellent  hymns,  and, 
says  Dr.  Drummond,  "  in  some  of  the  lighter  kinds  of  poetry  showed  much  of 
the  playful  wit  and  ingenuity  of  Goldsmith."  (Poem,  page  920.) 


LADY  DUFFERIN. 

LADY  DUFFERIN  was  the  daughter  of  Thomas  Sheridan,  son  of  Richard 
Brinsley  Sheridan,  and  was  born  in  the  year  1S07.     She  married  the  Hon.  Price 


Ixii  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OF  THE  POETS  OP  IRELAND. 

Blackwood,  afterward  Lord  Dufferin.  After  his  death,  she  married  the  Earl  of 
Gifford.  when  on  his  death  bed.  She  was  the  mother  of  the  present  Earl  of 
Dufferin.  She  was  the  author  of  some  touching  Irish  ballads.  She  died  in 
1867.  (Poems,  page  815.) 


CHARLES  GAVAN  DUFFY. 

CHARLES  GAVAN  DUFFY,  the  son  of  a  Monaghan  farmer,  of  Celtic  extrac- 
tion, was  born  in  1816.  In  his  10th  year  he  went  to  Dublin,  friendless  and  un- 
known; but  determining  on  becoming  an  author,  he  obtained  employment  on 
the  newspaper  press.  He  next  became  the  editor  of  an  influential  newspaper 
in  Belfast.  He  returned  to  Dublin  in  1841,  and  connected  himself  with  "  The 
Mountain"  of  the  O'Connell  party.  In  1842  he  started  "  The  Nation,"  as  an 
educational  journal,  to  create  and  foster  public  opinion  in  Ireland,  and  to  make 
it  racy  of  the  soil.  In  five  years  Mr.  Duffy  collected  a  party,  afterward  known 
as  "  Young  Ireland. "  In  1844  he  was  a  fellow-prisoner  with  O'Connell  in  Rich- 
mond jail,  Dublin;  he  acted  in  concert  with  O'Connell  until  1847,  when  he  left 
the  Repeal  Association,  and  was  one  of  the  founders  of  the  Irish  Confederation. 
He  was  tried  for  treason  and  felony  in  1848-9,  but  after  several  ineffectual 
attempts,  the  prosecution  was  abandoned  by  the  Government.  He  then  re- 
sumed "  The  Nation,"  which  had  been  suspended,  which  he  limited  to  social 
reforms,  such  as  landlord  and  tenant  right,  in  support  of  which  was  formed  the 
"Independent  Irish  Party"  in  Parliament.  Mr.  Duffy  was  elected  in  1852 
member  for  the  borough  of  New  Ross,  but  resigned  his  seat  in  1856,  on  proceed- 
ing to  Australia.  He  has  since  held  office  twice  in  the  government  of  Victoria 
as  Minister  of  Public  Lands  and  Works,  and  was  sent  for  by  the  governor  to 
form  an  administration  during  a  severe  ministerial  crisis  of  1860,  but  declined 
on  his  excellency's  hesitating  to  grant  the  power  of  dissolving  Parliament.  Mr. 
Duffy,  on  his  arrival  in  Victoria,  was  presented  with  a  handsome  estate  by  the 
Irish  of  that  colony.  Mr.  Duffy  has  been  thrice  married.  He  is  a  barrister, 
but  has  never  practised.  (Poems,  page  685.) 


MAURICE  FRANCIS  EGAN. 

MAURICE  F.  EGAN  was  born  in  the  city  of  Philadelphia  in  1852.  He  was  edu- 
cated in  La  Salle  College,  and  after  completing  his  studies,  he  entered  George- 
town College  as  one  of  the  lay  members  of  the  Faculty.  Shortly  afterward  Mr. 
Egan  made  a  business  of  journalism,  contributing  meantime  to  most  of  the 
leading  periodicals  of  the  day.  His  poetical  contributions  to  the  Century  Maga- 
zine were  received  with  a  general  burst  of  welcome  and  pleasure  from  critics  of 
eminence,  among  them  being  Longfellow  and  Stea,dman.  Shortly  before  his 
death,  Mr.  Longfellow  referring  to  Mr.  Egan's  "Preludes"  wrote:  "I  have 


(D1HLAEBJL1S8    (B-.ASr.AIT 


ROBERT   EMMET. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OP  THE  POETS  OF  IRELAND.  liiii 


already  read  enough  in  it  to  see  the  elevated  tone  and  spirit  in  \vlii«  li  it  is 
written;  I  recognize  in  these  sonnets  a  certain  freshness  in  the  thought  and 
manner  of  expression  which  is  very  attractive.  Might  I  ask  you  to  congratulate 
the  author  for  me,  both  on  the  promise  and  the  performance  of  his  work."  Mr. 


Egan  edited  for  some  years  McGee's  Illustrated  Weekly,  and  the  New  York  Free- 
man's Journal.  He  is  at  present  professor  of  English  literature  in  Notre  Dame 
University,  Indiana.  Mr.  Egan  is  the  author  of  two  volumes  of  poems,  one  of 
which  was  published  in  London,  and  of  a  volume  of  excellent  Catholic  stories 
entitled  "  The  World  Around  Us."  (Poems,  page  878.) 


ROBERT   EMMET. 

ROBERT  EMMET,  the  Irish  martyr,  was  born  in  Dublin,  in  1778.  He  was 
educated  at  Trinity  College,  where  he  took  a  prominent  part  in  the  Historical 
Society  and  espoused  the  national  side  in  the  debates.  Among  his  fellow  stu- 
dents was  the  poet  Moore.  Emmet's  subsequent  career,  and  his  execution  in 
1803,  are  too  well  known  to  require  an  extended  notice.  He  was  the  author  of 
several  pieces  of  poetry,  which  are  published  in  his  memoir  by  Dr.  Madden. 
(Poem,  page  819.) 

SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 

SAMUEL  FERGUSON,  poet  and  writer  of  historical  romance,  was  born  in  Belfast, 
Ireland,  in  1815.  He  was  educated  at  the  Belfast  Academical  Institute,  also  at 
the  University  of  Dublin,  which  gave  him  the  degree  of  LLD.,  in  1865.  He 


Ixiv  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OF  THE  POETS  OF  IRELAND. 

was  admitted  to  the  Irish  bar  in.  1838.  Ferguson  (the  original  of  which  is 
McFergus)  is  a  descendant  from  an  ancient  Celtic  family;  which  ancestry  is 
accountable  for  the  wonderful  power  and  energy,  combined  with  the  sweetness 
and  descriptive  beauty,  which  are  the  leading  characteristics  of  his  writings. 

During  his  earlier  years,  the  practice  of  law  becoming  distasteful,  his  youth- 
ful imagination  found  more  enjoyment  in  gratifying  his  natural  love  of  litera- 
ture. He  became  a  contributor  to  the  Dublin  University  Magazine,  in  whose 
pages  first  appeared  his  fine  romances  of  Irish  History,  "The  Rebellion  of 
Silken  Thomas  "  and  "  Corbie  McGilmore."  His  genius  as  ballad -writer  alone 
is  sufficient  to  build  his  poetic  reputation.  "  The  Forging  of  the  Anchor  "  has 
of  its  own  excellence  become  famous,  and  "  The  Welshmen  of  Tirawley  "  shows 
in  every  line  the  powerful  poetic  genius  of  the  author.  Samuel  Ferguson's 
"  Lays  of  the  Western  Gael "  breathe  the  genuine  spirit  of  the  Irish  bards.  As 
a  translator  of  Irish  ballads  he  is  unrivalled.  The  latter  years  of  Ferguson's 
life  have  been  devoted  almost  entirely  to  his  profession,  working  faithfully  and 
earnestly.  He  acquired  a  high  and  honorable  position  at  the  Irish  bar,  and  has 
been  honored — if  social  title  be  an  honor  for  a  poet — with  a  baronetcy.  He  died 
in  August,  1886.  (Poems,  page  604.^ 

MARCELLA  A.   FITZGERALD. 

MARCELLA  A.  FITZGERALD  was  born  in  Frampton,  Canada.  Feb.  23d,  1845,  a 
village  established  by  her  grandparents,  who  emigrated  with  their  children  from 
the  county  of  Wexford,  Ireland,  in  1820.  After  her  father's  death  her  mother 
in  1851,  went  to  California  with  her  children  to  join  her  father,  Martin  Murphy 
the  well-known  Irish  pioneer,  who  had  traversed  the  continent,  and  in  1844 
pitched  his  tent  on  the  Pacific.  Miss  Fitzgerald  has  resided  in  California 
since  childhood,  receiving  her  education  at  the  college  of  Notre  Dame,  San  Jos£. 
She  has  been  a  regular  and  a  highly  valued  contributor  to  the  press  since  1865. 
A  volume  embracing  many  of  her  poems  was  published  in  1886,  by  the  Catholic 
Publication  Society  of  New  York.  (Poem,  page  974.) 

JOHN  FRAZER. 

JOHN  FRAZER  was  born  near  Birr,  Kings  County,  Ireland,  in  1809.  and  was  a 
cabinet  maker  by  trade.  He  possessed  literary  and  poetic  talents  of  a  high 
order.  He  wrote  under  the  assumed  name  of  "  J.  De  Jean."  Died,  1849.  A  col- 
lection of  his  writings  was  published  in  Dublin  after  his  death.  (Poems,  p.  817.) 

UNA   (MRS.  A.  E.  FORD). 

MRS.  AUGUSTINE  FORD,  better  known  under  her  nom  de  plume  of  "Una." 
was  bom  in  the  county  of  Antrim,  Ireland,  and  came  to  the  United  States  at  an 
early  age.  She  completed  her  education  at  St.  Martin's  convent,  Brown  County, 
Ohio,  and  while  yet  a  mere  girl  won  wide  recognition  by  her  poetic  contributions 
to  the  periodicals  of  the  day.  Her  writings  are  intensely  national,  and  those  on 
sentimental  subjects  are  characterized  by  a  delicate  play  of  fancy  and  beauty  of 


SAITOIEJL 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OP  THE  POETS  OF  IRELAND. 


Ixv 


diction.   Died,  1876.    She  was  author  of  two  volumes  of  poems.    (Poems,  p.  975.) 

JAMES  T.  GALLAGHER. 
A  biographical  sketch  of  Mr.   Gallagher  precedes  his  poems,  page  1026. 


WILLIAM  GEOGHEGAN. 
WILLIAM  GEOGHEGAN.  poet  and  journalist,  was  horn  in  the  town  of  Bally- 


Ixvi  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OF  THE  POETS  OF  IRELAND. 

mahon,  County  Longford,  Ireland,  in  the  year  1844.  His  birth  place  is  close  by 
the  classic  shades  of  '•  Sweet  Auburn,"  which  Oliver  Goldsmith's  gentle  muse 
has  rendered  forever  famous.  He  left  Ireland  at  the  early  age  of  seventeen 
years,  and  making  New  York  his  future  home  adopted  the  profession  of  journal- 
ism. He  rose  to  an  honored  place  in  its  ranks.  Impressions  of  the  hallowed 
surroundings  of  his  youth  can  be  readily  traced  in  many  of  his  contributions  to 
the  American  Journals  and  magazines,  both  in  poetry  and  prose.  He  has  been 
for  over  twenty  years,  and  still  is  a  contributor  of  serial  stories,  poems  and  other 
light  literature  to  the  leading  periodicals  of  the  day,  and  is  at  present  a  member 
of  the  staff  of  the  New  York  Evening  Sun.  He  revisited  Ireland  on  two  occa- 
sions since  his  first  arrival  in  the  United  States,  and  drew  vivid  pen  pictures  of 
the  scenic  and  social  aspects  of  Ireland  that  have  been  widely  read  and  appre- 
ciated for  their  gracefulness  and  simplicity  of  style.  (Poems,  page  889.) 


PATRICK  SAESFIELD  GILMORE. 

PATRICK  SARSFIELD  GILMORE  was  born  in  the  county  of  Galway,  Ireland,  on 
Christmas  Day,  1829.  He  came  to  the  United  States  when  nineteen  years  old, 
landing  in  Boston.  His  talents  as  a  musical  leader  and  organizer  were  soon  recog- 
nized. He  was  installed  as  leader  of  the  Boston  Brigade  Band.  Later  he  organ- 
ized the  Suffolk  Band  of  Boston  and  the  famous  Salem  Brass  Band.  His  own 
band — Gilmore's  Band — he  organized  in  1858.  The  musical  jubilees  in  Boston 
in  1869  and  1870,  particularly  the  latter,  are  red  letter  events  in  musical  history. 
In  1878  he  made  a  tour  of  Europe,  taking  his  band  with  him  and  staying  away 
from  us  for  six  months.  He  was  sadly  missed,  but  America  was  content  to  do 
without  him  for  a  while,  that  Europe  might  know  that  we  could  give  her  a  few 
valuable  hints  about  music.  His  two  Boston  jubilees  together  cost  $1,000,000, 
and  at  the  conclusion  of  the  second  one  Mr.  Gilmore  was  given  $80.000  by  the 
wealthy  men  of  Boston.  Ten  years  ago  Mr.  Gilmore  published  his  national  anthem 
"Columbia,"  which  has  steadily  increased  in  popularity  as  it  has  advanced 
in  age.  Mr.  Gilmore  resides  at  present  in  New  York.  (Poem,  page  1011.) 


MINNIE  GILMORE. 

Miss  MINNIE  GILMORE  is  the  daughter  of  Mr.  Patrick  Sarsfield  Gilmore,  the 
famous  musician,  and  is  about  twenty -two  years  of  age.     She  is  the  author  of 
volume  of  poems  that  has  been  well  received,  and  that  gives  bright  promise  oi 
future  work  in  the  same  line.     These  poems  have  been  written  since  she  left 
convent  school  three  years  ago      "A  Boston  girl  by  birth,"  she  said  to  th< 
writer,  "a  Gothamite  by  adoption,  a  cosmopolitan  by  virtue  of  our  Bohemian, 
strolling  life,   it  may  seem  strange  that  my  first  work  should  be  distinct!] 
western.     The  verses  are  simply  the  records  of  rose-colored  impressions  receivec 
during  my  first  peep  at  life,  when  from  the  seclusion  of  a  convent  school  I  w£ 
transferred,  for  a  year,  to  the  wild,  free  life  of  the  prairie.     The  country,  whicl 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OF  THE  POKTS  OP  IRELAND. 


Ixvii 


I  have  loved  'from  my  youth  up,'- -the  primitive  social  atmosphere  here,  and 
above  all,  the  life  on  horseback  which  I  led.  took  my  heart  by  storm,  and  I  have 


been  restive  under  civilization  ever  since.  Literary  habits  ?  Oh,  none;  beyond 
the  inveterate  habit  of  scribbling.  I  fear  I  have  none."  Miss  Gilmore  resides 
in  New  York  City.  (Poems,  page  948.) 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

OLIVER  GOLDSMITH  was  born  at  Pallas,  in  the  county  of  Longford,  Ireland, 
November  10,  172S.  His  father  was  a  poor  curate  of  the  Established  Church. 
As  a  child,  Oliver  was  remarkably  dull,  and  was  pronounced  by  his  teacher  an 
incorrigible  dunce.  Entering  Trinity  College  (as  a  sizar)  in  his  seventeenth 
year,  he  was  noted  for  his  inattention  to  his  studies,  and  took  his  degree  in  1749 
as  last  on  the  list  of  graduates.  After  leaving  the  University  he  made  futile 
efforts  to  enter  the  church,  also  to  secure  a  livelihood  in  the  professions  of 
teaching,  law  and  medicine.  Disgusted  and  disappointed  he  travelled  on  foot 
over  a  considerable  portion  of  the  continent,  paying  for  his  food  and  lodgings 
by  playing  the  flute.  Arriving  in  England  penniless,  in  1756,  he  varied  his 
occupation,  as  chemist's  clerk,  usher  in  a  school,  book-seller's  apprentice,  and 
medical  practitioner.  After  a  period  of  obscure  drudgery,  devoted  to  writing 
tales  for  children,  articles  for  magazines  and  critical  reviews,  he  became  con- 


Ixviii 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OF  THE  POETS  OF  IRELAND. 


tributor  to  the  Public  Ledger.  Under  the  title  "  Letters  from  a  Citizen  of  the 
World,"  these  publications  attracted  popular  notice.  His  beautiful  poem  "  The 
Traveller,"  the  plan  of  which  was  sketched  from  his  journeyings  through 
Europe,  was  the  beginning  of  his  literary  fame.  "The  Vicar  of  Waken" eld," 
"  The  Good-natured  Man,"  "  The  Deserted  Village  "  following  in  quick  succes- 
sion, he  was  acknowledged  one  of  the  leading  writers  of  his  time.  In  1773  his 
comedy  of  "She  Stoops  to  Conquer"  won  a  triumphant  success  at  Covent 
Garden  Theatre.  He  was  surrounded  by  the  leading  artists,  statesmen,  and 


writers  of  the  day;  he  was  also  a  member  of  the  famous  Literary  Club.  His 
inability  to  keep  out  of  debt  made  him  the  slave  of  booksellers;  his  historical 
works  were  written  to  meet  the  wants  of  these  creditors,  and  are  not  up  to  the 
general  standard  of  his  writings.  He  died  in  1774  deeply  mourned  by  his  friends 
and  by  the  many  recipients  of  his  charity.  (Poems,  page  427.) 


LAWRENCE  G.  GOULDING. 

LAWRENCE  G.  GOULDING  was  born  in  Clare,  Ireland,  in  1838,  where  he  was 
educated  and  studied  law.  He  came  to  America  when  quite  a  young  man,  and 
made  New  York  his  home,  where  he  has  since  resided.  After  devoting  some 
time  to  law  and  journalism,  Mr.  Goulding  entered  the  publishing  business,  in 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKKTCHKS  OF  THK  1'OKTS  OF  1KKI.AXIX 

which  he  became  extensively  eneraged.     He  is  the  author  of  a  valuable  work 
entitled  "The  Catholic  Churches  of  New  York;"   "Ireland's  Destiny;"  "An 


Epitome  of  Irish  History."  etc.,  etc.  Mr.  Goulding  was  an  officer  in  the  "  gal- 
lant sixty-ninth  "  regiment,  and  for  many  years  a  commissioner  of  education. 
(Poems,  page  925.) 


ALFRED  PERCIVAL  GRAVES. 

ALFRED  P.  GRAVES  was  born  in  Dublin  in  the  year  1840,  but  spent  most  of 
lis  life  in  the  South  of  Ireland.    His  portrayals  of  the  feelings  of  the  peasantry 


Ixx 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OF  THE  POETS  OF  IRELAND 


are  always  true  to  nature,  and  the  vein  of  humor  that  pervades  his  writings 
lends  to  them  a  peculiar  charm,  while  never  detracting:  from  their  dignity.  For 
some  years  past  he  has  lived  in  London.  England.  (Poems,  page  914.) 


GERALD  GRIFFIN.      , 

GERALD  GRIFFIN,  a  most  popular  and  talented  Irish  novelist  and  dramatist, 
was  born  in  Limerick,  December  12,  1803.  As  his  parents  desired  him  to  study 
medicine  he  remained  with  an  elder  brother,  Dr.  Griffin,  while  they  emigrated 
to  the  United  States  in  1820.  His  tastes  inclining  more  to  literature,  he  early 


contributed  to  Limerick  newspapers,  and  in  his  nineteenth  year  wrote  his 
drama  of  "Aguire."  His  brother,  recognizing  in  Gerald  the  stamp  of  literary 
genius,  encouraged  him  to  go  to  London  to  work  for  fame  and  fortune. 
"Gisippus"  was  published  while  yet  twenty,  and  at  twenty-five  "The 
Collegians  "  was  written.  Unable  to  procure  a  manager  who  would  purchase 
his  dramas,  he  grew  despondent.  His  ambition  to  write  for  the  stage  receiv- 
ing a  chill  from  which  he  never  recovered,  he  turned  his  attention  to  writing 
for  magazines  and  soon  acquired  a  brilliant  reputation.  But  success  had  come 
too  late;  his  health  had  become  undermined  by  his  unceasing  toil,  long  vigils 
and  disappointments.  His  "  Holland  Tide,"  "  Tales  of  the  Munster  Festivals," 
" The  Rivals,"  " The  Invasion,"  "The  Duke  of  Monmouth,"  a  second  series  of 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OP  THE  POETS  OF  IRELAND.  Ixxi 

"  Tales  of  the  Munster  Festivals,"  etc.,  prove  his  ahility  to  perform  the  tasks  to 
which  he  set  himself.  His  poems  are  creations  of  a  singularly  beautiful  and 
chaste  imagination.  His  deeply  religious  nature  yearning  after  a  more  perfect 
life,  found  its  desire  gratified  in  joining  the  Society  of  Christian  Brothers. 

He  died  in  Cork,  June  12, 1840.  After  his  death  his  tragedy  of  "  Gisippus  " 
was  successfully  brought  out  at  Drury  Lane  Theatre.  "  The  Collegians  "  has 
been  successfully  dramatized  by  Dion  Boucicault  as  "The  Colleen  Bawn." 
(Poems,  page  199.) 


LOUISE  IMOGEN  GUINEY. 

LOUISE  IMOGEN  GUINEY,  the  only  child  of  General  Patrick  Robert  Guiney, 
was  born  in  Boston,  January  7th,  1861,  her  childish  associations  being  mainly 
with  camps  and  soldiers.  She  graduated  from  the  Academy  of  the  Sacred 
Heart,  Elmhurst,  Providence,  R.  I.,  in  1879,  and  began  writing  in  the  fol- 
lowing year,  publishing  "  Songs  at  the  Start  "  in  1884,  and  "  Goosequill  Papers  " 
in  1885.  (Poems,  page  717.) 


CHARLES  GRAHAM  HALPINE.     (MILES   O'REILLY). 

GEN.  CHAS.  G.  HALPINE.  better  known  under  his  nom  de  plume  of  Miles 
O'Reilly,  was  born  in  the  county  of  Meath,  Ireland,  in  the  year  1829.  His 
father  was  an  Episcopal  clergyman  and  a  man  of  eminent  abilities,  who  about 
1840  became  editor  of  the  Dublin  Evening  Mail,  the  great  Protestant  organ  of 
Ireland.  Charles  was  educated  at  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  and  on  graduating, 
engaged  in  journalism.  After  spending  a  few  years  in  London,  he  sailed  for 
New  York  in  1852,  where  he  became  connected  with  the  leading  metropolitan 
journals.  In  1856,  he  moved  to  Boston  where  he  edited  the  Carpet  Bag,  a  comic 
paper,  in  conjunction  with  Mr.  Shillaber  ("  Mrs.  Partington  ")  and  Dr.  Shepley. 
Returning  to  New  York,  he  became  associate  editor  of  the  Times,  and  subse- 
quently founded  a  journal  of  his  own.  At  the  beginning  of  the  war.  he  went 
out  with  his  countrymen  under  Col.  Corcoran,  and  participated  in  the  first  battle 
of  the  war,  Bull  Run.  He  was  afterwards  removed  to  Major  Gen.  Hunter's 
staff,  and  subsequently  served  on  the  staff  of  Major  Gen.  Halleck.  After  being 
breveted  Major  General,  he  tendered  his  resignation,  and  returned  to  New  York. 
He  was  elected  to  the  office  of  City  Register,  which  he  held  till  his  death  in  1868. 
He  was  connected  with  the  Young  Ireland  party  in  his  youth,  and  remained  an 
ardent  patriot  to  the  time  of  his  death  His  poem  on  "  The  Flaunting  Lie  "  was 
written  on  the  occasion  of  the  return  of  Anthony  Burns,  a  fugitive  slave,  from 
Boston  to  his  Southern  master  by  the  United  States  authorities.  It  created  a  great 
sensation  at  the  time,  and  as  it  first  appeared  in  the  N.  Y.  Tribune,  it  was  for  a 
time  attributed  to  Horace  Gieeley.  The  humorous  poem.  ''  Sambo's  Right  to  be 
Kilt."  possesses  a  historical  significance,  as  it  po'verfully  contributed  to  dissipate 
the  absurd  prejudice  of  the  white  soldiers  airainst  admitting  colored  troops  into 


Ixxii 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OF  THE  POETS  OF  IRELAND. 


the  Union  army.  Gen.  Halpine  was  the  first  man  who  advocated  the  use  of 
colored  troops  in  the  army,  and  his  commander,  Gen.  Hunter,  was  the  first  man 
who  employed  them.  (Poems,  page  873.) 


MRS.    FELICIA  DOROTHEA  HEMANS. 

,  FELICIA  DOROTHEA  HEMANS,  though  born  in  England,  may  justly  be  placed 
among  the  poets  of  Ireland.  Her  father,  whose  name  was  Browne,  was  a  native 
of  Ireland  and  her  mother  was  of  Venetian  decent  and  numbered  in  her  history 
,many  of  the  Doges.  She  was  born  in  1793.  It  is  said  that  at  the  early  age  of 
six  years  she  had  read  Shakespeare  and  was  familiar  with  all  the  characters  of 
the  great  poet.  When  she  was  about  seven  years  old  her  father  retired  to  a 
wild  and  romantic  spot  on  the  sea  shore  of  Wales.  Here  she  lived  for  several 
years,  reading  and  studying  constantly,  but  receiving  little  practical  help  from 
others.  When  but  eight  years  of  age  she  began  writing  poetry,  and  a  volume  of 
her  poems  published  in  her  fourteenth  year  attracted  considerable  attention.  In 
1812  she  married  Captain  Hemans.  but  the  marriage  proved  unhappy,  and  they 
lived  but  a  few  years  together. 

Her  character  was  as  delicate  and  refined  as  her  poems  were  pure  and  beauti- 
ful. Sir  Walter  Scott  said  to  her,  as  she  was  leaving  Abbotsford  after  a  long 
visit,  "  There  are  some  whom  we  meet,  and  should  like  ever  after  to  claim  as 
kith  and  kin  :  and  you  are  one  of  those."  Mrs.  Hemans  removed  to  Dublin,  Ire- 
land, some  years  before  her  death,  which  occurred  in  that  city  in  1835.  Her  re- 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OF  THE  POETS  OF  IRELAND.  luiii 

mains  were  interred  in  St.  Anne's  Church,  Dublin.      Lord  Jeffrey,  in  a  critique 
of  unstinted  praise,  ranks  Mrs.  Hemans  as  "beyond  all  comparison  the  most 


touching  and  accomplished  writer  of  occasional  verses  that  our  literature  has 
yet  to  boast  of."    (Poems,  page  978.) 

JOHN  KELLS  INGRAM. 

J.  K.  INGRAM  was  born  in  Dublin  in  the  year  1822,  and  has  been  for  many 
years  a  professor  in  Trinity  College,  Dublin.  He  is  the  author  of  "  Who  Fears 
to  Speak  of  '98, "  written  at  the  time  of  the  Young  Ireland  movement,  one  of 
the  most  spirited  of  Irish  songs.  He  is  at  present  engaged  in  an  exhaustive 
work,  to  be  entitled,  "  The  History  of  Political  Economy."  He  has  never  taken 
any  part  in  political  affairs.  (Poems,  page  844.) 

ISABEL  C.  IRWIN. 

MRS.  WILLIAM  H.  IRWIN  was  bom  in  the  city  of  Dublin,  Ireland,  but  was 
brought  here  by  her  father  William  H.  Dunn,  together  with  her  sister  Mary,  now 
Mrs.  Burke,  and  her  brother,  John  P.  Dunn,  who  was  distinguished  during  the 
war  with  the  South  as  one  of  the  most  successful  of  the  Herald  correspondents, 
his  letters  being  compared  to  those  of  Russell  of  the  London  Times.  Isabel 
C.  Dunn  married,  when  about  20  years  of  age,  Mr.  William  H.  Irwin.  She  was 


Ixxiv  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OF  THE  POETS  OF  IRELAND. 

a.  girl  of  remarkable  personal  attractions,  witty  and  vivacious,  who  although  she 
wrote  much,  seemed  to  care  little  for  literary  fame,  which  is  to  be  regretted,  as 
the  few  poems  which  were  published  possessed  great  merit.  She  and  her  sister. 
Mrs.  Burke,  reside  in  New  York,  where  they  enjoy  the  society  of  a  large  and 
appreciative  circle  of  friends.  (Poem,  page  910.) 


THOMAS  CAULFIELD  IRWIN. 

THOMAS  CAULFIELD  IRWIN  was  born  in  Warrenpoint.  county  Down.  Ireland, 
on  May  4th.  1823.  His  fa,ther  Thomas  Irwin  was  a  practising  physician  of  the 
place  and  his  mother  Anne  Maria  Cooke  was  the  daughter  of  Caulfield  Cooke,  a 
barrister  in  Dublin.  No  expense  was  spared  on  his  education.  He  inclined  to 
literature  when  a  youth,  and  being  independent  in  circumstances  he  wrote  for 
amusement.  He  has  been  connected  with  literature,  as  a  writer  of  poetry  and 
prose  since  1853.  Seven  volumes  of  his  poetical  compositions  have  been  published, 
namely,  "Versicles,"  1856;  "Poems,"  1866;  "  Ballads,1'  1865;  "Songs  and  Ro- 
mances," 1878;  "Pictures  and  Songs,"  1880:  "Sonnets  on  the  Poetry  and 
Problems  of  Life,"  1881;  "  Winter  and  Summer  Stories,"  and  at  present  writ- 
ing, has  a  volume  in  press  entitled  "Poems,  Songs  and  Sketches."  He  is  the 
author  of  over  one  hundred  and  twenty  stories  and  sketches,  and  a  work  in  three 
volumes  which  is  an  antique  romance,  entitled  "  From  Caesar  to  Christ,"  as  also 
several  dramas.  It  will  be  seen  that  Mr.  Irwin  is  a,  prolific  writer.  His  produc- 
tions are  noted  for  picturesque  word-painting  of  scene  and  situation,  in  variety 
of  subject,  fancy  and  imagination,  and  artistic  finish  in  the  form  and  diction  of 
his  poetical  compositions.  He  is  at  present  on  the  staff  of  TJie  Irish  Times, 
Dublin.  (See  Poems  page  911.) 

ROBERT  DWYER  JOYCE. 

DR.  ROBERT  DWYER  JOYCE,  an  eminent  physician  and  celebrated  poet,  was 
born  in  Ireland  about  1831.  His  poems  are  exclusively  Irish  in  their  subjects, 
he  having  had  an  intense  love  and  appreciation  for  the  legends  and  literature 
of  his  native  country.  His  first  venture,  a  volume  of  ballads,  romances  and 
songs,  was  published  in  Dublin  in  1861.  All  his  subsequent  writings  were 
published  in  Boston,  Mass.,  which  city  he  made  his  residence  during  the  last 
seventeen  years  of  his  life,  and  where  he  enjoyed  a  position  as  one  of  the  leading 
lights  in  the  literary  and  social  world.  In  1868  and  18T1,  appeared  "  Legends 
of  the  Wars  in  Ireland,"  and  "Fireside  Stories  of  Ireland,"  followed  by 
1 '  Ballads  of  Irish  Chivalry. ' '  His  finest  work, ' '  Deirdre, ' '  was  published  in  1 876. 
This  immediately  won  universal  popularity,  10,000  copies  being  sold  in  a  few 
days.  His  last  poem,  "  Blanid,"  also  merits  much  praise  and  won  much  favor. 
His  desire  to  write  a  long  poem  on  "  The  Courtship  of  Imar  "  was  not  gratified, 
failing  health  making  it  necessary  to  cease  all  labor. 

In  the  hope  of  regaining  strength  he  sought  his  native  land,  where  he  died 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OF  THE  POETS  OF  IRELAND. 


Ixiv 


on  the  23d  of  October,  1883,  in  less  than  two  months  after  reaching  its  shores. 
Dr.  Joyce  was  one  of  the  leading  medical  practitioners  of  Boston,  and  was  greatly 
beloved  by  all  who  knew  him.  (Poems,  page  707.) 


REV.  JAMES  KEEGAN. 

REV.  JAMES  KEEGAN  was  born  in  the  county  of  Leitrim,  Ireland,  in  the  year 
1860,  and  is  at  present  attached  to  the  church  of  St.  Malachy,  St.  Louis,  Mo. 
His  numerous  contributions,  both  in  poetry  and  prose,  to  the  daily  press,  and 
.several  publications,  have  made  his  name  well  known  to  Irish- American  readers. 
Father  Keegan  is  a  thorough  Irish  scholar,  and  many  of  his  finest  poems  are 
translations  or  renderings  from  the  too-long  neglected  bards  of  old.  (Poemg, 
page  900.) 

JOHN  KEEGAN. 

JOHN  KEEGAN  was  born  in  1809.  on  the  banks  of  the  Nore,  in  Queens  County. 
[e  received  only  a  common-school  education,  and  was  all  his  life  essentially  a 
of  the  people.    He  was  the  author  of  many  poems  of  singular  beauty, 
lys  a  biographer:   "All  the  different  phases  of  Irish  passion — the  fierce  out- 
mrsts  of  anger — the  muttered  tone  of  contempt— all  the  deep  and  heart-muling 
sorrow  of  the  people — he  was  master  of  all.     Not  a  side  of  the  Irish  character 


Ixxvi 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OF  THE  POETS  OF  IRELAND. 


was  there  that  he  did  not  probe  and  understand."     He  died  in  1849.     (Poems, 
page  82b.) 


REV.  WILLIAM  D.  KELLY  was  born  in  Ireland  in  the  year  1846.  He  was 
educated  in  Boston  and  Worcester,  and  having  completed  his  course  of  theology 
was  ordained  a  priest  of  the  diocese  of  Boston.  Rev.  Mr.  Kelly  is  well  known 
for  many  years  as  a  contributor  to  the  journals  and  periodicals  of  the  day,  in 
prose  and  verse.  His  poems  are  numerous  and  of  a  high  order  of  merit. 
(Poems,  page  940.) 

CHARLES  J.  KICKHAM. 

CHARLES  JOSEPH  KICKHAM  was  born  in  the  village  of  Mullinahone.  in  Tip- 
perary  county,  Ireland,  in  1830.  He  was  descended  from  a  wealthy  and  highly 
respected  family.  In  his  eighteenth  year  he  met  with  an  accident  which  nearly 


destroyed  his  sight  and  hearing  for  the  remainder  of  his  life.  He  was  an  ardent 
nationalist,  and  at  an  early  age  wrote  fugitive  pieces  for  the  periodicals.  He 
joined  the  Fenian  organization,  was  arrested  and  condemned  to  fourteen  years 
penal  servitude.  He  was  released,  after  four  years'  incarceration.  Many  of  his 


CILAIOLE  § 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OF  THE  POETS  OF  IRELAND.  Ixxvii 


poems  are  very  popular,  especially  in  the  South  of  Ireland.  He  also  wrote  a 
highly  dramatic  and  powerful  novel  on  the  sufferings  of  the  Irish  peasantry— 
"  Sally  Kavanagh :  or  the  Untenanted  Graves."  He  died  at  his  home  in  Tip- 
perary  in  1882.  (Poems,  page  831.) 


DENNY  LANE. 

DENNY  LANE  was  born  in  Cork  about  the  year  1825,  and  after  the  establish- 
ment of  the  Nation  became  a  contributor  to  that  journal.  "  He  had,"  says  Mr. 
Duffy,  "a  singularly  prolific  mind,  which  threw  out  showers  of  speculation, 
covering  a  wide  field  of  art.  philosophy  and  practical  politics."  His  poems  are 
few.  Mr.  Lane  still  resides  in  the  city  of  Cork,  and  has  ever  remained  an  ardent 
and  consistent  patriot.  (Poem,  page  839.) 


CHARLES  JAMES  LEVER 

CHARLES  JAMES  LEVER,  a  most  successful  Irish  novelist,  was  born  in  Dublin, 
August  31,  1806.  He  was  educated  for  the  medical  profession,  having  taken 
his  degree  at  Trinity  College,  also  a  degree  at  Gottingen,  where  he  afterward 
studied.  During  the  cholera  which  visited  Ireland  in  1832,  as  medical  super- 
intendent, he  acquired  notable  repute  for  his  ability  and  skill  in  coping  with 
the  disease.  Shortly  afterward  he  became  attached  to  the  British  Legation  at 
Brussels  in  his  professional  capacity.  During  this  time  he  published  as  a  serial 
the  novel  "  Harry  Lorrequer,"  which  met  with  unbounded  popularity.  Other 
novels  followed  in  rapid  succession:  "  Charles  O'Malley,"  "  Jack  Hinton,"  Our 
Mess,"  "  The  O'Donoghue,"  "  The  Dodd  Family  Abroad,"  "  Arthur  O'Leary," 
and  a  host  of  others,  in  fact  a  whole  library  of  graphic  sketches  introducing 
amusing  incidents  of  Irish  life  and  character.  His  anonymous  writings  are 
almost  as  numerous,  among  the  best  of  which  are  his  "  Diary  of  Horace  Tem- 
pleton"  and  "Con  Cregan."  Most  of  his  life  was  passed  on  the  Continent, 
being  appointed  to  a  consular  post  on  the  Mediterranean.  He  died  at  Trieste 
in  1872.  (Poems,  page  661.) 


JOHN  LOCKE. 

JOHN  LOCKE  was  born  near  the  town  of  Callan,  in  the  historic  county 
of  Kilkenny,  Ireland,  in  1847,  and  died  at  his  home.  2i»0  Henry  Street,  New 
York  City,  on  January  31st.  1889,  at  the  comparatively  early  age  of  42  years.  As 
an  Irish  poet  he  became  famous  in  Irish  circles  many  years  ago  under  the  nom 
deplume  of  "The  Southern  Gael."  As  a  patriot  he  was  distinguished  for  the 
ardent  love  which  he  bore  his  native  land,  and  which  is  voiced  in  his  passionate 
and  musical  verses.  He  was  quite  familiar  with  the  scenes,  history  and  tradi- 
tions of  Ireland.  While  yet  in  his  teens  he  became  connected  with  the  Irish 


Ixxviii  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OP  THE  POETS  OF  IRELAND. 

Revolutionary  or  Fenian  movement,  and  having  participated  in  the  <;  rising  "  of 
March,  1867.  he  was  arrested  and  imprisoned,  and  after  his  release  in  the  same 
year  he  migrated  to  the  United  States  and  settled  in  New  York.  His  bright 
talents  and  liberal  education  soon  secured  him  employment  on  the  staff  of  the 
Emerald,  then  one  of  the  representative  Irish -American  journals,  and  in  which 
many  of  his  best  poems  appeared.  He  subsequently  edited  the  Celtic  Weekly, 
the  Citizen  and  Celtic  Monthly,  besides  contributing  frequently  to  the  Sunday 


Democrat,  Irish -American,  Boston  Pilot,  and  other  papers.  His  poems  were 
always  extensively  copied,  the  best-known  among  them  being  his  fine  ballad 
entitled  '•  Dawn  on  the  Irish  Coast."  Apart  from  his  poetry,  he  wrote  several 
stories  and  numerous  short  sketches,  in  which  he  cleverly  depicted  Irish  scenery 
and  Irish  character.  His  two  brothers  are  in  the  Catholic  Priesthood— the  Eev. 
Joseph  Locke,  now  in  Eome,  and  the  Rev.  Michael  A.  Locke,  of  St.  Augustine 
College,  Villanova,  Pa.  (Poems,  page  993.) 

MRS.  JOHN  LOCKE  (MARY  A.  COONEY). 

MARY  A.  COONEY  was  born  in  the  town  of  Olonmel,  Tipperary,  Ireland.  She 
was  educated  in  the  National  school  of  her  native  town,  and  when  scarcely  six- 
teen years  of  age  was  a  welcome  contributor  to  most  of  the  Irish  national  period- 
icals of  the  day.  The  most  of  her  poems  were  published  in  the  Dublin  Irishman, 
The  Flag  of  Ireland,  and  The  Shamrock.  In  the  year  1879,  Miss  Cooney  came 
to  the  United  States,  and  meantime  continued  to  contribute  to  both  Irish  and 
Irish- American  serial  publications.  In  1881,  she  married  the  Irish  poet,  John 
Locke,  whose  untimely  death  has  been  regretted  by  the  Irish  people  in  all  lands. 
Since  her  marriage  Mrs.  Locke  has  written  less  than  formerly,  but  her  p-oduc- 
tions  are  always  welcome.  She  resides  in  New  York  City.  (Poems,  page  997.) 


• 


]L©'- 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OF  THE  POETS  OF  IRELAND.  Uxix 

SAMUEL  LOVER.- 

SAMUEL  LOVER,  novelist,  poet,  musician  and  artist,  was  born  in  Dublin, 
Ireland,  1797.  His  paintings,  which  were  exhibited  at  the  Royal  Academy  in 
1833,  gained  for  him  the  notice  of  the  public,  and  he  became  miniature  painter 
to  the  local  aristocracy,  at  the  same  time  cultivating  his  taste  for  literature. 
"Legends  and  Shrines  of  Ireland,"  published  in  1832  in  Dublin,  was  his  first 
venture;  the  illustrations  were  by  himself.  This  book  won  such  a  reputation 
and  became  so  popular,  that  a  second  edition  was  published  in  1834.  Taking 
up  his  residence  in  London  he  contributed  largely  to  the  literature  of  the  time, 
also  writing  some  of  the  wittiest  novels  in  the  English  language.  Of  these 
"  Rory  O'More  "  and  "  Handy  Andy  "  have  been  dramatized.  His  other  works 
are  "  Treasure  Trove,"  "  Lyrics  of  Ireland,"  "  Metrical  Tales,"  and  other  poems. 
Next  to  Thomas  Moore  he  is  the  best  known  and  most  popular  writer  of  Irish 
songs.  The  best  known  of  them  are,  "  Rory  O'More,"  "  Molly  Bawn,"  **  The 
Low-Backed  Car,"  and  "The  Angel's  Whisper."  He  was  very  popular  in 
society,  where  he  sang  his  own  songs.  His  visit,  to  the  United  States  in  1847 
proved  him  a  general  favorite.  He  died  in  18G8.  (Poems,  page  179.) 

DANIEL  R.  LYDDY. 

DANIEL  R.  LYDDY  was  born  in  the  City  of  Limerick.  Ireland,  in  the  year 
1842-  he  was  the  eldest  son  of  Mr.  P.  Henry  Lyddy,  T.  C.,  a  prominent  mer- 


chant  and  a  member  of  the  town  council  of  that  city.  Mr.  Lyddy  was 
•educated  at  the  Jesuits'  College.  Crescent  House,  Limerick,  and  was  notr.l 
as  a  class  orator,  and  for  his  proficiency  in  the  French  and  German  languages. 


Ixxx  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OF  THE  POETS  OF  IRELAND. 

At  an  early  age  he  became  a  leader  in  the  National  movement  of  twenty 
years  ago  and  endured  much  suffering  for  his  country's  cause.  He  first 
visited  the  United  States  during  the  late  Civil  War.  and  returned  making  his 
home  in  New  York  in  1867.  He  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  1870,  and  subse- 
quently, on  motion  of  the  Solicitor  General  of  the  United  States,  was  called  to 
the  bar  of  the  Supreme  Court  of  the  United  States  which  sits  at  the  Capitol, 
Washington,  D.  C.  In  1873,  Mr.  Lyddy  was  tendered  the  nomination  by  the 
young  Democracy  of  New  York  for  Judge  of  the  Marine  Court,  which  he  de- 
clined in  favor  of  Judge  Spaulding. 

Mr.  Lyddy  was  the  founder  and  publisher  of  three  journals  and  had  a  large 
and  lucrative  law  practice.  He  wrote  several  works  of  fiction  and  some  fugitive 
poems.  At  the  bar  he  was  an  eloquent  advocate,  in  the  lyceum  he  was  an  in- 
structive lecturer,  in  conversation  brilliant,  and  as  a  host  almost  without  any 
superior.  He  died  in  New  York  of  pneumonia  after  a  week's  illness,  November 
27th.  1887.  He  left  surviving  him  three  brothers,  two  of  whom  are  members  of 
the  legal  profession.  (Poem,  page  894.) 


EDWARD  LYSAGHT  was  born  in  the  county  of  Clare,  Ireland,  in  1763.  '  He 
was  educated  at  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  and  was  called  both  to  the  English  and 


Irish  bar.     A  small  collection  of  his  writings  was  published  in  Dublin,  shortly 
after  his  death,  which  occurred  in  1811.     (Poems,  page  924.) 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKK'IVHKS  <  H-'  THK  1'OKTS  OF  IRELAND.  lxxxi 

MICHAEL  JOSEPH  McCANN. 

MICHAEL  JOSEPH  McCANN  was  born  in  Gal  way,  about  the  year  1824.  His 
earlier  studies,  which  were  conducted  under  a  private  tutor,  were  followed  by  a 
successful  collegiate  course.  While  yet  a  very  young  man,  scarcely  more  th.-in 
twenty,  he  accepted  the  professorship  of  sciences.  French,  etc  ,  offered  him  by 
the  illustrious  Archbishop  McHale,  in  St.  Jarlath's  College,  Tuam,  and  the  glow- 
ing testimonials  bestowed  upon  him  on  leaving  that  Institute  bore  testimony  to 
the  brilliant  manner  in  which  he  had  for  eight  years  filled  that  position. 

It  was  during  that  period  memorable  in  Irish  history  for  the  •  •  Repeal "  agita- 
tion, that  the  spirit  of  patriotism,  which  distinguished  him  throughout  his  life, 
found  expression  in  the  glorious  war  song,  •'*  O'Donnell  Abu,"— a  song  which  is 
sung  wherever  the  Irish  race  is  represented,  and  which  has  been  translated  into 
four  languages.  This  poem  was  set  up  by  the  printers  of  the  Dublin  Nation, 
and  had  a  local  reputation  among  the  little  community  of  printers  long  before 


the  world  heard  of  it.  He  had,  prior  to  this,  contributed  some  of  the  most  spir- 
ited poems  that  appeared  in  the  Spirit  of  the  Nation*  one  of  which,  "The  Battle 
of  Glendalough. "  was  translated  into  French  by  the  Vicomte  O'Neill  de  Tyrone, 
Prefect  of  Paris,  and  recited  at  a  banquet  given  to  the  descendents  of  nota- 
ble Irishmen  in  that  city.  His  many  contributions  of  prose  and  verse,  extending 
over  a  period  of  more  than  thirty  years,  all  breathe  the  same  spirit— love  of  Ire- 
];md  and  hatred  of  the  tyranny  under  which  she  groaned. 

Most  of  his  poems  are  descriptive  of  battles  and  are  literally  his- 
torical episodes  in  verse,  to  secure  the  minute  accuracy  of  which  no  labor  was 
spared  in  searching  out  the  rarest  sources  of  information.  In  1859  he 
published  a  magazine,  The  Irish  Harp,  of  which  he  was  editor,  and 
which  continued  to  appear  until  1865.  After  the  collapse  of  the  Fenian 


Ixxxii 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OF  THE  POETS  OF  IRELAND. 


movement  he  went  to  reside  in  London,  still  contributing  to  the  Irish  press  lead- 
ers which  were  frequently  copied  verbatim  into  American  papers.  He  died  in 
London,  January  31st,  1883.  having  laid  down  the  pen  only  three  days  before  his 
death,  and  leaving  a  number  of  unpublished  poems,  full  of  the  love  of  country 
— a  love  increased  rather  than  diminished  by  a  residence  in  England.  His  obit- 
uaries, appearing  in  many  of  the  leading  Irish  papers,  arid  even  in  some  of  the 
pro-Irish  English  ones,  bear  testimony  not  only  to  his  talents,  but  also  to  the 
unflinching  integrity  and  honor  of  the  man — qualities  which  made  him  proof 
against  many  a  tempting  offer  to  wield  his  pen  against  his  country's  cause. 

He  is  buried  in  St.  Patrick's  Cemetery,  near  London,  the  place  where  he 
rests  being  fitly  marked  by  a  handsome  Irish  cross  entwined  with  shamrocks 
and,  bearing  within  its  arms  the  twofold  inscription — God  and  my  country, 
and  O'Donnell  Abu  !  (Poems,  page  845.) 


DENIS  FLORENCE  MCCARTHY. 

DENIS  FLORENCE  MCCARTHY,  poet,  born  in  Dublin  1820.  Composed  ballads, 
poems,  and  lyrics,  chiefly  based  on  Irish  traditions,  written  in  a  patriotic  spirit 
and  published  in  1850.  The  volume  includes  translations  from  nearly  every 
European  language.  His  translation  of  Calderon's  poems  into  English  verse, 
with  notes,  was  published  in  1853.  He  has  also  written  "Bell-founder"  and 
other  poems,  "  Shelley's  Early  Life,"  etc.  In  1871  he  received  a  pension  in  con- 
sideration of  his  merit  as  a  poet.  He  died  in  1882.  (Poems,  page  297.) 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKKTCHES  OF  THH   POKTS  <>F  IRK!. AND.  Ixxxiii 

JUSTIN   HUNTLY   McCARTHY. 

H.  MCCARTHY  is  a  son  of  the  eminent  novelist  and  historian,  Justin 
McCarthy.     He  is  twenty- nine  years  of  age.     He  is  the  author  of  a  number 


of  historical  works  on  contemporary  events,  and  he  has  produced  the  best  farce 
since  Sheridan.  "  The  Candidate."  He  has  also  published  two  volumes  of  verse. 
He  is  a  member  of  Parliament,  and  like  his  distinguished  father,  an  ardent 
nationalist.  (Poems,  page  852.) 


REV.    WILLIAM  JAMES  McCLURE. 

REV.  WILLIAM  MCCLURE  was  born  of  Irish  parents  at  Dobb's  Ferry,  Westches- 
ter  County,  New  York,  November  23d,  1842.  He  received  a  "  common  school  " 
education  in  his  native  place,  and  from  childhood  was  noted  for  his  love  of  re- 
tirement and  reading.  At  the  age  of  eighteen  he  entered  upon  mercantile  life 
in  the  city  of  New  York,  and  continued  thereat  until  1872,  when,  feeling  the 
strength  of  his  vocation  to  the  priesthood,  he  put  himself  under  the  direction  of 
Rev.  Father  T.  S.  Preston,  now  the  Right  Rev.  Vicar-General  of  the  Archdiocese 
of  New  York,  and  went  to  Seton  Hall  College,  South  Orange,  N.  J.,  then  under 
the  presidency  of  Rev.  Father  M.  A.  Corrigan,  now  the  most  Rev.  Archbishop  of 
New  York.  Mr.  McClure's  progress  was  such  that  he  was  enabled  to  take  up 
philosophy  in  St.  Therese  College,  Canada,  in  1873.  He  entered  the  Great  Sem- 
inary, Montreal,  for  his  theological  course  in  1874,  was  ordained  sub-deacon  in 
187«,  Deacon  in  the  spring  of  1*77,  and  priest,  December  22d,  1877,  by  Bishop 
Fabre,  of  Montreal.  On  Rev.  Father  McClure's  arrival  in  New  York  to  com - 
1 1 ii Mice  his  mission,  Cardinal  McCloskey,  then  Archbishop,  appointed  him  as 


Ixxxiv  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OF  THE  POETS  OF  IRELAND. 

assistant  to  Rev.  H.  C.  Macdowall,  St.  Agnes'  Church,  New  York  City.  He  was 
for  a  while  assistant  to  Rev.  Dr.  McGlynn.  St.  Stephen's  Church.  In  1882  he  was 
called  to  St.  Ann's,  as  first  assistant  to  Right  Rev.  Mgr.  Preston,  where  he 
continued  his  priestly  work,  until  appointed  in  1886  by  Archbishop  Corrigan. 
Rector  of  the  church  of  the  Sacred  Heart  of  Barrytown,  Dutchess  County. 
N.  Y.,  the  parish  including  Red  Hook  and  Tivoli  He  is  still  (1889)  in  charge  of 
that  mission. 

Rev.  Father  McClure  early  evinced  talent  for  literary  pursuits,  and  from  the 
period  of  his  going  to  New  York  (1860),  he  continued  to  write,  and  found  his  pen 
moving  into  poetical  lines,  insomuch  that  he  published,  in  1869,  a  volume  of 


poems,  the  principal  one  of  which  is  kt  Zillora;  A  Tale."  His  impressions  of  na- 
ture are  shown  by  a  number  of  smaller  pieces;  also  his  patriotism  shines  forth 
in  uncompromising  measures. 

During  his  priesthood  Father  McClure's  poems  have  been  mainly  of  a  religious 
caste.  They  accumulated  in  ten  years,  so  that  in  1888,  he  made  a  selection  of 
the  whole  body  of  his  poetical  pieces  and  published  them  in  one  volume,  12mo. 
pp.  190.  The  book  has  been  well  received.  Some  of  the  poems  are  given  in  the 
present  work  by  permission  of  the  Rev.  author.  Father  McClure's  sympathy 
for  Ireland  is  well-known,  and  we  take  pleasure  in  publishing  undoubted  evi- 
dences of  his  love  of  the  green  land  of  his  forefathers.  Also  some  specimens  are 
given  of  devotional  poetry,  and  some  inspired  by  external  nature.  (Poems, 
Page  1003.) 


HUGH  FARRAR  McDERMOTT. 

HUGH  FARRAR  MCDERMOTT  was  born  at  Enniskillen,  Ireland,  on  the  16th  of 
August,  1835.     He  was  intended  for  the  law,  and  was  prepared  for  college  by 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OF  THE  POETS  OP  IRELAND. 


1  X  X  X  V 


the  Rev.  Robert  Elliot,  a  Methodist  minister  of  Beltwebet,  in  the  county 
Cavan.  His  parentage  was  Scotch-Irish.  His  mother's  name  was  Helen 
Cairns.  His  father.  Thomas  Gould  McDerrnott,  failed  in  mercantile  business  in 
1840.  He  came  to  this  country  the  same  year  with  his  family,  and  purchased  a 
homestead  near  Boston,  where  he  soon  afterward  died.  Mr.  McDermott  entered 
the  late  Judge  Brigham's  office  in  Boston,  as  a  law  student,  but  soon  found  a 
ready  market  for  his  sketches  and  a  wide  appreciation  of  his  verses,  and  at 
seventeen  he  had  made  a  local  fame  in  literature.  He  was  a  writer  on  the 
Boston  Post,  Courier,  Transcript,  and  Advertiser,  and  in  New  York  on  the 


Times,  Tribune,  Herald,  and  Leader.  His  literary  successes  have  been  many. 
G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons  have  published  two  editions  of  his  poems,  and  a  third  will 
soon  be  ready  for  the  press.  Several  of  his  poems,  notably  "  The  Blind  Canary," 
have  been  translated  into  many  languages.  Of  one  of  Mr.  McDermott's  poems 
Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  has  said:  "  If  I  could  sing  as  I  once  thought  I  could.  I 
would  make  the  air  vocal  with  "  Do  Not  Sing  That  Song  Again."  Of  his  poem 
"Self-Communing,"  the  late  Chauncey  C.  Burr  said,  in  a  published  criticism: 
"  Some  lines  of  ;  Self-Communing  '  are  as  sublime  and  weird  as  Byron's  'Man- 
fred,' and  others  are  as  closely  philosophical  as  the  *  De  Natura  Remm'  of 
Lucretius.  It  is  a  poem  of  extraordinary  power."  (Poems,  page  921.) 

THOMAS  D'ARCY  McGEE. 

D'ARCY  McGEE  was  born  in  Carlingford,  Ireland,  on  April  13,  1^_'.\  and  died 
the  hands  of  a  fanatic  assassin  in  Ottawa,  Canada,  April  7,  is»;s.     In  1M-J 
le  emigrated  to  America,  taking  up  his  residence  in  Boston,  where  he  l>ecame 
litor  of  TJie  Pilot,  the  leading  Irish- American  newspaper  in  America.     In 
h.">.  he  returned  to  Ireland,  and  was  engaged  by  tin-  Diihttii  Freeman  to  report 
Parliamentary  debates.     In  1840,  he  joined  the  stall'  of  the  I>nl>lin  .\<th\>n. 


Ixxxvi 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OF  THE  POETS  OF  IRELAND. 


and  became  a  leading  figure  in  the  Young  Ireland  movement.  In  1849,  he  again 
came  to  America,  where  he  published,  during  nine  years,  TJie  New  York 
Nation,  afterwards  The  American  Celt.  He  became  nationally  known  as  a 
lecturer,  organizer  and  poet.  In  1857,  he  went  to  reside  in  Montreal,  Canada, 
where  he  published  a  paper  called  TJie  Neiv  Era.  He  was  soon  elected  to  Par- 
liament, and  was  re-elected  every  year  till  his  death.  He  was  twice  a  member 
of  the  Canadian  ministry,  as  Secretary  for  Agriculture  and  Emigration,  and 
once  as  President  of  the  Executive  Council.  It  was  he  who  framed  the  draft 


for  the  confederation  of  the  British  American  colonies,  which  has  since  been 
substantiated.  He  was  returning  from  Parliament  on  the  night  of  April  7, 1868, 
when  he  was  shot  at  the  door  of  his  hotel  by  a  man  named  Whalen,  who  was, 
it  was  charged  on  his  trial,  a  Fenian  agent;  but  was  in  all  probability  a  self- 
acting  lunatic.  D'Arcy  McGee  published  many  books,  all  of  deep  research  and 
wide  interest.  Particularly  interesting  are  his  "  Irish  Settlers  in  North  America 
from  the  Earliest  Periods  to  1850"  (Boston,  1857);  "  O'Connell  and  His  Friends;" 
"  Popular  History  of  Ireland,"  etc.  His  poems  were  published  by  Sadlier  and 
Co.,  New  York,  with  an  introduction  by  Mrs.  Sadlier.  (Poems,  page  808.) 


THOMAS  J.  McGEOGHEGAN. 

THOMAS  J.  MCGEOGHEGAN  was  born  in  Bay  View  Avenue,  Dublin,  Ireland, 
in  the  year  1836.    He  went,  when  eight  months  old,  to  Ballymahon,  county  of 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OF  THE  POETS  OF  IKK  LAND.  Ixxxvii 

Longford,  whither  his  parents  removed.  He  was  <Mlnr;it,ed  in  Mount  Mellerey 
and  All  Hallow's  College,  Ireland.  After  completing  his  studies  he  came  to  the 
United  States,  where  he  has  since  resided.  He  is  at  present  connected  with  the 
New  York  Press.  His  poems  are  mostly  of  a  patriotic  or  religious  character. 
(Poem,  page  970.) 


JOHN  J.  McGINNIS. 

JOHN  J.  McGiNNis  was  born  in  St.  John,  N.  B.,  July  24th,  1864.  While  yet 
young  he  moved  with  his  parents  to  Boston.  In  1375,  he  went  to  Ireland. 
There  he  taught  an  Irish  national  school  for  a  time,  but  after  a  few  years  he 


came  to  New  York  where  he  entered  the  field  of  journalism.  In  this  sphere  his 
abilities  soon  found  ample  recognition.  He  is  at  present  connected  with  the 
editorial  management  of  the  Catholic  News,  a  weekly  paper  published  in 
New  York  City.  (Poems,  page  982.) 


KICHARD  MACHALE. 

RICHARD  MACHALE  was  born  in  Liverpool  in  1862.  his  mother  being  a  niece 
of  the  late  Archbishop  John  MacHale  of  Tuam,  "  the  Lion  of  the  Fold  of  Jud.ili. " 
Young  MacHale,  after  leaving  the  Christian  Brothers'  schools  ut  Westport.  Mayo, 
spent  a  short  time  in  St.  Jarlath's  College.  Tuam.  He  published  several  poems 
in  the  local  papers  at  this  time  and  soon  was  known  in  Youny  Ireland  and  the 


Ixxxviii 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OP  THE  POETS  OF  IRELAND. 


Weekly  News  under  the  nom  du  plume  "  Ricardo."  These  juvenile  efforts  were 
afterwards  collected  and  published  in  a  small  volume.  Returning  to  Liverpool 
he  engaged  in  literary  work  on  the  Daily  Telephone  and  in  1882  came  to  the 


United  States.  He  has  been  five  years  on  the  editorial  staff  of  the  Irish  World. 
and  has  published  poems  in  the  Boston  Pilot,  Scranton  Youth,  and  other  jour- 
nals. (Poems,  page  1001.) 


DR.  WILLIAM  MAGINN. 

DR,  WM.  MAGINN,  a  distinguished  writer,  born  in  Cork,  July,  1793.    At  ten  he 
entered  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  graduating  in  his  fourteenth  year.     He  returned 


TJ* 


ju«.;<M 

era  pit 


FRANCIS  MAHONY. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OF  THE  POETS  OF  IRELAND.  Ixxxix 

to  Cork,  assisting  in  his  father's  school,  in  which,  later,  he  succeeded  as  princi- 
pal. In  1816  he  received  the  degree  of  Doctor  of  Laws.  His  contributions  to 
the  Literary  Gazette  and  Blackwood's  Magazine  gained  him  first  rank  in  litera- 
ture. He  became  junior  Editor  of  the  Standard  in  1828,  and  the  follow  ing 
year,  in  conjunction  with  the  owner,  projected  Fraser's  Magazine.  After  de- 
tention for  debt  in  1842,  he  retired  to  Walton-on-Thames  where  he  died  of  con- 
sumption, at  the  age  of  forty-nine.  (Poems,  page  681.) 


FRANCIS  MAHONEY  ("FATHER  PROUT "). 

REV.  FRANCIS  MAHONEY  ("  Father  Prout"),  a  charming  poet  and  versatile 
'writer,  was  born  in  Cork  about  1803.  Entering  college  at  an  early  age  he  com- 
pleted his  academic  course,  with  much  credit  and  finally  was  admitted  to  the 
priesthood,  and  appointed  curate  to  Father  Prout,  an  old  clergyman  who  resided 
some  eight  miles  from  Cork.  While  fulfilling  his  duties  in  this  quiet  country 
district,  Father  Mahoney  sent  many  successful  contributions  to  the  Cork  jour- 
nals under  the  signature  "Father  Prout,"  much  to  the  bewilderment  of  the 
good  old  priest.  Articles  sent  to  London  periodicals  and  Eraser's  Magazine 
meeting  with  favorable  reception,  he  became  weary  of  the  monotony  of  a  poor 
curate's  life,  and  allured  by  the  desire  of  literary  fame,  he  abandoned  his  pro- 
fession and  entered  the  world  of  letters.  In  London  his  genius  met  with  the 
recognition  it  deserved,  and  a  rivalry  ensued  among  the  leading  journals  as  to 
which  should  secure  his  services.  Finding  the  atmosphere  of  Paris  more  to  his 
tastes,  he  went  to  reside  there  in  his  fortieth  year,  and  was  correspondent  of 
two  daily  English  journals,  the  News  and  Globe.  He  contributed  his  whimsi- 
cal papers  "  The  Reliques  of  Father  Prout,"  to Fraser's Magazine.  These  were 
afterwards  published  in  book  form.  His  "  Bells  of  Shandon  "  and  "  Groves  of 
Blarney"  have  enjoyed  aworld-wide  reputation.  He  died  in  Paris,  May  10, 
1866.  His  remains  were  brought  to  Cork  and  buried  under  the  shadow  of 
Shandon  steeple.  (Poems,  page  221.) 


JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 

JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN  was  born  in  Dublin  in  1803.  His  father,  a  grocer, 
becoming  bankrupt,  James,  was  in  his  fifteenth  year  obliged  to  earn  a  livelihood. 
He  drudged  as  a  scrivener  for  seven  years,  from  five  o'clock  in  the  morn  in- 
until  eleven  at  night,  and  afterwards  became  solicitor's  clerk  for  three  years. 
His  earnings  went  toward  the  support  of  himself  and  parents.  This  period  of 
his  life  he  afterwards  refers  to  as  a  time  when  a  special  providence  prevented 
him  from  committing  suicide.  Obtaining  an  engagement  in  the  magnificent 
library  of  Trinity  College,  he  took  advantage  of  means  at  his  di: ;|x>sal,  and  ac- 
quired a  proficiency  in  many  languages.  In  his  twenty-seventh  year  he  published 


xc  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OF  THE  POETS  OF  IRELAND. 

poetical  translations  from  the  German  and  Irish,  which  appeared  in  the  Dublin 
University.  His  German  translations  were  afterwards  collected  and  published 
under  the  title  of  ' ' Anthologica  Germanica. ' '  His  translations  from  the  ancient 
Gaelic  bards,  show  wonderful  fidelity  in  adhering  to  the  spirit  and  metre  of  the 
original.  These  won  for  him  the  friendship  of  Dr.  Petre  and  Eugene  O'Curry, 
which  he  prized  very  dearly.  He  became  a  regular  contributor  to  the  Dublin 
Nation,  The  United  Irishman  and  The  Dublin  University,  and  for  these  he 
wrote  exquisite  translations,  some  of  which  are  said  to  surpass  even  the  original, 
such  as  "  Lays  of  Many  Lands, "  and  "  Literse  Orientales. "  He  also  contributed 


numerous  original  poems,  noted  for  their  chaste  expression  and  exquisite  pathos. 
Among  the  best  known  are   "Dark  Kosaleen "   and   "0  Woman  of  Three 

Cows"(?)- 

Of  the  most  exquisite  sensibility  and  fine  impulses,  his  life-long  poverty  and 
misery  threw  a  cloud  over  his  entire  existence,  and  seeking  solace  in  stimulants, 
which  undermined  his  health,  he  broke  down  under  the  weight  of  disease,  and 
at  his  own  request  was  admitted  to  Meath  Hospital,  where  he  died  June  13, 1849. 
(Poems,  page  337.) 

THOMAS   FRANCIS  MEAGHER. 

THOMAS  FRANCIS  MEAGHER.  the  well-known  Irish  nationalist  and  orator,  was 
born  in  Waterford,  Aug.  3d,  1823.  He  was  educated  by  the  Jesuits  at  Clongowes 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHKS  OF  THK  1'OKTS  (>F  IIIKLAND.  xci 

and  Stoney hurst  Colleges,  and  entered  public  life  in  184:*.  with  a  great  reputa- 
tion for  his  oratorical  abilities.  He  became  a  zealous  repealer,  and  soon  joined 
the  Young  Ireland  party.  His  fiery  eloquence  was  instrumental  in  stimulating 
the  quasi  insurrection  of  1848.  He  was  arrested  and  tried  for  high  treason,  and, 
on  the  23d  of  October  of  that  year,  was  condemned  to  be  hanged,  drawn  and 
quartered.  This  sentence  was  commuted  to  penal  servitude  for  life.  In  1849, 
he  was  sent  to  Tasmania,  from  whence  he  escaped  in  1852,  coming  to  New 


York.  In  America  he  soon  became  distinguished  as  a  popular  lecturer  and 
journalist.  He  was  admitted  to  the  New  York  bar,  but  never  practised.  When 
the  war  broke  out  he  entered  the  Union  army,  and  soon  rose  to  the  rank  of 
brigadier- general.  He  commanded  the  Irish  Brigade,  and  won  distinction  in 
many  of  the  bloodiest  battles  of  the  war.  At  the  conclusion  of  the  conflict  he 
was  appointed  by  President  Johnson  Secretary  of  Montana,  and  died  by  accident- 
ally falling  off  a  steamer  in  the  Missouri,  July  1st,  1867,  while  Acting  Governor 
of  that  Territory.  (Poems,  page  857.) 


EEV.  C.  P.  MEEHAN. 

REV.  CHARLES  P.  MEEHAN  was  born  in  Dublin,  Ireland,  July  12th.  1812.  His 
earliest  recollections  are  associated  with  Ballymahon,  county  Longford,  where 
his  ancestors  for  thirteen  centuries  were  the  keepers  and  custodians  of  the  shrine 
of  St.  Molaise,  now  one  of  the  famous  relics  of  the  Royal  Irish  Academy.  His 
first  preceptor  was  an  Irish  head  school-master.  When  a  youth  of  sixteen  he 
entered  the  Irish  College.  Rome,  as  a  candidate  for  the  priesthood.  It  was  while 
p-azing  on  the  broken  flagstone,  whose  time-worn  epitaph  faintly  indicated  a 
Royal  Prince  of  Tyrconnell  as  the  occupant  of  the  grave  in  St.  Isidore'?,  that  he 


xcii  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OF  THE  POETS  OF  IRELAND. 

was  inspired  with  the  idea  which  eventually  resulted  in  the  history  of  the  exiled 
Earls.  In  1835,  after  his  ordination,  Father  Meehan  returned  to  Ireland  and 
was  stationed  as  curate  at  Rathduin.  When  the  Nation  newspaper  was  started 
in  1842.  Father  Meehan  became  one  of  its  most  valued  contributors.  He  pre- 
pared the  •'  Confederation  of  Kilkenny  "  for  Duffy's  Library  of  Ireland.  Father 
Meehan's  house  was  a  favorite  place  of  meeting  for  the  young  Ireland  leaders  and 
writers  of  the  Nation.  Some  years  later.  Father  Meehan  published  his  **  Rise  and 
Fall  of  the  Irish  Franciscan  Monasteries  and  the  Irish  Hierarchy  in  the  Sixteenth 


Century."  In  1847,  he  issued  a  splendid  translation  of  Manzoni's  "La  Monica  di 
Monza,"  a  continuation  of  the  '*  Promessi  Sposi."  Five  years  later  appeared  his 
English  version  of  Father  Marchesi's  ''Dominican  Sculptors,  Architects  and 
Painters."  The  "Flight  of  the  Earls"  is.  however,  his  great  and  crowning 
work,  having  been  pronounced  by  competent  critics  as  superior  to  even  the  great 
works  of  Scottish  romance.  Father  Meehan  was  the  life -long  friend  of  that 
erratic  genius  Clarence  Mangan.  and  prepared  him  for  death.  He  has  recentlv 
edited  a  complete  edition  of  Mangan's  works,  and  though  now  in  his  seventy- 
seventh  year,  his  prolific  pen  is  as  busy  as  ever.  (Poem,  page  1012.) 


RICHARD  ALFRED   MILLIKIN. 

RICHARD  A.  MILLIKIN  was  born  in  the  county  of  Cork  in  1767.  He  was  for 
a  time  editor  of  a  Cork  magazine,  and  wrote  several  fugitive  poems.  He  is  best 
known  by  the  humorous  ballad,  "  The  Groves  of  Blarney,"  written  about  1798, 
in  imitation  or  ridicule  of  the  rambling  rhapsodies  then  so  popular  among  the 
Irish  peasantry.  He  became  conspicuous  during  the  insurrection  of  1 798  by  his 
zeal  and  activity  in  the  formation  of  yeomanry  corps.  He  died  in  1815,  and  was 
buried  at  Douglas,  near  Cork.  (Poem,  page  820.) 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OF  THE  POETS  OF  IRELAND.  xciii 


THOMAS  MOORE. 

THOMAS  MOORE,  the  greatest  Irish  lyrist,  was  born  in  Dublin,  May  28, 1779.  In 
his  eleventh  year,  an  epilogue  written  by  him  was  read  at  Lady  Borrowe's  private 
theatre,  in  Dublin.  His  teacher,  Mr.  Whyte,  also  instructor  of  Richard  Brinslrv 
Sheridan,  encouraged  the  dramatic  tastes  of  his  pupils,  and  Moore  became  noted 
even  in  his  early  youth  for  his  proficiency  in  music  and  theatrical  effects.  On 
the  opening  of  Trinity  College  to  Catholics,  Moore  entered  to  study  law;  here 
he  distinguished  himself  as  a  successful  and  brilliant  student,  and  here  he  be- 
came the  friend  of  Robert  Emmet,  who  was  also  a  student  there.  During  this 
period  Moore  contributed  to  leading  periodicals,  and  at  home  studied  French, 
Italian  and  Music.  His  translation  from  the  Greek  "  Odes  of  Anacreon  "  prov- 
ing a  success,  Moore  threw  aside  his  law  and  entered  upon  literature  as  a  pro- 
fession. In  1803,  he  received  a  government  appointment  at  Bermuda,  but 
becoming  dissatisfied,  he  appointed  a  deputy  as  substitute  and  travelled  over 
the  United  States  and  Canada  before  returning  to  England.  His  '*  Odes  and 
Epistles  "  were  published  in  1806.  Five  years  afterwards  he  married  a  young 
Irish  actress,  Miss  Bessy  Dykes,  and  settled  in  the  neighborhood  of  his  friend 
Lord  Moira.  For  his  Eastern  romance  "Lalla  Roohk,"  published  in  1817,  he 
was  paid  £3000,  and  it  was  received  with  universal  approbation.  His  news- 
paper contributions  added  greatly  to  his  income,  yet  while  enjoying  literary 
success,  he  became  indebted  to  the  amount  of  £6000  through  the  dishonesty  of 
his  deputy.  To  cancel  this  debt  was  his  most  earnest  ambition.  During  this 
period  he  travelled  through  France  and  Italy,  writing  "The  Fudge  Family  in 
Paris,"  "  Loves  of  the  Angels,"  and  "  Rhymes  on  the  Road."  Clearing  his  in- 
debtedness, he  returned  to  England,  where  he  produced  in  1825  a  biography  of 
R.  B.  Sheridan,  in  1830  a  "Life  of  Lord  Byron,"  and  completed  in  1834  his 
"  Irish  Melodies,"  which  have  made  him  famous.  His  family  relations  were  of 
the  happiest  character,  and  in  his  social  life .  he  was  universally  admired  and 
sought  after.  He  died  in  1852.  (Poems,  page  31.) 


LADY  SIDNEY  MORGAN. 

LADY  SIDNEY  MORGAN  was  born  in  Dublin  between  1780  and  1786.  Her 
father,  MacOwen  or  Owenson,  was  an  actor  and  a  man  of  ability.  In  her  four- 
teenth year  Sidney  published  a  volume  of  poems,  and  in  1804  her  novel  "  St. 
Clair.or  The  Heiress  of  Desmond."  appeared,  and  two  years  later  her  "  Wild  Irish 
( iit-],"  which  established  her  reputation  as  a  novelist.  In  1812,  she  married  Sir 
Thomas  Charles  Morgan,  M.D.,  having  at  the  time  saved  £5000  from  her  liter- 
ary labors.  Altogether  her  works  are  said  to  have  brought  her  l'-_'.">. <'«>().  She 
visited  Italy  and  France,  whi^h  resulted  in  sev<>r;tl  volumes  of  sketches  concern- 
ing those  countries.  Her  novels  on  IrLsh  life  and  manners  attracted  much 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OP  THE  POETS  OP  IRELAND. 

attention  and  were  of  great  benefit  to  Ireland,  then  in  a  very  depressed  condi- 
tion.    In  1837  she  removed  to  London,  where  she  was  the  centre  of  a  brilliant 


literary  circle.  She  died  in  that  city  April  13th.  1859.  It  was  her  novels  on  Irish 
life  that  first  suggested  to  Sir  Walter  Scott  the  idea  of  writing  the  Waverley 
series.  (Poem,  page  825.) 

WILLIAM  PEMBROKE  MULCHLNOCK. 

WILLIAM  P.  MULCHINOCK  was  born  in  Ireland  and  carne  to  America  at  an 
early  age.  He  soon  engaged  in  journalism  and  won  a  reputation  by  his  stirring 
poems  and  lyrics.  la  1850,  he  published  in  Boston  a  volume  of  poems  which  he 
dedicated  to  Longfellow,  who  was  an  admirer  of  his  talents.  He  died  when 
about  twenty-five  years  of  age.  (Poems,  page  859.) 


ROSA  MULHOLLAND. 

Miss  ROSA  MULHOLLAND  was  born  in  the  city  of  Belfast,  Ireland.  She  has 
been  for  many  years  a  prolific  contributor,  in  poetry  and  prose,  to  many  of  the 
best  periodicals  in  England  and  Ireland.  Many  of  her  stories  were  contributed 
to  Charles  Dickens's  All  the  Year  Round.  Several  of  her  writings  have  been 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKI.ICHES  OF  THE  POETS  OF  IRELAND. 


xcv 


translated  into  other  languages.    Her  collected  poems  were  published  a  few  years 
ago.     Her  best  known  stories  are  '•  Hester's  History,"  "  The  Wicked  Woods  of 


Tobereenil,"  "  The  Late  Miss  Hollingsford, "  "  Dummara."  and  "  The  Wild  Birds 
of  Killeeny."     (Poems,  page  1()18.) 


JAMES  MURPHY. 

James  Murphy,  Irish  novelist  and  poet,  was  born  in  Glynn.  county  Carlow, 
in  1839.  He  entered  the  Training  College  for  Teachers  in  Dublin  in  1858,  and 
commenced  to  write  poetry  for  the  Irishman  and  Nation  newspapers.  In  1860  he 
was  appointed  Principal  of  the  Public  Schools  at  Bray,  the  famous  marine  re- 
sort near  Dublin,  which  position  he  held  for  many  years.  He  afterward  was 
elected  to  the  posts  of  Town  Clerk  and  Chairman  of  the  Municipal  Board  of 
Commissioners  ;  finally  resigning  these  to  accept  the  Professorship  of  Mathema- 
tics in  Saint  Gall's  Catholic  University  College,  Dublin,  which  he  still  continues 
to  hold. 

Mr.  Murphy  commenced  his  story  writing  many  years  ago.  His  first  novel. 
"The  Cross  of  Glencarrig,"  appeared  in  1872,  and  at  once  attracted  great  atten- 
tion. Its  great  power  and  the  marvellous  skill  in  construction  of  the  plot,  at 
once  made  him  famous.  Since  then  he  has  written  "The  Shadow  on  the 
Scaffold,"  "The  Forge  of  Clohogue,"  "  Convict  No.  25, "  "  The  Fortunes  of 
Maurice  O'DoniN'll,"  "  The  House  on  the  Rath,"  "  Huirh  Roach  tin-  Ribhonman.  " 
"The  Shan  Van  Vocht,"  ''The  Haunted  Church."  A  <rri«»s  of  new  novels  is  H 
course  of  publication  by  the  London  publishers,  Messrs.  Spencer,  Blackett,  Hallam 


xcvi  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OP  THE  POETS  OF  IRELAND. 

&  Co.  Mr.  Murphy's  poetry  is  contained  in  a  volume  of  some  two  hundred  pages 
entitled  ••  Lays  and  Legends  of  Ireland."     (Poems,  page  1005.) 


KATHARINE  MURPHY. 

KATHARINE  MURPHY  was  born  in  Cork,  Ireland,  and  died  in  that  city  in  1885. 
She  wrote  for  many  years  for  the  Irish  press  under  the  nom  deplume  of  '*  Bridgid." 
Her  poems  are  noted  for  their  dramatic  force  and  vigor.  (Poems,  page  968.) 


MRS.  LOUISIANA  MURPHY. 

MRS.  LOUISIANA  MURPHY  is  a  native  of  Dublin,  having  first  seen  the  light  in 
the  United  States  Consulate,  Nelson  Street,  something  better  than  thirty  years 
ago.  Her  father,  Mr.  Hugh  Keenan,  was  a  Northerner,  but  emigrated  early  in 
life  to  America,  where  he  studied  law  and  was  admitted  to  the  Bar,  practising 
with  great  success,  and,  subsequently,  on  his  return  to  Ireland,  being  nominated 
United  States  Consul  at  Dublin,  and  afterward  at  Cork.  When  tired  of  public 
life  he  resigned,  purchased  an  estate  in  the  North,  and  settled  there  with  his 
family,  ultimately  becoming  a  Justice  of  the  Peace  for  the  county  Monaghan. 

Mrs.  Murphy  had  many  opportunities  of  studying  the  peasantry,  their  dialect, 
etc..  but  her  girlhood  was  for  the  most  part  spent  away  at  school,  her  education 
being  divided  between  the  Loretto  Convent,  Balbnggan.  and  the  Convent  of  Notre 
Dame,  Tiiiemont,  Belgium.  She  always  had  a  taste  for  writing,  but  frittered 
away  much  time  in  the  composition  of  complimentary  verses,  birth  and  fete- 
day  odes,  addresses,  etc.,  doing  no  serious  work  save  the  Libretto  of  a  semi-Irish 
Operetta,  which,  although  never  published,  was  produced  at  the  Loretto  Con- 
vent in  1878  with  marked  success. 

On  leaving  school  she  had  some  thoughts  of  devoting  herself  to  a  literary 
career,  but  married  instead,  and  literary  ambition  had  to  be  sacrificed  to  the 
active  domestic  duties  of  her  new  sphere.  She  is  now  almost  nine  years  married, 
and  only  during  the  past  couple  of  years  has  she  resumed  writing.  She  has 
contributed  some  poems  from  time  to  time  to  various  magazines,  and  has  writ- 
ten the  Libretto  of  an  Irish  National  Opera  (which  sanguine  critics  predict  will 
yet  take  its  place  upon  the  stage),  the  lyrical  part  of  which,  especially,  has  been 
highly  commended.  (Poems,  page  1016.) 


CAROLINE  NORTON. 

CAROLINE  NORTON,  born  in  1808,  was  a  daughter  of  Thomas  Sheridan,  son  of 
Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan,  and  sister  of  Lady  Dufferin.  She  married  the  Hon. 
G.  C.  Norton,  and  after  his  death,  Sir  William  Stirling  Maxwell.  Her  first 
marriage  proved  unhappy  and  led  to  protracted  legal  proceedings.  She  was 
widely  known  as  a  poet  and  novelist.  Her  death  occurred  in  1877.  (Poems, 
page  821.)  • 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OF  THE  POETS  OF  IRELAND.  xcvii 

FITZ-JAMES  O'BRIEN. 

FITZ- JAMES  O'BRIEN  was  born  in  the  county  of  Limerick,  Ireland,  in  1830,  of 
a  well-known  and  respected  family.  He  was  educated  at  Trinity  College,  Dub- 
lin. He  went  to  London,  where  he  engaged  in  journalism,  and  shortly  after 
came  to  New  York.  He  soon  won  renown  by  the  production  of  some  of  the 
most  original  poems  and  stories  in  the  literature  of  his  time.  "  He  set  up  a 
model  of  excellence  in  magazine  literature,  which  has  made  it  better  than  it  ever 
had  been  in  this  country  before  those  tales  were  printed,"  says  a  biographer, 


referring  to  his  stories  published  in  Harpers  Magazine  and  the  Atlantic 
Monthly.  He  also  wrote  several  pieces  for  the  stage.  At  the  outbreak  of  the 
war,  O'Brien  joined  the  Union  army,  serving  on  the  staff  of  Gen.  Lander. 
While  on  a  foraging  expedition,  he  met  and  attacked  a  large  body  of  Confeder- 
ate troops,  under  the  command  of  Col.  Ashly  .  Both  leaders  engaged  in  a  reg- 
ular duel,  the  result  being  that  Ashly  was  killed  and  O'Brien  mortally  wounded. 
He  died  seven  weeks  afterward,  April  6th,  1862.  His  works,  edited  by  William 
Winter,  were  published  in  Boston  in  1881.  (Poems,  page  870.) 


T.   O'D.  O'CALLAGHAN. 

THOMAS  O'DONNELL  OV.\U-A«HAN  was  born  in  1847,  in  the  town  of  Kil- 
Tiiallock,  county  Limerick,  Ireland,  and  came  to  this  country  in  18<;r,.  When 
but  in  his  teens  he  was  identified  with  the  Fenian  movement  in  livl.-ind 
and  was  the  Kilmallock  correspondent,  under  the  n<mt  (/<•  />/<>///,•  "  LilnM-ta-." 
of  the  Fenian  organ,  the  Dublin  Irish  l'r»»,'r.  which  was  suppiv-srd  by 


xcviii  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OF  THE  POETS  OF  IRELAND. 

the  government.  He  also  wrote  some  patriotic  poetry  for  the  Dublin  Irish- 
man of  those  days.  Since  coming  to  the  United  States.  Mr.  O'Callaghan  has 
written  extensively  for  the  various  New  York  Irish  American  weeklies  and  for 
the  New  York  dailies,  more  especially  the  Daily  News,  to  which  he  has  contri- 
buted many  of  his  most  characteristic  verses.  Mr.  O'Callaghan  is  descended 


on  the  mother's  side  from  the  celebrated  Shawn  O'Dhear  an  Glanna  (anglice, 
John  O'Dwyer  of  the  Glen)  known  as  the  Poet  Huntsman,  who  flourished  in 
Minister  in  the  seventeenth  century.  His  father.  Innocent  O'Callaghan.  was 
a  celebrated  scholar  and  mathematician  of  Munster,  whose  name  was  familiar 
in  his  day  throughout  Ireland,  and  who  died  in.  1868.  He  is  a  cousin  of  the 
Irish  poet,  Doctor  Robert  Dwyer  Joyce.  (Poems,  page  931.) 

MARY  EVA  KELLY  (MRS.  O'DOHERTY). 

MARY  EVA  KELLY,  the  baptismal  and  family  name  of  Mrs.  O'Doherty,  is  de- 
scended from  one  of  the  most  ancient  and  respectable  families  in  Connaught. 
She  was  born  at  Headford,  near  Tuam,  in  the.  county  of  Galway.  On  the 
mother's  side  she  is  a  lineal  descendant  from  "  Graunu-Waille,"  or  Gra.ce  O'Mal- 
ley,  the  "  Dark  Lady  of  Doonah,"  who  equipped  a  fleet  and  successfully  held 
her  own  in  lar  or  West  Connaught  against  all  the  available  power  of  Elizabeth 
of  England.  She,  therefore,  by  the  right  and  virtue  of  ancient  inheritance,  pos- 
sesses that  proud  and  haughty  spirit,  impatient  of  English  domination,  that 
breathes  everywhere  through  her  National  Poems. 

While  on  a  visit  to  San  Francisco  some  few  years  ago,  Mrs.  O'Doherty  yielded 
to  the  solicitations  of  many  admirers  of  her  genius  to  publish  a  volume  of  her 
poems.  Mr.  P.  J.  Thomas  of  that  city,  who  well  remembered  the  glories  that 
.shone  around  the  writers  of  the  Nation  in  the  memorable  days  of  "  '48,"  under- 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OF  TH  K   1'oKTS  <>F   IKILLAM). 


xcix 


took  the  enterprise.  The  book  was  well  gotten  up  and  received  a  hearty  indorse- 
ment by  the  reviewers.  But  the  Grolden  West  has  not  been  prolific  of  success 
for  publishers.  The  echo  of  the  songs  did  not  reach  the  great  masses  of  Irish 
readers  this  side  of  the  Rocky  Mountains,  and  the  market  on  the  Pacific  coast 
was  not  encouraging.  It  is  a  pity  that  the  collection  has  not  been  more  gener- 
ally circulated,  and  known  among  the  lovers  of  Irish  national  poetry.  "  Eva  " 
besran  to  write  when  fourteen  years  old,  but  as  few  of  her  juvenile  poems  were 
published,  no  opinion  can  be  formed  of  their  merits.  We  may  well  suppose, 
however,  that  they  indicated  the  latent  genius  which  made  the  name  of  "  Eva  " 
familiar  to  the  lovers  of  Irish  song.  It  was  the  spirit  of  Grace  O'Malley  rather 


than  the  promptings  of  genius  which  urged  her  muse;  for  we  are  informed  that 
she  was  tempted  to  write  more  from  a  patriotic  feeling  than  a  literary  taste. 
Her  early  contributions  to  the  Nation  were  over  the  signature  of  "  Fionula," 
the  daughter  of  King  Leara  (or  Lir)  who,  the  legend  says,  was,  by  the  enchant- 
ter's  wand,  changed  into  a  swan  and  doomed  to  glide  over  the  rivers  and  lakes 
of  Ireland  until  the  Bell  of  Heaven  should  be  heard  ringing  the  call  for  the  first 
mass.  The  "Lament  for  Thomas  Davis,"  the  first  poem  over  the  name  of 
"  Eva,"  was  one  of  the  best  ever  published  in  the  \ntinn.  SI ie  contributed  after- 
ward to  the  United  Irishman  after  John  Mitdiel  had  seceded  from  the  O'Con- 
nell  party.  When  John  Martin  published  The  Felon  after  Mitchel's  exile,  "  Eva  " 
contributed  frequently  to  that  journal. 


c          BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OF  THE  ^OETS  OF  IRELAND. 

Of  her  subsequent  marriage  to  Dr.  Kevin  Izod  O'Doherty,  and  her  emigration 
to  Queensland,  Australia,  a  good  deal  could  be  written;  but  the  space  in  our 
work  is  limited.  We  can  only  add  that  through  many  changes,  she  still  lives, 
having  brought  up  a  family  of  four  sons  and  one  daughter,  all  of  whom  are 
grown  to  maturity.  Some  are  married,  and  the  gentle  poet  of  "  '48  "  is  sur- 
rounded by  children  and  grandchildren,  far  away  from  the  land  she  loved  and 
labored  for.  She  writes  occasionally,  bat  not  over  her  old  signature.  Collec- 
tively, her  poems  have  been  pronounced  by  the  critics  "a  casket  of  Literary 
gems."  (Poems,  page  827.) 


JOHN  FEANCIS  O'DONNELL. 

JOHN  FRANCIS  O'DONNELL  ("  Caviare  ")  a  well-known  journalist  and  poet, 
was  born  in  the  town  of  Kilkenny  in  the  year  1837.  Most  of  his  life  was  spent 
on  the  London  daily  press,  but  he  found  time,  amid  the  varied  occupations  of 
his  profession,  to  contribute  to  the  Irish  magazines  and  journals  of  the  day. 
His  poems  are  of  a  high  order  of  merit,  and  it  is  a  matter  of  regret  that  they 
have  never  been  collected  and  published  in  permanent  form.  He  died  in  1874. 
(Poems,  page  835.) 

JUDGE  O'HAGAN. 

JOHN  O'HAGAN  was  born  in  the  county  of  Down,  Ireland,  in  the  year  1822. 
He  early  became  connected  with  Messrs.  Duffy.  Davis  and  Dillon  on  the  staff  of 


the  Dublin  Nation.     He  possessed  extraordinary  endowments,  being,  says  Mr. 
Duffy,  "the  safest  in  council,  the  most  moderate  in  opinion,  the  most  consider- 


Pxj    . 


COL.   THEODORE   O'HARA. 


KKMiKAlMIK'AL  SKETCHKS  «  >!•'  T  I  IK   1'nKTS  OF  IRKI.AND.  ci 


ate  in  temper  of  the  young  men,  and  after  a  time  any  of  them  would  have  had 
recourse  to  him,  next  after  Davis,  in  a  personal  difficulty  needing  sympathy  and 
discretion. "  Mr.  O'Hagan  subsequently  became  an  eminent  Queen's  counsel,  and 
one  of  the  leaders  of  the  Equity  Bar  of  Ireland,  and  is  at  present  Judge  of  the 
Irish  Land  Commission.  His  principal  literary  production  is  a  striking  and 
effective  translation  into  English  of  the  Chanson  de  Roland.  (Poems,  page  842. ) 

COL.   THEODORE  O'HARA. 

THEODORE  O'HARA  was  born  in  the  town  of  Danville,  Kentucky,  in  1820. 
He  was  educated  in  the  Catholic  academy  in  Bardstown.  in  his  native  State.  Ou 
completing  his  education,  he  devoted  himself  to  the  profession  of  journalism. 
On  the  outbreak  of  the  Mexican  war,  he  enlisted,  obtaining  the  rank  of  Captain. 
On  the  occasion  of  the  civil  war  he  joined  the  Confederacy,  and  served  on  the 
staffs  of  Gens.  Brecken ridge  and  Albert  Sidney  Johnson.  He  died  at  his  planta- 
tion in  Alabama  in  1867.  The  Kentucky  Legislature  had  his  remains  trans- 
ferred to  his  native  State  and  buried  in  the  cemetery  at  Frankfort  in  1S7:_>. 
"  The  Bivouac  of  the  Dead,"  the  poem  by  which  he  is  best  known,  was  written 
on  the  occasion  of  the  erection  of  a  monument  to  the  memory  of  the  Kentucky 
soldiers  who  fell  in  the  Mexican  war.  and  whose  remains  had  been  removed  to 
their  native  State  for  interment.  (Poem,  page  860.) 

M.  J.  O'MAHONY. 

MARTIN  JOSEPH  O'MAHONY  was  born  on  the  8th  of  November.  1848,  in  the 
city  of  Cork,  Ireland.    In  early  childhood  he  showed  a  remarkable  aptitude  for 


- 


music,  singing  when  at  the  age  of  six  years  the  works  of  the  great  mast- 
especinlly  Mozart,  tor  whose  music  ho  seems  to  have  a  particular  love.     ^  «>ung 


cii  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OF  THE  POETS  OF  IRELAND. 

O'Mahony  had  an  exquisite  voice,  capable  of  singing  when  at  the  age  of  eight 
years  such  creations  as  the  "  Inflammatus"  of  Rossini,  rendering  the  intricate 
and  difficult  passages  with  truly  wonderful  skill.  He  was  educated  by  the  Chris- 
tian Brothers  at  Peacock  Lane  Monastery.  Besides  music  he,  at  the  age  of  ten, 
showed  a  singular  taste  for  poetry.  In  1864,  Mr.  O'Mahony  became  connected  with 
the  Fenian  movement,  and  was  subjected  to  government  prosecution.  He  shortly 
after  came  to  the  United  States  and  at  present  resides  in  New  York.  He  has 
written  many  dramatic  sketches  and  stories  of  merit.  (Poems,  page  1022.) 


E.  J.  O'REILLY. 

EDWARD  JAMES  O'REILLY  was  born  in  the  county  of  Cavan,  Ireland.  July 
27th,  1830.  He  came  to  the  United  States  in  1851.  and  became  connected  with 
some  of  the  leading  journals  of  New  York  City.  Owing  to  the  then  prevailing 
agitation  against  foreigners,  especially  those  of  his  race,  much  of  his  early  liter- 
ary work  was  published  under  a  nom  de  plume.  Most  of  his  poems  appeared , 
over  the  signature  of  "  Clio."  He  was  a  man  of  noble  character,  generous,  patri-  . 


otic,  loved  by  his  friends  and  esteemed  by  all  who  knew  him.  He  died  in  New- 
York.  September  9tu,  I860.  Almost  every  newspaper  in  New  York  had  editorial 
regrets  for  the  sudden  and  early  death  of  Mr.  O'Reilly.  One  said,  "  Those  who 
knew  his  gentleness  of  heart,  his  integrity  of  purpose,  his  true  manliness  and 
his  unaltering  friendship,  know  how  good  a  man  and  capable  a  journalist  has 
passed  away."  Another  touched  on  a  prominent  feature  of  his  character  thus: 
"  He  was  a  devoted  husband  and  father;  a  most  companionable  man;  true  as 
steel  to  those  he  loved,  and  as  an  employee  faithful  to  the  last  degree."  Aside 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OF  THE  POETS  OF  IRELAND.  ciii 

from  his  journalistic  duties,  Mr.  O'Reilly  had  a  most  refined  and  cultivated  taste 
for  books,  busying  himself  in  the  hours  not  devoted  to  professional  duties,  in 
gathering  rare  and  curious  volumes,  his  collection  being  a  comprehensive  and 
valuable  one.  Mr.  O'Reilly  was  a  member  of  the  Bar.  but  the  work  and  ways 
of  the  lawyer  had  no  attraction  for  him.  No  man  ever  died  who  was  more 
deeply  regretted  by  those  who  knew  him.  (Poems  page  052.) 


JOHN  BOYLE  O'REILLY. 

JOHN  BOYLE  O'REILLY  was  bom  in  Dowth  Castle,  county  Meath,  Ireland, 
June  28,  1844.  His  father,  William  David  O'Reilly,  was  a  scholar  and  an  anti- 
quarian, and  his  mother,  Eliza  Boyle,  was  a  woman  of  an  extremely  rare  and 
beautiful  nature.  John  Boyle  O'Reilly  became  a  journalist  in  early  manhood, 
and  at  twenty-one  years  of  age  was  a  revolutionist,  arrested,  tried  for  high 
treason,  and  sentenced  to  twenty  years  imprisonment  in  an  English  penal  colony. 
At  twenty-five  he  escaped  from  West  Australia,  and  came  to  America.  He 
has  lived  in  Boston  since  18G9.  He  is  the  editor  and  part  proprietor  of  The 
Pilot,  perhaps  the  most  widely  known  Irish -American  newspaper.  He  has 
published  five  books: — "  Songs  from  the  Southern  Seas,"  "  Songs,  Legends  and 
Ballads,"  "Moondyne,"  "The  Statues  in  the  Block,"  "In  Bohemia,"  and  in 
union  with  three  other  authors,  "The  King's  Men:  a  Tale  of  To-morrow." 
(Poems,  page  751.) 

ARTHUR  O'SHAUGHNESSY. 

ARTHUR  (William  Edgar)  O'SHAUGHNESSY  was  a  poet  of  great  beauty  and 
simplicity.  He  was  born  March  14,  1844.  Obtaining  a  position  at  the  British 
Museum  as  transcriber,  after  two  years  he  was  promoted  to  the  Natural  History 
Department.  A  volume  containing  many  of  his  best  poems  was  published  in 
1870  under  the  title  of  an  "  Epic  of  Women."  Among  his  other  productions 
may  be  mentioned  "Lays  of  France"  and  "  Music  and  Moonlight."  His 
"  Songs  of  a  Worker  "  were  published  in  1881  after  his  death,  which  occurred 
in  January  30  the  same  year.  (Poems,  page  730.) 


FANNY  PARNELL. 

FANNY  PARNELL,  second  sister  of  the  National  leader  of  Ireland,  Charles 
Stewart  Parnell,  was  one  of  four  daughters  of  John  H.  and  Delia  L.  S.  Panu-11, 
and  was  born  at  Avondale,  the  family  estate,  in  county  W  irk  low,  Ireland,  about 
the  year  1848.  She  was  carefully  trained  at  home,  and  though  a  Prot. -slant, 
was  sent,  as  many  of  the  children  of  leading  Irish  families  arc,  from  Iivland  to 
have  her  education  finished  at  a  convent  in  Paris.  The  brightness  which  her 
early  years  has  shown  was  augmented  by  a  thorough  education. 


CIV 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OF  THE  POETS  OF  IRELAND. 


la  the  roomy  old  house  at  Avondale  Manor  she  passed  some  years.  Here, 
in  the  midst  of  the  wild  and  picturesque  scenery  of  Wicklow  and  Wexford,  she 
found  much  to  nurture,  not  only  her  poetic  temperament,  but  those  national 
aspirations  which  have  since  distinguished  the  family.  As  romantic  as  any 
dreamy  maiden  could  wish  was  the  site  of  her  home  on  the  edge  of  the  deep 
vale  in  which  the  Avon  rushed  on  to  meet  the  Avoca,  which  Moore  has  im- 
mortalized. 

Shortly  after  the  foundation  of  the  Irish  People  in  Dublin,  the  organ  of  the 
Fenian  Brotherhood,  Fanny  Parnell  became  a  contributor  to  the  poetic  columns. 


Here,  under  the  signature  of  "Alerta,''  she  gave  vent  to  her  patriotic  feelings. 
From  the  decline  of  the  Fenian  movement  to  the  birth  of  the  Land  Agitation 
we  find  scarcely  any  literary  work  from  her  hand.  Her  lyre  would  only  respond 
to  one  breeze— nationality.  A  few  years  ago,  when  she  first  began  to  write  the 
powerful  "Land  League  Songs,"  her  name  was  quite  unknown.  Before  she 
had  published  half  a  dozen  of  those  extraordinary  poems,  extraordinary  for 
their  magnetic  and  almost  startling  force,  as  well  as  rhythmical  beauty,  it  was 
recognized  by  those  who  watched-for  signs  that  the  Land  League  had  got  that 
which  crystallizes  the  efforts  and  aspirations  of  a  popular  movement — a  Poet. 
Every  note  she  struck  was  true  and  strong  and  timely. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OF  THE  POETS  OF  IRELAM).  cv 

Her  death  was  mourned  by  the  whole  Irish  race.  She  died  suddenly  on  the 
20th  of  July,  1882,  at  the  Old  Ironsides  mansion,  her  mother's  home,  near  Bor- 
dentown,  N.  J.  She  is  buried  in  Mt.  Auburn  cemetery,  near  Boston,  and  her 
grave  is  decorated  with  flowers  every  year,  on  Memorial  Day,  by  delegates  from 
the  Irish  societies  of  Boston.  (Poems,  page  742.) 


THOMAS  PAENELL. 

THOMAS  PARNELL  was  bom  in  Dublin  in  1GT9,  in  which  city  he  received  his 
education  and  was  finally  elevated  to  the  ministry  in  1703.  In  1705,  then 
Archdeacon  of  Clogher,  he  married  a  lady  noted  for  her  beauty  and  general 
excellence  of  character.  His  annual  excursions  to  England,  where  he  spent 
months  at  a  time,  living  luxuriously,  rather  diminished  than  advanced  his 
fortune. 

When  the  Whigs  were  in  power,  he  was  the  friend  of  Addison,  Congreve  and 
Steele;  during  the  ascendancy  of  the  Tories,  his  former  friends  were  neglected, 


and  Swift,  Pope,  Gay  and  Arbuthnot  became  his  companions.  The  death  of 
his  wife,  in  1712,  proved  a  severe  blow,  from  the  effects  of  which  he  never 
rallied.  To  drown  his  misery  he  had  recourse  to  stimulants,  and  his  intemper- 
nnre  shortened  his  life.  A  collection  of  his  poems  was  published  by  Pope. 
Although  not  a  poet  of  the  first  rank,  his  poems  merit  considerable  praise  for 
their  melodic  sweetness,  clearness  of  language,  and  generally  pleasing  style. 
He  died  July,  1717.  The  great  National  leader  and  agitator  of  Ireland,  Charles 
Stewart  Parnell,  is  a  direct  descendant  of  the  poet;  and  his  gifted  sister,  Fanny 
Parnell,  inherited  the  poetic  genius  of  her  ancestor.  (Poems,  page  472.) 


cvi 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OP  THE  POETS  OF  IRELAND. 


THOMAS  BUCHANAN  READ. 

THOMAS  BUCHANAN  READ  was  born  in  Chester  County,  Pennsylvania,  March 
12th,  1822.  He  was  of  Irish  extraction.  At  an  early  age  he  entered  an  artist's 
studio  in  Cincinnati,  and  subsequently  passed  some  time  in  New  York  and 


Boston,  where  he  devoted  himself  to  painting.  In  1846,  he  removed  to  Philadel- 
phia. In  1850  he  went  to  Italy,  where  he  remained,  with  the  exception  of 
some  brief  intervals  in  America,  until  1 872.  His  poetical  works  were  published 
in  three  volumes  in  1866.  Died  in  New  York,  May  llth,  1872.  (Poems,  p.  880.) 


JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY. 

JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY  is  of  Irish  descent,  as  his  name  implies,  and  is  one 
of  the  most  popular  American  poets  of  the  day.     He  was  born  in  Greenfield, 


MKKiKAPHICAL  SK KETCHES  OF  THE  POETS  OF  IRELAND. 

Indiana,  in  1853.  In  early  life  he  was  a  painter,  but  soon  cast  aside  the  brush 
for  the  pen.  He  first  became  known  by  his  humorous  poetical  contributions  to 
the  journals  and  magazines  in  the  western  dialect,  which  won  for  him  the  title 
of  "the  Hoosier  Poet."  Mr.  Riley  has  published  a  volume  of  poems  that  has 
met  with  a  ready  sale.  He  is  an  accomplished  lecturer,  and  an  artist  of  merit. 
(Poems,  page  911.) 


HON.   W.   E.   ROBINSON. 

WILLIAM  ERIGENA  ROBINSON  was  born  at  Unagh,  near  Cookstown,  Tyrone 
County,  Ireland.  He  came  to  the  United  States  in  1836.  and  entered  Yale  Col- 
lege the  following  year,  graduating  in  1841.  In  1844.  he  became  assistant  editor 
of  the  New  York  Iribune.  under  Horace  Greeley,  and  subsequently  edited  the 
Buffalo  Express,  Newark  Mercury,  and  the  People,  New  York.  He  was 


admitted  to  the  bar  in  New  York  in  1854.  He  served  many  years  in  Congress, 
and  introduced  the  measure  asserting  the  right  of  man  to  expatriation,  whereby 
the  European  governments  were  compelled  to  renounce  the  slavish  doctrine 
"once  a  subject  always  a  subject."  Mr.  Robinson  has  been  prominent  in 
every  movement  in  America,  looking  to  the  benefit  of  the  Irish  people.  He 
resides  at  present  in  the  city  of  Brooklyn.  (Poem,  page  901.) 


JAMES  JEFFREY  ROCHE. 

JAMES  JEFFREY  ROCHE  was  born  in  Queens  county,  Ireland,  May  31, 
His  parents  emigrated  in  that  year  to  Prince  Edward  Island,  where  he  spent  his 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OF  THE  POETS  OF  IRELAND. 


youth,  being  educated  in  St.  Dunstan's  College  in  that  province.  He  has  lived 
in  Boston  since  1866,  contributing  to  various  periodicals  occasionally  until  1883, 
when  he  joined  the  editorial  staff  of  the  Boston  Pilot,  with  which  he  is  still 
connected.  (Poems,  page  712.) 


O'DONOVAN  EOSSA. 


JEREMIAH  O'DONOVAN  ROSSA,  better  known,  perhaps,  as  a  patriot  and  revo- 
lutionist than  a  poet,  was  born  in  Rosscarberry,  county  Cork,   Ireland,  in 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OF  THE  I'oETS  OF  IRELAND.  cix 

September,  1831.  His  life  has  been  eventful.  In  isf>8,  he  was  arrested  and 
imprisoned  for  organizing  the  Phoenix  Society,  which  was  the  immediate  fore- 
runner of  the  great  Fenian  revolutionary  brotherhood.  In  18f>5  he  was  arrested 
ngain,  this  time  for  Fenianism,  and  sentenced  to  imprisonment  for  life.  He 
was,  with  many  other  Irish  patriots,  released  after  seven  years'  imprisonment, 
and  banished  out  of  Ireland  for  twenty  years.  He  is  editor  of  a  paper  called 
United  Ireland,  in  New  York.  Nearly  all  his  poems  were  written  in  English 
prisons;  but  his  fine  translations  from  the  Gaelic  have  been  recently  made. 
(Poems,  page  770.) 


REV.  MATTHEW  RUSSELL,  S.J. 

REV.  MATTHEW  RUSSELL,  S.  J.,  was  born  in  Newry,  county  of  Armagh,  Ire- 
land, in  1834.  He  made  his  studies  in  Maynooth  College  and  afVnvanl  in 
France.  He  is  at  present  the  editor  of  the  Irish  Monthly  Magazine.  He  has 


published  three  volumes  of  verse — •''Emmanuel,"  "Madonn,"  and  "Erin, 
Verses  Irish  and  Catholic."  Father  Russell  is  a  nephew  of  the  late  Cbarlrs  Wil- 
liam Russell,  for  many  years  President  of  Maynooth  College,  and  is  a  brother  of 
Sir  Charles  Russell,  the  distinguished  London  lawyer.  (Poems,  page  10 1: 


REV.   ABRAM  J.   RYAN. 

THE  Rev.  Abram  J.  Ryan,  nationally  known  a.s  "The  Poet-Priost  of  1 1n- 
South,"  was  a  Virginian  by  birth,     lie  died  of  an  organic  heart  trouble,  at 


ex 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OP  THE  POETS  OF  IRELAND. 


Louisville,  Ky.,  on  April  22,  1886,  in  the  46th  year  of  his  age.  Father  Ryan  was 
pre-eminently  the  poet  of  the  Southern  Confederacy.  He  occupied  in  that 
ephemeral  nation  the  enviable  position  described  by  the  "  very  wise  man  "  of 
whom  old  Fletcher  of  Saltoun  wrote  to  the  Marquis  of  Montrose, — "  who  be- 
lieved that  if  a  man  were  permitted  to  make  all  the  ballads,  he  need  not  care 
who  should  make  the  laws  of  a  nation. "  Hemy  Timrod,  who  died  all  too  soon, 
had  written  some  stirring  lyrics  for  the  South,  but  Father  Ryan,  who  had  just 


been  ordained  in  1861,  threw  himself  heart  and  soul  into  the  support  of  the 

Confederacy  and  followed  its  fortunes  from  beginning  to  end.  (Poems,  page  736.) 

The  Rev.  Wm.  D.  Kelly,  a  brother  priest  and  poet,  wrote  the  following 

tender  sonnet  on  Father  Ryan's  death:— 

, 

YOUR  saddest  tears,  O  April  skies,  drop  down, 

And  let  the  voices  of  your  sobbing  breeze, 

Sigh  the  most  plaintive  of  their  threnodies 
For  him,  who,  girt  with  sacerdotal  gown, 
"When  war's  wild  tumult  stirred  each  Southern  town, 

And  filled  the  land  with  its  discordancies, 

Sang  high  above  them  all  such  melodies 
Their  very  sweetness  won  the  South  renown: 
Poet !  God  rest  thee,  now  thy  songs  are  sung; 
*  Father  !  heaven  gain  thee,  now  thy  toil  is  o'er; 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OF  THE  POETS  OP  IRELAND. 


cxi 


Whoever  listened  to  thy  tuneful  tongue 
Telling  the  mystic  socrets  of  its  lore. 

Trusts  that  thy  voice,  celestial  choirs  among, 
Hymns  the  new  song  of  love  foreveruiore. 


JOHN  SAVAGE. 

JOHN  SAVAGE,  LL.D.,  a  talented  poet  and  miscellaneous  writer,  was  born 
in  Dublin,  Dec-ember  13,  1828.  Receiving  the  advantages  of  a  good  education, 
and  giving  early  evidences  of  artistic  taste,  he  became  a  student  at  the  Art 
School  of  the  Royal  Dublin  Society.  He  was  a  prime  actor  in  the  Insurrection 
of  '48,  having  edited  a  journal  in  the  interest  of  the  Young  Ireland  party,  also 
assisting  in  arming  the  peasantry.  For  this  interest,  he  was  obliged  to  leave 
the  country,  and,  escaping  to  New  York,  he  contributed  to  a  number  of  leading 
periodicals,  and  was  connected  with  newspapers  in  New  York,  Washington  and 
New  Orleans.  He  edited  the  Manhattan,  a  monthly  of  much  literary  merit. 


An  ardent  supporter  of  the  Union  cause  during  the  war  of  the  Rrlx-lli<>ii  ho 
wrote  many  popular  war-songs.  His  publications  include,  besides,  several  vol- 
umes of  poems,  dramas,  sketches  and  biographies.  (Poems,  page  ^ 


cxii 


"BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OF  THE  POETS  OF  IRELAND. 


MICHAEL  SCANLAN. 

MICHAEL  SCANLAN  was  born  in  Castlemahon,  countv  of  Limerick.  Ireland, 
in  November,  1836,  and  came  to  the  United  States  in  184!) .  His  family  settled 
in  Chicago,  where,  in  subsequent  years,  the  Scan  Ian  Brothers  were  well-known 
business  men.  The  subject  of  this  sketch,  in  very  early  years,  took  an  active 
part  in  all  movements  looking  toward  the  freedom  of  Ireland.  Indeed  Ireland 
has  been  the  ;<  dream  and  adoration  "  of  his  life.  He  was  a  leading  spirit  in  the 
Fenian  movement  and  soon  became  its  American  Laureate.  "  The  Fenian  Men," 
a  stirring  war  chant,  was  the  Marseillaise  of  the  movement,  sung  to  the  tune  of 
'•'O'Donnell  Abu."  Many  a  poor  fellow  was  sent  to  jail  in  Ireland,  between 
1866  and  1868  for  having  a  copy  of  even  a  verse  of  it  in  his  possession.  In  186T 


Mr.  Scanlan,  together  with  a  few  others,  "who  thought  ahead  of  their  day," 
established  The  Irish  Republic,  a  journal  whose  general  motto  was  "  Liberty ; 
her  friends  our  friends,  her  enemies  our  enemies, "  and  whose  special  motto  was 
'  The  shortest  road  to  the  freedom  of  Ireland."  Mr.  Scanlan  was  editor  of  the 
Irish  Republic  which  was  first  published  in  Chicago,  where  it  was  transferred 
to  New  York,  and  thence  to  Washington,  D.  C.,  where  it  ended  its  "  brief  and 
brilliant  career."  in  1873.  In  1874  Mr.  Scanlan  was  appointed  to  a  clerkship  in 
the  Department  of  State,  where  he  is  still  engaged  in  statistical  work.  He  is  a 
writer  of  strong  nervous  prose,  and  has  a  rare  gift  of  humor,  which,  however, 
he  has  seldom  used  since  he  wrote  the  once-famous  Dionysius  O'Blake  papers 
for  the  Irish  Republic.  (Poems,  page  954.) 

JOHN  AUGUSTUS  SHEA. 

JOHN  AUGUSTUS  SHEA  was  born  in  the  city  of  Cork.  Ireland,  in  the  year  ls<>2. 
He  received  a  thorough  classical  education,  and  when  he  was  but  little  more  th; 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OP  THE  POETS  OF  IRELAND.  cxiii 

twenty  years  of  age,  he  proceeded  to  London,  where  he  wrote  his  poems  of  *•  Ru 
dreki,"  and  won  immediate  recognition.    In  1827  he  came  to  the  United  States, 
where  he  continued  in  his  profession  of  journalism.    He  died  in  New  York  City 
in  1845.      His  son,  Judge  George  Shea,  published  a  volume  of   his   poems  in 
1846.   (Poems,  page  855.) 


EICHAED  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN. 

RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN,  the  renowned  wit,  orator  and  dramatist,  was 
born  in  Dublin,  October  31,  1751.  He  was  the  son  of  Mr.  Thomas  Sheridan,  the 
tragedian,  and  grandson  of  Doctor  Sheridan,  the  friend  and  correspondent  of 
Swift.  An  impulsive  marriage,  made  before  completing  his  law  studies,  com- 
pelled him  to  have  recourse  to  literature  as  a  means  of  support.  In  his  dramatic 
productions  he  achieved  wonderful  success,  writing  the  ever-popular  comedies, 
"  The  Rivals,"  and  "  The  School  for  Scandal,"  the  farce  "  The  Critic,"  and  the 
opera  "The  Duenna."  He  became  one  of  the  proprietors  of  the  Drury  Lane 
Theatre  in  1776.  But  the  crowning  glory  of  his  life,  was  his  Parliamentary 
career  of  thirty-two  years.  Here  his  unrivalled  eloquence,  and  keen  irony,  found 
an  ample  field  for  their  development,  and  the  famous  statesmen  and  orators, 
Burke,  Pitt  and  Fox,  had  to  look  well  to  their  laurels.  His  speech  on  the  im- 
peachment of  Warren  Hastings  was  among  his  most  brilliant  orations.  The 
burning  of  the  Drury  Lane  Theatre  and  his  extravagant  habits,  plunged  him 
deeply  in  debt,  and  filled  the  latter  days  of  his  life  with  sorrow  and  disappoint 
ment.  He  died  July  7th,  1816.  (Poems,  page  422.) 


JOHN  STERLING. 

JOHN  STERLING  was  a  native  of  Waterford,  born  in  1806.  His  family  settled 
in  London  in  1824,  where  he  entered  Trinity  College.  He  did  not  take  his  de- 
gree. He  was  an  intimate  friend  of  Coleridge,  Wordsworth,  and  Carlyle.  He 
died  in  1844.  Archdeacon  Hare  published  his  works,  and  Carlyle  -wrote  his 
biography.  (Poems,  page  668.) 


A.  M.  SULLIVAN. 

ALEXANDER  MARTIN  SULLIVAN  was  born  in  the  county  of  Cork,  Iivland,  in 
6.     Having  received  a  good  education,  lie  was  engaged  on  the  staff  of  the 
Nation,  by  its  then  proprietor,  Charles  Gavan  Duffy.    He  afterward  !><>- 
tme  sole  proprietor  of  the  paper,  which  he  comlm-tri!  \vitli  eminent  ability  for 
l  years.     He  was  prosecuted  and  imprisoned  for  the  publication  of  certain 
an  ides  in  the  Nation,  apropos  of  tho  "Manchester  .Martyrs" — Allen,  I^arkin 


cxiv  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OP  THE  POETS  OP  IRELAND. 


and  O'Brien.     A  few  years  before  his  death,  he  joined  the  English  bar,  and  re- 
moved to  London.     Mr.  Sullivan  also  founded  Young  Ireland,  and  The  Weekly 


News,  two  weekly  publications.  He  is  the  author  of  a  volume  of  speeches  and 
lectures,  and  two  excellent  historical  works—"  The  Story  of  Ireland  "  and  "  New 
Ireland."  (Poem,  page  1021.) 

MRS.  MARGARET  F.  SULLIVAN. 

MRS.  MARGARET  F.  SULLIVAN  is  the  wife  of  Mr.  Alexander  Sullivan  of 
Chicago,  Ex-President  of  the  Irish-American  Land  League.  She  is  a  distin- 
guished writer  and  is  acknowledged  as  the  ablest  woman  journalist  America  has 
produced  Her  prose  writings  are  marked  by  great  ability,  and  the  poems  from 
her  pen  make  the  reader  regret  that  they  are  so  few.  She  is  the  author  of 
"Ireland  of  To-Day,"  one  of  the  most  valuable  works  published  on  modern 
Ireland.  (Poems,  page  908.) 


T.  D.  SULLIVAN. 

TIMOTHY  DANIEL  SULLIVAN  was  born  in  Bantry,  county  of  Cork,  Ireland, 
in  the  year  1827.  He  is  a  brother  of  the  late  H.  M.  Sullivan.  Mr.  Sullivan  is 
editor  and  proprietor  of  the  Dublin  Nation,  Weekly  News,  and  Young  Ireland. 
He  has  been  a  member  of  Parliament  for  many  years,  and  recently  completec 


Al"    SWIFT 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OF  THE  POETS  OF  IRELAND. 


cxv 


his  second  term  of  office  as  Lord  Mayor  of  Dublin.     He  is  the  author  of  many 
works  on  national  subjects,  and  has  published  two  or  three  volumes  of  i>oems 


that  have  attained  wide  popularity.   He  is  an  ardent  and  consistent  patriot,  and 
is  held  in  high  esteem  by  his  fellow-countrymen  everywhere.     (Poems,  page 


JONATHAN  SWIFT. 

JONATHAN  SWIFT,  a  most  celebrated  wit  and  satirist,  was  born  in  Dublin, 
1667.  He  was  sent  to  school  in  Kilkenny  and  later  to  Trinity  College,  Dublin. 
In  1688  he  became  secretary  of  Sir  William  Temple,  a  connection  of  Mrs.  Swift 
by  marriage,  in  whose  service  he  remained  six  years.  The  position  in  this 
family  was  very  humiliating  to  Swift's  pride,  although  he  acquired  much  bene- 
fit  from  his  opportunities  of  increasing  knowledge,  and  at  the  death  of  Sir 
William  Temple,  Swift  edited  his  posthumous  works.  Failing  to  obtain  a 
bishopric  (which  was  his  most  earnest  ambition),  he  was  forced  to  be  content 
as  Dean  of  St.  Patrick's,  the  duties  of  which  office  he  assumed  in  171:?. 

During  his  frequent  visits  to  England,  he  was  courted  and  enjoyed  by  the 
most  illustrious  minds  of  his  day.  He  formed  what  was  called  the  Scribblers' 


cxvi  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OF  THE  POETS  OF  IRELAND. 

Club,  with  Pope,  Gay  and  Arbuthnot.  His  first  important  work  "  The  Tale  of 
a  Tub,"  was  published  anonymously  in  1704,  "  The  Battle  of  the  Books  "  soon 
followed.  In  1724,  by  the  anonymous  "  Drapier  Letters "  published  in  a  Dublin 
newspaper,  he  defended  the  rights  of  the  Irish  people  with  such  warmth  and 
skill  that  he  became  universally  popular.  "Gulliver's  Travels"  appeared  in 
1726.  His  miscellaneous  writings  are  chiefly  religious  and  political  pamphlets. 
During  his  later  years  he  suffered  from  deafness  and  mental  infirmities;  in  1741 
he  passed  into  a  condition  of  idiocy,  from  which  death  released  him  in  1745. 
In  his  will  he  made  provision  for  the  building  of  a  hospital  for  the  insane. 
(Poems,  page  219.) 


KATHARINE  TYNAN. 

KATHARINE  TYNAN  was  born  at  Clondalkin,  county  Dublin,  Ireland,  in  the 
latter  part  of  1861.  She  began  her  literary  career  in  her  twentieth  year,  win- 
ning almost  immediate  recognition.  She  has  contributed  to  the  London  Month, 
Merry  England,  The  Athenceum,  and  other  leading  publications.  Her  first  vol- 
ume, "  Louise  de  la  Valliere  and  other  poems,"  appeared  in  1885,  was  well  re- 
ceived and  went  into  a  second  edition  in  a  few  months.  (Poems,  page  721.) 

JOHN  FRANCIS  WALLER. 

JOHN  FRANCIS  WALLER  was  born  in  the  city  of  Limerick  in  the  year  1810. 
He  graduated  from  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  studied  law,  and  was  for  a  time 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OP  THE  1'OKTS  or  IKKI.AND.  ,-.\vii 

editor  of  the  Dublin  University  Magazine-  He  has  lived  for  many  years  past  in 
England.  Most  of  his  latter  day  contrihutions  in  verse  are  written  for  religious 
publications,  and  are  more  or  less  didactic  in  spirit.  (Poems,  page  1)12.) 

EDWARD  WALSH. 

EDWARD  WALSH  was  born  in  Londonderry  in  the  year  1805,  and  died  in 
Cork  on  6th  August,  1850,  in  the  forty-fifth  year -of  his  age.  His  father,  who 
was  a  small  farmer  in  the  county  of  Cork,  eloped  with  a  young  lady  much  above 
his  own  position  in  life.  Shortly  after  marriage  his  difficulties  increased,  and 
to  avoid  them,  he  enlisted  in  the  militia,  and  was  quartered  in  Londonderry, 
where  his  son  was  bom.  Our  author  having  received  a  good  education,  in  early 
life  became  a  private  tutor.  Some  time  after  he  taught  school  in  Millstreet, 
county  Cork,  from  which  he  removed  in  1837,  and  went  to  teach  in  Toureen, 
where  he  first  began  to  write  for  the  Magazines.  After  some  time  he  went  up 
to  Dublin,  where  he  was  elected  schoolmaster  to  the  convict  station  at  Spike 
Island.  In  a  year  or  two  he  left  this  place  and  became  teacher  at  the  Work- 
house in  Cork,  where  he  remained  till  his  death.  Two  volumes  of  his  poetical 
translations  from  the  Irish  have  been  published.  He  was  a  proficient  in  the 
fairy  and  legendary  lore  of  the  country.  (Poems,  page  699.) 

JOHN  WALSH. 

JOHN  WALSH,  the  sweet  Munster  singer  who  in  this  generation  shared  with 
his  friend  and  compatriot,  Charles  J.  Kickham,  the  proud  distinction  of  being 
the  "Poet  of  the  People,"  was  the  author  of  hundreds  of  songs  and  ballads, 
many  of  distinguished  poetic  merit,  and  all  thoroughly  Irish  and  national,  and 
most  "racy  of  the  soil." 

He  was  born  in  the  immediate  vicinity  of  Cappoquin,  county  of  Waterford, 
was  educated  in  the  National  school  of  that  town  and  at  the  Seminary  of  Mount 
Mellerey.  He  graduated  at  the  Normal  school  in  Dublin,  and  was  appointed  a 
National-school-teacher  in  his  native  town,  where  he  taught  for  several  years. 
He  subsequently  taught  the  National  school  06  Cashel  Co.,  Tipperary,  until  his 
death,  in  February,  1881.  He  was  buried  on  the  "  Rock  of  Cashel,"  close  by  the 
foot  of  the  ancient  "  Round  Tower."  He  was  about  forty  years  at  the  time  of 
his  death.  He  left  a  widow  and  six  children.  His  wife's  maiden  name  was 
Julia  Cavanagh,  and  to  her  he  addressed  many  exquisite  love  songs. 

His  poems  have  never  been  collected,  and  probably  never  can  be,  for  owinu; 
to  their  being  written  under  various  noms  deplume  for  several  National  pub- 
lications, his  claims  to  their  authorship  are  unknown  save  to  his  intimate  as- 
sociates. (Poems,  page  971.) 

MICHAEL  J.  WALSH. 

MICHAEL  J.  WALSH  was  born  in  1833,  at  Listowel,  county  Keny,  Ireland. 
While  yet  a  mere  boy,  he  left  Ireland  for  the  Western  World.  For  the  past 


CXV111 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OF  THE  POETS  OF  IRELAND. 


forty  years  he  has  resided  in  New  York.  Though  engaged  in  a  commercial 
avocation  he  has  found  time  to  contribute  both  in  prose  and  poetry  to  many  of 
the  Irish- American  periodicals  and  journals.  (Poems,  page  945.) 


RICHARD  HENRY  WILDE. 

RICHARD  HENRY  WILDE  was  born  in  Dublin,  Ireland.  Sept.  24th.  1789,  and  died 
in  New  Orleans,  Sept.  10th,  184-T.  He  was  Attorney -General  of  the  State  of 
Georgia,  and  also  served  in  Congress  for  many  years.  He  published  a  work  on 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OF  THE  POETS  OF  IRELAND, 


cxix 


Tasso,  in  two  volumes  in  1842,  which  contains  a  number  of  original  translations 
of  the  poems  of  that  author.  He  also  wrote  a  poem  entitled  "Hesprina," 
which  was  published  by  his  son  in  1867.  During  the  last  three  years  of  his  life, 
Mr.  Wilde  was  professor  of  common  law  in  the  University  of  Louisiana. 
(Poem,  page  861.) 


LADY  WILDE  ("SPERANZA.") 

LADY  WILDE,  the  famous  "Speranza,"  of  the  old  Dublin  Nation,  is  the 
mother  of  the  poet  and  aesthete,  Oscar  Wilde,  and  the  widow  of  the  late  eminent 
physician  and  archaeologist,  Sir  William  Wilde,  of  Dublin.  In  the  stormy  days 
of  "Young  Ireland,"  from  1846  to  1848,  the  poems  of  "Speranza,"  next  to 


those  of  Thomas  Davis,  were  the  inspiration  of  the  National  movement.  Lady 
Wilde  lives  in  London,  where  she  is  the  centre  of  a  distinguished  literary  and 
artistic  circle.  (Poems,  page  762.) 


OSCAR  WILDE. 

OSCAR  0.  F.  WILDE  is  the  second  son  of  "  Speranza,"  Lady  Wilde,  and  \\  .m 
born  in  Dublin  in  the  year  1855.     He  is  the  author  of  a  volume  of  poems  which 


exx 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OP  THE  POETS  OF  IRKLAND. 


show  that  he  inherits  much   of  his  mother's  genius.     He  recently  obtained 
notoriety  by  the  identification  of  his  name  with  the  aesthetic  craze  in  London. 


He  visited  the  United  States  a  few  years  ago,  and  made  a  successful  lecture  tour 
through  the  country.     He  resides  in  London,  England.     (Poems,  page  853.) 


RICHAED  D'ALTON  WILLIAMS. 

EICHARD  D'ALTON  WILLIAMS,  "Shamrock"  of  the  Nation  newspaper,  was 
born  in  county  of  Tipperary,  Oct.  8th,  1822.  He  was  educated  at  Carlow  College, 
and  came  to  Dublin  to  study  medicine.  His  first  contribution  to  the  Nation  was 
as  early  as  1843,  and  at  once  attracted  the  attention  of  Mr.  Duffy,  then  editor. 
He  joined  the  '48  movement,  and  in  conjunction  with  his  friend.  Kevin  Izod 
O'Doherty,  established  the  Irish  Tribune  paper.  After  the  issue  of  a  few  num- 
bers, it  was  seized  and  the  editors  prosecuted  by  the  government.  On  a  third  trial 
O'Doherty  was  convicted  and  transported  to  Australia,  and  Williams  was  ac 
quitted.  He  then  completed  his  medical  studies  at  Edinburgh,  and  emigrated  to 
America  in  185 1.  He  was  for  a  time  professor  in  Spring  Hill  College,  MoLile.  Ala. 
He  died  of  consumption  at  Thibodeaux,  Louisiana,  July.  1862,  aged  39.  As  a  poet 
he  excelled  in  humorous  pieces,  but  in  his  later  years  his  writings  turned  toward 
spiritual  subjects.  The  Irish  soldiers  of  a  New  Hampshire  regiment  being  en- 
camped in  the  neighborhood  of  Thibodeaux,  during  the  war.  sought  out  the 
grave  of  the  poet,  and  erected  over  it  a  handsome  marble  monument,  with  a 
fitting  inscription.  The  poetical  works  of  Williams  have  been  edited  and  pub- 
lished by  T.  D.  Sullivan,  of  Dublin.  (Poems,  page  862.) 


HKHJKAIMIK'AL  SKKTOHKS  OF  THF.   1'oKTS  <>F   IKKLAND. 


cxxi 


REV.   CHARLES  WOLFE. 

REV.  CHARLES  WOLFE  was  born  at  Dublin  in  1791,  and  was  educated  at 
Trinity  College.  He  became  a  curate  at  Castle  Caulfield.  He  died  of  con- 
sumption in  1823.  He  was  only  a  boy  when  he  wrote  one  of  the  most  perfect 
and  most  celebrated  odes  in  the  English  language,  "The  Burial  of  Sir  John 
Moore."  (Poems,  page 


THE 


POKTRY   AND   SONG 


OF 


IRELAND. 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE, 

AUTHOR'S  INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  IRISH  MELODIES. 


IT  has  often  been  remarked,  and  oftener  felt,  that  our  music  is  the  truest  of  all  com- 
ments upon  our  history.  The  tone  of  defiance,  succeeded  by  the  languor  of  despondency 
—  a  burst  of  turbulence  dying  away  into  softness  —  the  sorrows  of  one  moment  lost  in  the 
levity  of  the  next  —  and  all  that  romantic  mixture  of  mirth  and  sadness,  which  is  naturally 
produced  by  the  efforts  of  a  lively  temperament  to  shake  off  or  forget  the  wrongs  which 
lie  upon  it.  Such  are  the  features  of  our  history  and  character,  which  we  find  strongly 
and  faithfully  reflected  in  our  music;  and  there  are  many  airs  which,  I  think,  it  is  difficult 
to  listen  to  without  recalling  some  period  or  event  to  which  their  expression  seems  pecu- 
liarly applicable.  Sometimes,  when  the  strain  is  open  and  spirited,  yet  sliaded  here  and 
there  by  a  mournful  recollection,  we  can  fancy  that  we  behold  the  brave  allies  of  Montrose  * 
marching  to  the  aid  of  the  royal  cause,  notwithstanding  all  the  perfidy  of  Charles  and  his 
ministers,  and  remembering  just  enough  of  past  sufferings  to  enhance  the  generosity  of 
their  present  sacrifice.  The  plaintive  melodies  of  Carolan  take  us  back  to  the  times  in 
which  he  lived,  when  our  poor  countrymen  were  driven  to  worship  their  God  in  caves,  or 
to  quit  forever  the  land  of  their  birth,  (like  the  bird  that  abandons  the  nest  which  human 
touch  has  violated);  and  in  many  a  song  do  we  hear  the  last  farewell  of  the  exile,  mingling 
regret  for  the  ties  he  leaves  at  home,  with  sanguine  expectations  of  the  honors  that  await 
him  abroad  —  such  honors  as  were  won  on  the  field  of  Fontenoy,  where  the  valor  of  Irish 
Catholics  turned  the  fortune  of  the  day  in  favor  of  the  French,  and  extorted  from  George  II. 
that  memorable  exclamation,  "  Cursed  be  the  laws  which  deprive  me  of  such  subjects  !" 

Though  much  has  been  said  of  the  antiquity  of  our  music,  it  is  certain  that  our  finest 
and  most  popular  airs  are  modern;  and  perhaps  we  may  look  no  further  than  the  last  dis- 
graceful century  for  the  origin  of  most  of  those  wild  and  melancholy  strains  which  wen-  at 
once  the  offspring  and  solace  of  grief,  and  which  were  applied  to  the  mind  as  music  was 
formerly  to  the  body,  "decantare  loca  dolentia."  Mr.  Pinkerton  is  of  opinion  that  none 
of  the  Scotch  popular  airs  are  as  old  as  the  middle  of  the  sixteenth  century;  and  thouirh 
musical  antiquaries  refer  us  for  some  of  our  melodies  to  so  early  a  period  as  the  fifth  cen- 
tury, I  am  persuaded  that  there  are  few  of  a  civilized  description  (and  by  this  I  moan  to 
exclude  all  the  savage  ceanans,  cries,  f  etc.)  which  can  claim  quite  so  ancient  a  date  as 
Mr.  Pinkerton  allows  to  the  Scotch.  But  music  is  not  the  only  subject  upon  which  mir 
taste  for  antiquity  is  rather  unreasonably  indulged;  and,  however  heretical  it  may  be  to 
it  from  these  romantic  speculations,  I  cannot  help  thinking  that  it  is  possible  to  love 
our  country  very  zealously,  and  to  feel  deeply  interested  in  her  honor  and  happiness, 


*  There  are  some  gratifying  accounts  of  the  gallantry  of  these  Irish  auxiliaries  in  Tin-  C<>  »./•/</•  History  of  II,,- 
m  Scut/inn!  initli-i-  M<»it  !•»*<•.  i  liiiio.i    I'laiviidon  owns  that  the  Marquis  of  Montrose  was  inde  bled  for  much  of  hia  miraculouit 
tn  this  small  liainl  of  Irish  heroes  under  Min-donnell. 

1  (  >f  which  some  genuine  specimens  may  be  found  at  the  end  of  Mr.  Walker's  work  upon  the  Irish  Bards.     Mr.  Bun- 
Ing  has  disfigured  his  last  splendid  volume  by  too  many  of  those  barbarous  rhapsodies. 


28  POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 

without  believing  that  Irish  was  the  language  spoken  in  Paradise  * — that  our  ancestors 
were  kind  enough  to  take  the  trouble  of  polishing  the  Greeks  f — or  that  Abaris,  the  Hyper- 
borean, was  a  native  of  the  north  of  Ireland.  J 

By  some  of  these  archaeologists  it  has  been  imagined  that  the  Irish  were  early  ac- 
quainted with  the  counterpoint, §  and  they  endeavor  to  support  this  conjecture  by  a  well- 
known  passage  in  Giraldus,  where  he  dilates  with  such  elaborate  praise  upon  the  beauties 
of  our  national  minstrelsy.  But  the  terms  of  this  eulogy  are  too  vague,  too  deficient  in 
technical  accuracy,  to  prove  that  even  Giraldus  himself  knew  anything  of  the  artifice  of 
counterpoint.  There  are  many  expressions  in  the  Greek  and  Latin  writers  which  might 
be  cited  with  much  more  plausibility  to  prove  that  they  understood  the  arrangement  of 
music  in  parts;  |  yet  I  believe  it  is  conceded  in  general  by  the  learned,  that  however  grand 
and  pathetic  the  melody  of  the  ancients  may  have  been,  it  was  reserved  for  the  ingenuity 
of  modern  science  to  transmit  the  "light  of  song"  through  the  variegating  prism  of 
harmony. 

Indeed  the  irregular  scale  of  the  early  Irish  (in  which,  as  in  the  music  of  Scotland, 
the  interval  of  the  fourth  was  wanting)  **  must  have  furnished  but  wild  and  refractory 
subjects  to  the  harmonist.  It  was  only  when  the  invention  of  Guido  began  to  be  known, 
and  the  powers  of  the  harp  f  f  were  enlarged  by  additional  strings,  that  our  melodies  took 
the  sweet  character  which  interests  us  at  present;  and  while  the  Scotch  persevered  in  the 
old  mutilation  of  the  scale,  J^  our  music  became  gradually  more  amenable  to  the  laws  of 
harmony  and  counterpoint. 

In  profiting,  however,  by  the  improvements  of  the  moderns,  our  style  still  kept  its 

*  See  advertisement  to  the  Transactions  of  the  Gaelic  Society       Dublin. 

t  O'Halloran,  vol.  i.,  parti.,  chap.  vi. 

J  Id.  ib.,  chap.  vii. 

§  It  is  also  supposed,  but  with  as  little  proof,  that  they  understood  the  diesis,  or  enharmonic  interval.  The  Greeks  seem 
to  have  formed  their  ears  to  this  delicate  gradation  of  sound  ;  and,  whatever  difficulties  or  objections  may  lie  in  the  way  of 
its  practical  use,  we  must  agree  with  Merseime,  (Preludes  de  V  Harmonic,  quest.  7,)  that  the  theory  of  music  would  be  im- 
perfect without  it;  and,  even  in  practice,  as  Tosi,  among  others,  very  justly  remarks,  (Observations  on  Florid  Song, chap. i., 
§  16,)  there  is  no  good  performer  on  the  violin  who  does  not  make  a  sensible  difference  between  D  sharp  and  E  flat,  though, 
from  the  imperfection  of  the  instrument,  they  are  the  same  notes  upon  the  piano-forte.  The  effect  of  modulation  by  en- 
harmonic transitions  is  j.lso  very  striking  and  beautiful. 

||  The  words  irouaAui  and  erepo^wt'ia,  in  a  passage  of  Plato,  and  some  expressions  of  Cicero,  in  fragment,  lib.  ii.,  De 
RepubL,  induced  the  Abbe  Fraguier  to  maintain  that  the  ancients  had  a  knowledge  of  counterpoint.  M.  Burette,  however, 
has  answered  him,  I  think,  satisfactorily,  ("  Examen  d'uii  Passage  de  Platon,"  in  the  third  volume  of  Histoire  de  V  Acad.) 
M.  Huet  is  of  opinion  (Pensees  Diverses)  that  what  Cicero  says  of  the  music  of  the  spheres,  in  his  dream  of  Scipio,  is  suffic- 
ient to  prove  an  acquaintance  with  harmony  ;  but  one  of  the  strongest  passages  which  I  recollect  in  favor  of  the  supposi- 
tion occurs  in  the  Treatise,  attributed  to  Aristotle.  Ilepi  Koo-^ou— Mono-ucr;  6e  ofeis  a/ua  <cai  /Sapcit,  <c.  T.  A. 

**  Another  lawless  peculiarity  of  our  music  is  the  frequency  of  what  composers  call  consecutive  fifths;  but  this  is  an  ir- 
regularity which  can  hardly  be  avoided  by  persons  not  very  conversant  with  the  rules  of  composition  ;  indeed,  if  I  may 
venture  to  cite  my  own  wild  attempts  in  this  way,  it  is  a  fault  which  I  find  myself  continually  committing,  and  which  has 
sometimes  appeared  so  pleasing  to  my  ear  that  I  have  surrendered  it  to  the  critic  with  considerable  reluctance.  May  there 
not  be  a  little  pedantry  in  adhering  too  rigidly  to  this  rule?  I  have  been  told  that  there  are  instances  in  Haydn  of  an  un- 
disguised succession  of  fifths  ;  and  Mr  Shield,  in  his  Introduction  to  Harmony,  seems  to  intimate  that  Handel  has  been, 
sometimes  guilty  of  the  same  irregularity. 

tf  A  singular  oversight  occurs  in  an  Essay  on  the  Irish  Harp  by  Mr.  Beauford,  which  is  inserted  in  the  Appendix  to 
Walker's  Historical  Memoirs.  "  The  Irish,"  says  he,  "according  to  Bromton,  in  the  reign  of  Henry  II.,  had  two  kinds 
of  harps,  '  Hibernici  tamen  in  duobus  musici  generis  instrumentis.  quamvis  preecipitem  et  velocem,  suavem  tainen  et  jucun- 
dam,1  the  one  greatly  bold  and  quick,  the  other  soft  and  pleasing."  How  a  man  of  Mr.  Beauford 's  learning  could  so  mistake 
the  meaning  and  mutilate  the  grammatical  construction  of  this  extract  is  unaccountable.  The  following  is  the  passage  as 
I  find  it  entire  in  Bromton,  and  it  requires  but  little  Latin  to  perceive  the  injustice  which  has  been  done  to  the  words  of  the 
old  chronicler  :— "  Et  cum  Scotia,  hujus  terrse  fllia,  utatur  lyrd,  tympano  et  choro,  ac  Wallia  cithara,  ttibis  et  chora  Hiber- 
nici tamen  in  duobus  musici  generis  instrumentis,  quamvis pra>cipitem  et  velocem,  suavem  tamen  et  jiicundam,  crispatis 
modulis  et  intricatis  notulis,  efflciunt  harmoniam,"  (Hist.  Anglic.  Script.,  p.  1075.)  I  should  not  have  thought  this  error 
worth  remarking,  but  that  the  compiler  of  the  Dissertation  on  the  Harp,  prefixed  to  Mr.  Bunting's  last  work,  has  adopted 
it  implicitly. 

ft  The  Scotch  lay  claim  to  some  of  our  best  airs,  but  there  are  strong  traits  of  difference  between  their  melodies  and 
ours.  They  had  formerly  the  same  passion  for  robbing  us  of  our  saints,  and  the  learned  Dempster  was.  for  this  offence, 
called  "The  Saint-stealer." 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOOKK.  29 

originality  sacred  from  their  refinements;  and  though  Carolan  had  frequent  opportunities 
of  hearing  the  works  of  Geminiani  and  other  masters,  we  but  rarely  find  him  sacrificing 
his  native  simplicity  to  the  ambition  of  their  ornaments,  or  affectation  of  their  science. 
In  that  curious  composition,  indeed,  called  his  Concerto,  it  is  evident  that  he  labored  to 
imitate  Corelli;  and  this  union  of  manners  so  very  dissimilar  produces  the  same  kind  of 
uneasy  sensation  which  is  felt  at  a  mixture  of  different  styles  of  architecture.  In  general, 
however,  the  artless  flow  of  our  music  has  preserved  itself  free  from  all  tinge  of  foreign 
innovation,*  and  the  chief  corruptions  of  which  we  have  to  complain  arise  from  the  un- 
skilful performance  of  our  own  itinerant  musicians,  from  whom,  too  frequently,  the  airs  are 
noted  down,  encumbered  by  their  tasteless  decorations,  and  responsible  for  all  their  ignorant 
anomalies.  Though  it  be  sometimes  impossible  to  trace  the  original  strain,  yet  in  most 
of  them,  "  auri  per  ramos  aura  refulget,"f  the  pure  gold  of  the  melody  shines  through  the 
ungraceful  foliage  which  surrounds  it;  and  the  most  delicate  and  difficult  duty  of  a  com- 
piler is  to  endeavor,  as  much  as  possible,  by  retrenching  these  inelegant  superfluities,  and 
collating  the  various  methods  of  playing  or  singing  each  air,  to  restore  the  regularity  of 
its  form,  and  the  chaste  simplicity  of  its  character. 

I  must  again  observe  that,  in  doubting  the  antiquity  of  our  music,  my  skepticism 
•extends  but  to  those  polished  specimens  of  the  art  which  it  is  difficult  to  conceive  anterior 
to  the  dawn  of  modern  improvement;  and  that  I  would  by  no  means  invalidate  the  claims 
of  Ireland  to  as  early  a  rank  in  the  annals  of  minstrelsy  as  the  most  zealous  antiquary  may 
be  inclined  to  allow  her.  In  addition,  indeed,  to  the  power  which  music  must  always  have 
possessed  over  the  minds  of  a  people  so  ardent  and  susceptible,  the  stimulus  of  persecution 
was  not  wanting  to  quicken  our  taste  into  enthusiasm;  the  charms  of  song  were  ennobled 
•with  the  glories  of  martyrdom,  and  the  acts  against  minstrels  in  the  reigns  of  Henry  VI Ik 
and  Elizabeth  were  as  successful,  I  doubt  not,  in  making  my  countrymen  musicians  as  the 
penal  laws  have  been  in  keeping  them  Catholics. 

With  respect  to  the  verses  which  I  have  written  for  these  melodies,  as  they  are  in- 
tended rather  to  be  sung  than  read,  I  can  answer  for  their  sound  with  somewhat  more 
confidence  than  their  sense;  yet  it  would  be  affectation  to  deny  that  I  have  given  much 
attention  to  the  task,  and  that  it  is  not  through  want  of  zeal  or  industry  if  I  unfortunately 
disgrace  the  sweet  airs  of  my  country  by  poetry  altogether  unworthy  of  their  taste,  their 
•energy,  and  their  tenderness. 

Though  the  humble  nature  of  my  contributions  to  this  work  may  exempt  them  from 
the  rigors  of  literary  criticism,  it  was  not  to  be  expected  that  those  touches  of  political 
feeling,  those  tones  of  national  complaint,  in  which  the  poetry  sometimes  sympathizes  with 
the  music,  would  be  suffered  to  pass  without  censure  or  alarm.  It  has  been  accordingly 
said  that  the  tendency  of  this  publication  is  mischievous,^  and  that  I  have  chosen  these  airs 
but  as  a  vehicle  of  dangerous  politics — as  fair  and  precious  vessels  (to  borrow  an  image  of 
St.  Augustine)  from  which  the  wine  of  error  might  be  administered.  To  those  who 
identify  nationality  with  treason,  and  who  see  in  every  effort  for  Ireland  a  system  of  hos- 
tility toward  England — to  those  too,  who,  nursed  in  the  gloom  of  prejudice,  are  alarmed 
by  the  faintest  gleam  of  liberality  that  threatens  to  disturb  their  darkness,  like  that 

*  Among  other  false  refinements  of  the  art.  our  music  (with  the  exception,  p«Tliaj>s,  of  the  air  called  "Mamma,  Mamma," 
and  one  or  two  more  of  the  same  ludicrous  description)  has  avoided  that  puerile  mimicry  of  minimi  noises,  motions.  Ac.. 
which  disgraces  BO  often  the  works  of  even  the  great  Handel  himself.  D'AleiiiU-rt  ought  to  have  had  letter  t**te  than  to 
become  the  patron  of  this  imitative  affectation,  (£>i«coiini  Prfliminnir,-  <!••!'  /:/i<-i/<-/<./»:(/iV.)  The  reader  may  find  Mime 
good  remarks  on  the  subject  in  Avison  upon  Musical  Expression  ;  a  work  which,  though  under  the  name  of  Avisun.  wan 
•written,  it  is  said,  by  Dr.  Brown. 

t  Virgil,  JKntid,  lib.  6,  v.  204. 

;  S, •••  lytt.-rs.  iiinlt-r  the  signature*  of  "Timaeus,"  &c..  In  the  Morning  Pitst,  Pilot,  and  other  paper*. 


30  POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 

Demophon  of  old  who,  when  the  sun  shone  upon  him  shivered  !  * — to  such  men  I  shall  not 
deign  to  apologize  for  the  warmth  of  any  political  sentiment  which  may  occur  in  the  course 
of  these  pages.  But  as  there  are  many  among  the  more  wise  and  tolerant  who,  with  feel- 
ing enough  to  mourn  over  the  wrongs  of  their  country,  and  sense  enough  to  perceive  all 
the  danger  of  not  redressing  them,  may  yet  think  that  allusions  in  the  least  degree  bold 
or  inflammatory  should  be  avoided  in  a  publication  of  this  popular  description — I  beg  of 
these  respected  persons  to  believe  that  there  is  no  one  who  deprecates  more  sincerely  than 
I  do  any  appeal  to  the  passions  of  an  ignorant  and  angry  multitude;  but  that  it  is  not 
through  that  gross  and  inflammable  region  of  society  a  work  of  this  nature  could  ever  have 
been  intended  to  circulate.  It  looks  much  higher  for  its  audience  and  readers — it  is  found 
upon  the  piano-fortes  of  the  rich  and  the  educated — of  those  who  can  afford  to  have  their 
national  zeal  a  little  stimulated  without  exciting  much  dread  of  the  excesses  into  which  it 
may  hurry  them;  and  of  many  whose  nerves  may  be  now  and  then  alarmed  with  advan- 
tage, as  much  more  is  to  be  gained  by  their  fears  than  could  ever  be  expected  from  their 
justice. 

Having  thus  adverted  to  the  principal  objection  which  has  been  hitherto  made  to  the 
poetical  part  of  this  work,  allow  me  to  add  a  few  words  in  defence  of  my  ingenious 
coadjutor,  Sir  John  Stevenson,  who  has  been  accused  of  having  spoiled  the  simplicity  of 
the  airs  by  the  chromatic  richness  of  his  symphonies  and  the  elaborate  variety  of  his  har- 
monies. We  might  cite  the  example  of  the  admirable  Haydn,  who  has  sported  through 
all  the  mazes  of  musical  science  in  his  arrangement  of  the  simplest  Scottish  melodies;  but 
it  appears  to  me  that  Sir  John  Stevenson  has  brought  a  national  feeling  to  this  task,  which 
it  would  be  in  vain  to  expect  from  a  foreigner,  however  tasteful  or  judicious.  Through 
•many  of  his  own  compositions  we  trace  a  vein  of  Irish  sentiment,  which  points  him  out  as 
peculiarly  suited  to  catch  the  spirit  of  his  country's  music:  and,  far  from  agreeing  with 
those  critics  who  think  that  his  symphonies  have  nothing  kindred  with  the  airs  which  they 
introduce,  I  would  say  that,  in  general,  they  resemble  those  illuminated  initials  of  old 
manuscripts  which  are  of  the  same  character  with  the  writing  which  follows,  though  more 
highly  colored  and  more  curiously  ornamented. 

In  those  airs  which  are  arranged  for  voices,  his  skill  has  particularly  distinguished 
itself,  and,  though,  it  cannot  be  denied  that  a  single  melody  most  naturally  expresses  the 
language  of  feeling  and  passion,  yet  often,  when  a  favorite  strain  has  been  dismissed  as 
having  lost  its  charm  of  novelty  for  the  ear,  it  returns  in  a  harmonized  shape  with  new 
claims  upon  our  interest  and  attention;  and  to  those  who  study  the  delicate  artifices  of 
composition,  the  construction  of  the  inner  parts  of  these  pieces  must  afford,  I  think,  con- 
siderable satisfaction.  Every  voice  has  an  air  to  itself,  a  flowing  succession  of  notes, 
which  might  be  heard  with  pleasure  independent  of  the  rest,  so  artfully  has  the  harmonist 
(if  I  may  thus  express  it)  gavelled  the  melody,  distributing  an  equal  portion  of  its  sweet- 
ness to  every  part. 

*"This  emblem  of  modern  bigots  was  head-butler  (rpan-e  £OTTOIOS)  to  Alexander  the  Great."— Sext.  Empir.  Pyrrh 
Hypoth.,  lib.  i. 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE, 


GO    WHERE    GLORY  WAITS    THEE. 

Go  where  glory  waits  thee, 
But  while  fame  elates  thee, 

Oh!  still  remember  me. 
When  the  praise  thou  meetest 
To  thine  ear  is  sweetest, 

Oh !  then  remember  me. 
Other  arms  may  press  thee, 
Dearer  friends  caress  thee, 
All  the  joys  that  bless  thee, 

Sweeter  far  may  be; 
But  when  friends  are  nearest, 
And  when  joys  are  dearest, 

Oh!  then  remember  me. 

When  at  eve  thou  rovest 
By  the  star  thou  lovest, 

Oh!  then  remember  me. 
Think,  when  home  returning, 
Bright  we've  seen  it  burning, 

Oh!  thus  remember  me. 
Oft  as  summer  closes, 
On  its  lingering  roses, 

Once  so  loved  by  thee, 
Think  of  her  who  wove  them, 
Her  who  made  thee  love  them, 

Oh!  then  remember  me. 

When,  around  thee  dying, 
Autumn  leaves  are  lying, 

Oh!  then  remember  me. 
And,  at  night,  when  gazing 
On  the  gay  hearth  blazing, 

Oh!  still  remember  me, 
Then  should  music,  stealing 
All  the  soul  of  feeling, 
To  thy  heart  appealing, 

Draw  one  tear  from  thee; 
Then  let  memory  bring  thee 
Strains  I  used  to  sing  thee — 

Oh!  then  remember  me. 


WAR  SONG. 

REMEMBER  THE  GLORIES  OF  BRIEN  THE  BRAVE.1 

REMEMBER  the  glories  of  Brien  the  Brave. 

Though  the  days  of  the  hero  are  o'er; 
Though  lost  to  Mononia,7  and  cold  in  the 

grave, 

He  returns  to  Kinkora1  no  more! 
That  star  of  the  field,  which  so  often  has 

pour'd 

Its  beam  on  the  battle,  is  set; 
But  enough  of   its  glory  remains  on  each 

sword 
To  light  us  to  glory  yet! 

Mononia!  when  nature  embellish'd  the  tint 

Of  thy  fields  and  thy  mountains  so  fair, 
Did  she  ever  intend   that  a  tyrant  should 

print 

The  footstep  of  slavery  there  ? 
No,  freedom!   whose  smile  we  shall  never 

resign, 
Go,  tell  our  invaders,  the  Danes, 

'Tis    sweeter  to  bleed  for  an  age  at  thy 

shrine, 
Than  to  sleep  but  a  moment  in  chains! 

Forget  not  our  wounded  companions  who 

stood4 
In  the  day  of  distress  by  our  side; 


1  Brien  Borombe,  the  great  monarch  of  Ireland,  who  was 
killed  at  the  battle  of  Clontarf,  in  the  br£iimii>£  of  the 
eleventh  century,  after  having  defeated  the  Danes  intwcntx  - 
live  engagement. 

*  Munster.  *  The  palace  Of  Brien. 

4  This  alludes  to  an  interesting  circumstance  related  of  the 
Dalgais,  the  favorite  troops  of  Brien,  when  they  were  inter- 
rupted in  their  return  from  the  battle  of  Clontarf  by  Fitzpat- 
rick,Princeof  Ossory.  The  wounded  men  entreated  that  t)»-y 
might  be  allowed  to  fight  with  the  rest.—  "Let  stakes,"  tlu-y 
said,  "/*<•  utiick  in  the  ground, and  suffer  each  of  us,  tied  to 
and  mtpported  by  one  of  these  stakes,  to  be  placed  in  hit  run  k 
by  the  tide,  of  a  sound  man."  "Between  Mven  nnil  eipht  litin 
dred  wounded  men,"  adds  O'Halloran,  pale,  emaciated,  and 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


While  the  moss  of  the  valley  grew  red  with 

their  blood, 

They  stirr'd  not,  but  conquer'd  and  died ! 

The  sun  that  now  blesses  our  arms  with  his 

light, 

Saw  them  fall  upon  Ossory's  plain ! 
Oh  let  him  not  blush,  when  he  leaves  us  to- 
night, 
To  find  that  they  fell  there  in  vain ! 


ERIN!  THE  TEAR  AND   THE  SMILE 
IN  THINE  EYES. 

ERIN  !  the  tear  and  the  smile  in  thine  eyes 
Blend,  like  the  rainbow  that  hangs  in  thy 

skies ! 

Shining  through  sorrow's  stream, 
Saddening  through  pleasure's  beam, 
Thy  sons,  with  doubtful  gleam, 
Weep  while  they  rise! 

Erin !  thy  silent  tear  never  shall  cease, 
Erin !  thy  languid  smile  ne'er  shall  increase, 

Till,  like  the  rainbow's  light, 

Thy  various  tints  unite, 

And  form,  in  Heaven's  sight, 
One  arch  of  peace ! 


OH  BREATHE  NOT  HIS  NAME. 

OH  breathe  not  his  name,  let  it  sleep  in  the 

shade, 

Where  cold  and  unhonor'd  his  relics  are  laid; 
.Sad,  silent,  and  dark  be  the  tears  that  we 

shed, 
As  the  night-dew  that  falls  on  the  grass  o'er 

his  head! 

But   the   night-dew   that   falls,  though    in 

silence  it  weeps, 
Shall  brighten  with  verdure  the  grave  where 

he  sleeps, 


supported  in  this  manner,  appeared  mixed  with  the  fore- 
most of  the  troops— nevei*  was  such  another  sight  exhib- 
ited."— History  of  Ireland,  Book  xii.,  Chap.  I. 


And  the  tear  that  we  shed,  though  in  secret 

it  rolls, 
Shall  long  keep  his  memory  green  in  our 

souls. 


WHEN  HE  WHO  ADORES  THEE. 

WHEN  he  who  adores  thee  has  left  but  the 

name 

Of  his  fault  and  his  sorrows  behind, 
Oh  say  wilt  thou  weep,  when  they  darken 

the  fame 

.   Of  a  life  that  for  thee  was  resign'd  ? 
Yes,  weep,  and  however  my  foes  may  con- 
demn, 

Thy  tears  shall  efface  their  decree; 
For  Heaven  can  witness,  though  guilty  to 

them, 
I  have  been  but  too  faithful  to  thee! 

With  thee  were  the  dreams  of  my  earliest 

love; 

Every  thought  of  my  reason  was  thine : 
In  my  last  humble  prayer  to  the  Spirit  above, 

Thy  name  shall  be  mingled  with  mine! 
Oh!  blest  are  the  lovers  and  friends  who 

shall  live 

The  days  of  thy  glory  to  see; 
But  the  next  dearest  blessing  that  Heaven 

can  give 
Is  the  pride  of  thus  dying  for  thee ! 


THE  HARP  THAT  ONCE  THROUGH 
TARA'S  HALLS. 

THE  harp  that  once  through  Tara's  halls 

The  soul  of  music  shed, 
Now  hangs  as  mute  on  Tara's  walls 

As  if  that  soul  were  fled. 
So  sleeps  the  pride  of  former  days, 

So  glory's  thrill  is  o'er, 
And  hearts  that  once  beat  high  for  praise, 

Now  feel  that  pulse  no  more! 

No  more  to  chiefs  and  ladies  bright 

The  harp  of  Tara  swells; 
The  chord  alone  that  breaks  at  night. 

Its  tale  of  ruin  tells. 


HAM?  TEHAI  (DITCH  TDKBiB'JBJE  TE&IMlS 


5.      I      • »      •  -•«•«*      •      * 
*  **  */  I'  •  **  *      *  .*""*       « 


POKMS  OF  THOMAS  .MooliK. 


Thus  Freedom  now  so  seldom  wakes, 

The  only  throb  &he  givrs 
Is  when  some  heart  indignant  breaks, 

To  show  that  still  she  lives. 


Oil  THINK    NOT   MY   SPIRITS    ARE 
ALWAYS  AS  LIGHT. 

OH  think  not  my  spirits  are  always  as  light 
And  as  free  from  a  pang  as  they  seem  to 

you  now ; 
Nor  expect  that  the  heart-beaming  smile  of 

to-night 
Will  return  with  to-morrow  to  brighten 

my  brow. 
No,  life  is  a  waste  of  wearisome  hours 

Which   seldom    the    rose    of   enjoyment 

adorns ; 
And  the  heart  that  is  soonest  awake  to  the 

flowers 
Is  always  the  first  to  be  touch'd  by  the 

thorns ! 
But  send  round  the  bowl,  and  be  happy  a 

while  ; 

May  we  never  meet  worse  in  our  pilgrim- 
age here 
Than  the  tear  that  enjoyment  can  gild  with 

a  smile, 

And  the  smile  that  compassion  can  turn  to 
a  tear ! 

The  thread  of  our  life  would  be  dark,  Heaven 

knows  ! 
If  it  were  not  with  friendship  and  love 

intertwined ; 
And   I   care  not   how   soon  I  may  sink  to 

repose, 
When   these    blessings  shall   cease  to  be 

dear  to  my  mind  ! 
But  they  who  have  loved  the  fondest,  the 

purest, 
Too  often  have  wept  o'er  the  dream  they 

believed  ; 

And  the  heart  that  has  slumber'd  in  friend- 
ship securest, 

Is  happy  indeed,  if  'twas  never  deceived. 
But  send  round  the  bowl,  while  a  relic  of 
truth 


Is  in  man  or  in   woman,  this  prayer  shall 

be  mine — 
That  the  sunshine  of  love  may  illumine  OIK 

youth, 

And  the  moonlight  of  friendship  console 
our  decline. 


FLY   NOT   YET. 

FLY  not  yet,  'tis  just  the  hour 
When  pleasure,  like  the  midnight  flower 
That  scorns  the  eye  of  vulgar  light, 
Begins  to  bloom  for  sons  of  night, 

And  maids  who  love  the  moon  ! 
'Twas  but  to  bless  these  hours  of  shade 
That  beauty  and  the  moon  were  made; 
'Tis  then  their  soft  attractions  sjlowinjr 

O  O 

Set  the  tides  and  goblets  flowing. 

Oh  !  stay,— Oh  !  stay,— 
Joy  so  seldom  weaves  a  chain 
Like  this  to-night,  that  oh  !  'tis  pain 

To  break  its  link  so  soon. 

Fly  not  yet,  the  fount  that  play'd 

In  times  of  old  through  Ammon's  shade,1 

Though  icy  cold  by  day  it  ran, 

Yet  still,  like  souls  of  mirth,  began 

To  burn  when  night  was  near; 
And  thus  should  woman's  heart  and  looks 
At  noon  be  cold  as  winter  brooks, 
Nor  kindle  till  the  night,  returning, 
Brings  their  genial  hour  for  burning. 

Oh  !  stay, — Oh  !  stay, — 
When  did  morning  evvr  break, 
And  find  such  beaming  eyes  awake 

As  those  that  sparkle  here  1 


THOUGH    THE    LAST    GLIMPSE    OK 
ERIN  WITH  SORROW  I  SEE. 

THOUGH  the  last  glimpse  of  Erin  with  sor- 
row I  see, 

Yet  wherever  thou  art  shall  seem  Erin  to  me ; 

In  exile  thy  bosom  shall  still  be  my  home, 

And  thine  eyes  make  my  climate  wherever 
wi-  roiiin. 


'  Soli*  Kona.  near  the  Temple  of  Ammou. 


34 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


To  the  gloom  of  some  desert  or  cold  rocky 

shore, 
Where  the  eye  of  the  stranger  can  haunt  us 

no  more, 
I  will  fly  with  my  Coulin,  and  think  the 

rough  wind 
Less  rude  than  the  foes  we  leave  frowning 

behind. 

And  I'll  gaze  on  thy  gold  hair,  as  graceful 

it  wreathes, 
And  hang  o'er  thy  soft  harp,  as  wildly  it 

breathes ; 
Nor  dread  that  the  cold-hearted  Saxon  will 

tear 
One  chord  from  that  harp,  or  one  lock  from 

that  hair.1 


THE  MEETING  OF  THE  WATERS.' 

THERE  is  not  in  the  wide  world  a  valley  so 

sweet 
As  that  vale  in   whose  bosom   the   bright 

waters  meet  !' 
Oh  !  the  last  rays  of  feeling  and  life  must 

depart 
Ere  the  bloom  of  that  valley  shall  fade  from 

my  heart. 

Yet  it  was  not  that  nature  had  shed  o'er  the 

scene 

Her  purest  of  crystal  and  brightest  of  green  ; 
'Twas  not  the  soft  magic  of  streamlet  or  hill, 
Oh  !  no — it  was  something  more  exquisite 

still. 


1  In  the  twenty-eighth  year  of  the  reign  of  Henry  VIII., 
an  Act  was  made  respecting  the  habits,  and  dress  in  general, 
of  the  Irish,  whereby  all  persons  were  restrained  from  being 
shorn  or  shaven  above  the  ears,  or  from  wearing  glibbes  or 
conlins  (long  locks)  on  their  heads,  or  hair  on  their  upper  lip, 
called  crommeal.  On  this  occasion  a  song  was  written  by  one 
of  our  bards,  in  which  an  Irish  virgin  is  made  to  give  the  pre- 
ference to  her  dear  Coulin  (or  the  youth  with  the  flowing 
locks)  to  all  strangers,  (by  which  the  English  were  meant,)  or 
those  who  wore  their  habits.  Of  this  song  the  air  alone  has 
readied  us,  and  is  universally  admired.—  Walker's  Historical 
Memoirs  of  Irish  Bards,  p.  134.  Mr.  Walker  informs  us  also 
that,  about  the  same  period,  there  were  some  harsh  measures 
takin  against  the  Irish  minstrels. 

3  "  The  Meeting  of  the  Waters"  forms  a  part  of  that  beau- 
tii'ul  scenery  which  lies  between  Rathdrum  and  Arklow,  in 
the  county  of  Wicklow,  and  these  lines  were  suggested  by  a 
noit  to  this  romantic  spot  in  the  summer  of  the  year  1807. 

*  The  rivers  Avon  and  Avoco. 


'Twas  that  friends,  the  beloved  of  my  bosom, 

were  near, 
Who  made  every  dear  scene  of  enchantment 

more  dear, 
And  who  felt  how  the  best  charms  of  nature 

improve, 
When  we  see  them  reflected  from  looks  that 

we  love. 

Sweet  vale  of  Avoca  !  how  calm  could  I  rest 
In  thy  bosom  of  shade  with  the  friends  I  love 

best, 
Where  the  storms  that  we  feel  in  this  cold 

world  should  cease, 
And  our  hearts,  like  thy  waters,  be  mingled 

in  peace  ! 


RICH  AND  RARE  WERE  THE  GEMS 
SHE  WORE.4 

RICH  and  rare  were  the  gems  she  wore, 
And   a  bright  gold  ring  on  her  wand   she 

bore ; 

But  oh  !  her  beauty  was  far  beyond 
Her  sparkling  gems  or  snow-white  wand. 

"  Lady  !  dost  thou  not  fear  to  stray, 
So  lone  and  lovely,  through  this  bleak  way? 
Are  Erin's  sons  so  good  or  so  cold, 
As  not  to  be  tempted  by  woman  or  gold  ?" 
"  Sir  Knight !  I  feel  not  the  least  alarm, 
No  son  of  Erin  will  offer  me  harm — 
For  though  they  love  women  and  golden  store, 
Sir   Knight !    they  love   honor   and   virtue 
more !" 

On  she  went,  and  her  maiden  smile 
In  safety  lighted  her  round  the  Green  Isle. 
And  blest  forever  is  she  who  relied 
Upon  Erin's  honor,  and  Erin's  pride  ! 


4  This  ballad  is  founded  upon  the  following  anecdote:— 
"  The  people  were  inspired  with  such  a  spirit  of  honor,  vircue, 
and  religion,  by  the  great  example  of  Brien,  and  by  his  ex- 
cellent administration,  that,  as  a  proof  of  it,  we  are  informed 
that  a  young  lady  of  great  beauty,  adorned  with  jewels  and  a 
costly  dress,  undertook  a  journey  alone,  from  one  end  of  the 
kingdom  to  the  other,  with  a  wand  only  in  her  hand,  at  the 
top  of  which  was  a  ring  of  exceeding  great  value  ;  and  such 
an  impression  had  the  laws  and  government  of  this  monarch 
made  on  the  minds  of  all  the  people,  that  no  attempt  was 
made  upon  her  honor,  nor  was  she  robbed  of  her  clothes  at 
jewels." —  Warner's  History  of  Ireland,  vol.  . ,  book  x. 


POEMS  OK  THOMAS  MOOKE. 


3.-, 


AS  A  BEAM  O'ER  THE  FACE  OF  THE 
WATERS  MAY  GLOW. 

As  a  beam  o'er  the  face  of  the  waters  may 

glow, 
While  the  tide  runs  in  darkness  and  coldness 

below, 
So  the  cheek  may  be  tinged  with  a  warm 

sunny  smile, 
Though  the  cold  heart  to  ruin  runs  darkly 

the  while. 

One   fatal   remembrance,   one    sorrow   that 

throws 
Its  bleak  shade  alike  o'er  our  joys  and  our 

woes, 
To  which  life  nothing  darker  or  brighter  can 

CJ  O 

bring, 

For  which  joy  has  no  balm  and  affliction  no 
sting  ! 

Oh  !  this  thought  in  the  midst  of  enjoyment 

will  stay, 
lake  a  dead  leafless  branch  in  the  summer's 

bright  ray ; 
The  beams  of  the  warm  sun  play  round  it  in 

vain, 
It  may  smile  in  his  light,  but  it  blooms  not 

again  1 


ST.  SENANUS  AND  THE  LADY. 

8T.  SENANUS. 

"  On  !  haste  and  leave  this  sacred  isle, 
Unholy  bark,  ere  morning  smile  : 
}for  on  thy  deck,  though  dark  it  be, 

A  female  form  I  see  ; 
And  I  have  sworn  this  sainted  sod 
Shall  ne'er  by  woman's  feet  be  trod  1" 

THE  LADY. 

"  O  father,  send  not  hence  my  bark, 
Through  wintry  winds  and  billows  dark  ; 
I  come  with  humble  heart  to  share 

Thy  morn  and  evening  prayer; 
Nor  mine  the  feet,  O  holy  saint, 
The  brightness  of  thy  sod  to  taint." 


The  lady's  prayer  Seiianus  spurn'd  ; 
The  winds  blew  fresh,  the  bark  return'cL 
Hut  legends  hint,  that  had  the  maid 

Till  morning's  light  dehiy'd, 
And  given  the  saint  one  rosy  smile, 
She  ne'er  had  left  his  lonelv  i*le. 


HOW  DEAR  TO  ME  THE  HOUR. 

How  dear  to  me  the  hour  when  daylight  dies, 
And  sunbeams  melt  along  the  silent  sea, 

For  then  sweet  dreams  of  other  days  arise, 
And  memory  breathes  her  vesper  sigh  to 
thee. 

And  as  I  watch  the  line  of  light  that  plays 
Along  the  smooth  wave  toward  the  burn- 
ing west, 

I  long  to  tread  that  golden  path  of  rays, 
And  think  'twould  lead  to  some  bright  islf 
of  rest ! 


TAKE  BACK  THE  VIRGIN  PAGE. 

WRITTEN  ON  RETURNING  A  BLANK  BOOK. 

TAKE  back  the  virgin  page, 

White  and  unwritten  still ; 
Some  hand  more  calm  and  sage 

The  leaf  must  fill. 
Thoughts  come,  as  pure  as  light, 

Pure  as  even  you  require  ; 
But  oh  !  each  word  I  write, 

Love  turns  to  tire. 

Yet  let  me  keep  the  book  ; 

Oft  shall  my  heart  renew, 
When  on  its  leaves  I  look, 

Dear  thoughts  of  you  ! 
Like  you,  'tis  fair  and  bright ; 

Like  you,  too  bright  and  fair 
To  let  wild  passion  write 

One  wrong  wish  there  I 

Haply,  when  from  those  eyes 
Far,  far  away  I  roam. 


36 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


Should  calmer  thoughts  arise 

Toward  you  and  homo  ; 
Fancy  may  trace  some  line, 

Worthy  those  eyes  to  meet, 
Thoughts  that  not  burn,  but  shine, 

Pure,  calm,  and  sweet ! 

And  as  the  records  are 

Which  wandering  seamen  keep, 
Led  by  their  hidden  star 

Through  winter's  deep ; 
So  may  the  words  I  write 

Tell  through  what  storms  I  stray, 
You  still  the  unseen  light 

Guiding  my  way ! 


THE   LEGACY. 

WHEN  in  death  I  shall  calm  recline, 
Oh  bear  my  heart  to  my  mistress  dear; 

Tell  her  it  lived  upon  smiles  and  wine 
Of  the  brightest  hue,  while  it  linger'd  here. 

Bid  her  not  shed  one  tear  of  sorrow 
To  sully  a  heart  so  brilliant  and  light ; 

But  balmy  drops  of  the  red  grape  borrow, 
To  bathe  the  relic  from  morn  till  night. 

When  the  light  of  my  song  is  o'er, 
Then  take  my  harp  to  your  ancient  hall ; 

Hang  it  up  at  that  friendly  door, 
Where  weary  travellers  love  to  calL1 

Then  if  some  bard  who  roams  forsaken, 
Revive  its  soft  note  in  passing  along, 

Oil !  let  one  thought  of  its  master  waken 
Your  warmest  smile  for  the  child  of  song. 

Keop  this  cup,  which  is  now  o'erflowing, 
To  grace  your  revel,  when  I'm  at  rest ; 

Nsver,  oh  !  never  its  bairn  bestowing 
On  lips  that  beauty  hath  seldom  blest ! 

But  when  some  warm  devoted  lover 
To  her  he  adores  shall  bathe  its  brim, 

Oh  !  then  my  spirit  around  shall  hover, 
And  hallow  each  drop  that  foams  for  him. 


"  In  every  hoiwe  was  one  or  two  harps,  free  to  all  travel- 
ten,  who  were  the  more  caressed  the  more  they  excelled  iu 
wnsk."—  O'Halloran. 


HOW  OFT  HAS  THE  BENSHEE  CRIED 

How  oft  has  the  Benshee  cried ! 
How  oft  has  death  untied 
Bright  links  that  glory  wove, 
Sweet  bonds  entwined  by  love  ! 

Peace  to  each  manly  soul  that  sleepeth ! 

Rest  to  each  faithful  eye  that  weepeth  I 
Long  may  the  fair  and  brave 
Sigh  o'er  the  hero's  grave. 

We're  fallen  upon  gloomy  days,1 

Star  after  star  decays, 

Every  bright  name  that  shed 

Light  o'er  the  land  is  fled. 
Dark  falls  the  tear  of  him  who  mourneth 
Lost  joy,  or  hope  that  ne'er  returneth, 

But  brightly  flows  the  tear 

Wept  o'er  the  hero's  bier ! 

Oh !    quench'd  are  our  beacon-lights — 
Thou  of  the  hundred  fights  !' 
Thou  on  whose  burning  tongue 
Truth,  peace,  and  freedom  hung  !* 

Both  mute,  but  long  as  valor  shineth, 

Or  mercy's  soul  at  war  repineth, 
So  long  shall  Erin's  pride 
Tell  how  thev  lived  and  died. 


WE    MAY    ROAM    THROUGH    THIS 
WORLD. 

WE  may  roam  through  this   world  like  a 

child  at  a  feast 
Who  but  sips  of  a  sweet,  and  then  flies  to 

the  rest ; 
And  when  pleasure  begins  to  grow  dull  in 

the  east, 

We  may  order  our  wings,  and  be  off  to 
the  west ; 


8 1  have  endeavored  here,  without  losing  that  Irish  character 
which  it  is  my  object  to  preserve  throughout  this  work,  to  al- 
lude to  the  sad  and  ominous  fatality  by  which  England  has 
been  deprived  of  so  many  great  and  good  men,  at  a  moment 
when  she  most  requires  all  the  aids  of  talent  and  integrity. 

'  This  designation,  which  has  been  applied  to  Lord  Nelson 
before,  is  the  title  given  to  a  celebrated  Irish  hero,  in  a  poem 
by  O'Gnive,  the  bard  of  O'Neil,  which  is  quoted  in  the  Philo- 
sophical Survey  of  the  South  of  Ireland,  page  433:— "Con,  ol 
the  hundred  fights,  sleep  in  thy  grass-grown  tomb,  and  up 
braid  not  our  defeats  with  thy  victories  !" 

«  Fox — "  Ultimus  Romanorum  1" 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOOKR 


But  if  hearts  that  feel  and  eyes  that  smile 

Are  the  dearest  gifts  that  Heaven  supplies, 
We  never  need  leave  our  own  Green  Isle, 

For  sensitive  hearts  and  for  sun-bright  eyes. 
Then   remember,  wherever  your  goblet   is 

crown'd, 
Through  this  world,  whether  eastward  or 

westward  you  roam, 
When  a  cup  to  the  smile  of  dear  woman 

goes  round, 

Oh !  remember  the  smile  which  adorns  her 
at  home. 

(n  England  the  garden  of  beauty  is  kept 

By  a  dragon  of  prudery,  placed  within  call ; 
But  so  oft  this  unamiable  dragon  has  slept, 
That  the  garden's  but  carelessly  watch'd 

after  all. 

Oh  !  they  want  the  wild  sweet-briery  fenee 
Which  round  the  flowers  of  Erin  dwells, 
Which  warms  the  touch  while  winning  the 

sense, 

Xor  charms  us  least  when  it  most  repels. 
Then   remember,  wherever   your   goblet   is 

crown'd, 
Through  this  world,  whether  eastward  or 

westward  you  roam, 
When  a  cup  to  the  smile  of  dear  woman 

goes  round, 

Oh  !  remember  the  smile  which  adorns  her 
at  home. 

In  France,  when  the  heart  of  a  woman  sets 

sail 

On  the  ocean  of  wedlock  its  fortune  to  try, 
Love  seldom  goes  far  in  a  vessel  so  frail, 
But  just  pilots  her  off,  and  then  bids  her 

good-bye ! 
While  the  daughters  of  Erin  keep  the  boy 

Ever  smiling  beside  his  faithful  oar, 
Through  billows  of  woe  and  beams  of  joy, 
The   same  as  he  look'd  when  he  left  the 

shore. 
Then   remember,  wherever   your  goblet   is 

crown'd 
Through  this  world,  whether  eastward  or 

westward  you  roam, 
When  a  cup   to  the  smile  of  dear  woman 

goes  round, 

Oh  !   remember  the   smile  whicb    a^ow ; 
her  at  home. 


EVELEEN'S  BOWER 

OH  !  weep  for  the  hour 

When  to  Eveleen's  bower 
The  lord  of  the  valley  with  false  vows  came 

The  moon  hid  her  light 

From  the  heavens  that  night, 
And  wept  behind  her  clouds  o'er  the  maiden** 
shame. 

The  clouds  past  soon 

From  the  chaste  cold  moon, 
And   heaven  smiled   again  with  her  vestal 
flame; 

But  none  will  see  the  day 

When  the  clouds  shall  pass  away 
Which  that  dark  hour  left  upon  Eveleen'g 
fame. 

The  white  snow  lay 
On  the  narrow  pathway 
When  the  lord  of  the  valley  crost  over  the 

moor; 

And  many  a  deep  print 
On  the  white  snow's  tint 
Show'd  the  track  of  his  footstep  to  Eveleen'i 

door. 

The  next  sun's  ray 
Soon  melted  away 
Every  trace  on  the  path  where  the  false  loud 

came; 

But  there's  a  light  above 
Which  alone  can  remove 
That  stain  upon  the  snow  of  fair  Eveleen'i 
fame. 


THE  SONG  OF  FIONNUALA.1 

SILENT,  O  Moyle !  be  the  roar  of  thy  water, 
Break  not,  ye  breezes,  your  chain  of  repose, 

While,  murmuring  mournfully,  Lir's  lonely 

daughter 
Tells  to  the  night-star  her  tale  of  woes. 


1  To  make  thii  story  intelligible  in  a  song  would  require  a 
much  ^rosier  number  of  ver*cs  than  any  one  is  authorized  to 
inilii-t  upon  un  niiilifiK-f  at  once;  the  reader  rau»t  therefore  b« 
n, nii-iit  to  It-urn,  in  a  !.••:••.  hut  Fionnuala,  tie  daughter  of 
l.ir,  wa.«,  l>y  >r  in-.  Mi|iriii:itiir.-il  JHIWIT,  transformed  'uio  a 
r-\vuii,  :ind  ruu'lciniH-d  to  \\aiuicr.  tor  ninny  hundred  yean 
<>'cr  certain  lake*  uud  river*  of  Ireland  till  the  coming  of 
'hri-:i:ii;Hy.  \\ln-n  the  rtrct  couud  of  tin-  nimm-beU  wa*  to  bt 


38 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


When  shall  the  swan,  her  death-note  singing, 
Sleep,  with  wings  in  darkness  furl'd  ? 

When  will  heaven,  its  sweet  bell  ringing, 
Call  my  spirit  from  this  stormy  world  ? 

Sadly,  0  Moyle  !  to  thy  winter  wave  weeping, 

Fate  bids  me  languish  long  ages  away  ! 
Yet  still  in  her  darkness  doth  Erin  lie  sleeping, 

Still  doth  the  pure  light  its  dawning  delay  ! 
When  will  that  day-star,  mildly  springing, 

Warm  our  isle  with  peace  and  love  ? 
When  will  heaven,  its  sweet  bell  ringing, 

Call  my  spirit  to  the  fields  above  ? 


LET   ERIN   REMEMBER    THE    DAYS 
OF  OLD. 

LET  Erin  remember  the  days  of  old, 

Ere  her  faithless  sons  betray'd  her ; 
When  Malachi  wore  the  collar  of  gold1 

Which  he  won  from  her  proud  invader  ; 
When   her  kings  with   standard   of   green 
unfurl'd 

Led  the  Red-Branch  Knights  to  danger;" 
Ere  the  emerald  gem  of  the  western  world 

Was  set  in  the  crown  of  a  stranger. 

On  Lough   Neagh's  bank  as  the  fisherman 

strays,* 
When  the  clear  cold  eve's  declining:, 

O  7 


the  signal  of  her  release.  I  found  this  fanciful  fiction  among 
some  manuscript  translations  Irom  the,  Irish,  begun  under  the 
diroction  of  the  late  Countess  of  Moira. 

1  "  This  brought  on  an  encounter  between  Malachi  (the  mon- 
arch of  Ireland  in  the  tenth  century)  and  the  Danes,  in  which 
Malachi  defeated  two  of  their  champions,  whom  lie  encoun- 
tered successively  hand  to  hand,  taking  a  collar  of  gold  from 
the  neck  of  one,  and  carrying  off  the  sword  of  the  other,  as 
trophies  of  his  victory."—  Warner's  //is-,  of  Ireland,  vol.  i., 
book  ix. 

'  "  Military  orders  of  knights  were  very  early  established  in 
Ireland.  Long  before  the  birth  of  Christ  we  find  an  hereditary 
order  of  chivalry  in  Ulster,  called  Curaidhe  na  Craiobhe  ruadh, 
or  the  Knights  of  the  Red  Branch,  from  their  chief  seat  in 
Emania,  adjoining  to  the  palace'  of  the  Ulster  kin^g.  allied 
Teagh  na  Craiobhe  ruadh,  or  the  Academy  of  the  Hed  Bunch  ; 
and  contiguous  to  which  was  a  large  hospital,  founded  for  the 
sick  knights  and  soldiers,  called  Bron-bhearg \  or  the  hous»  of 
the  sorrowful  soldier."—  O'Halloran's  Introduction,  <fcc.,  p^rt 
L,  chapter  v. 

*  It  was  an  old  tradition  in  the  time  of  Giraldus,  that  Lough 
Neagh  had  been  originally  a  fountain,  by  whose  sudden  over- 
flowing the  country  was  inundated,  and  a  whole  region,  lik« 
the  Atlantis  of  Plato,  overwhelmed.  He  says,  that  the  fisher- 
men, in  clear  weather,  used  to  point  out  to  strangers  the  tall 
«Cft'/««>iastical  towers  under  t')e  water. 


He  sees  the  round  towers  of  other  days 
In  the  wave  beneath  him  shining  ! 

Thus  shall  memory  often,  in  dreams  sublime. 
Catch  a  glimpse  of  the  days  that  are  over 

Thus,  sighing,  look  through  the  waves  of  time 
For  the  long-faded  glories  they  cover ! 


COME,  SEND  ROUND  THE  WINE. 

COME,  send  round  the  wine,  and  leave  pointi 

of  belief 

To  simpleton  sages  and  reasoning  fools ; 
This  moment's  a  flower  too  fair  and  brief 
To  be  wither'd  a-nd  stain'd  by  the  dust  of 

the  schools. 
Your  glass  may  be  purple,  and  mine  may  be 

blue, 
But  while  they  are  fill'd  from  the  same 

bright  bowl, 
The  fool  who  would  quarrel  for  difference  of 

hue 

Deserves  not  the  comfort  they  shed  o'er 
the  soul. 

Shall  I  ask  the  brave  soldier,  who  fights  .Sy 

my  side 
In  the   cause  of  mankind,  if  our  creeds 

agree  ? 
Shall  I  give  up  the  friend  I  have  valued  and 

tried, 
If  he  kneel  not  before  the  same  altar  with 

me? 

From  the  heretic  girl  of  my  soul  shall  I  fly, 
To  seek  somewhere  else  a  more  orthodox 

kiss? 

No  !  perish  the  hearts  and  the  laws  that  try 
Truth,  valor,  or  love  by  a  standard  like 
this! 


SUBLIME  WAS  THE  WARNING. 

SUBLIME  was   the  warning  which   Liberty 

spoke, 
And  grand  was  the  moment  when  Spaniards 

awoke 
Into  life  and  revenge  from  the  conqueror '• 

chain  ! 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOOKK. 


89 


0  Liberty  !  let  not  this  spirit  have  rest, 

Till  it  move,  like  a  breeze,  o'er  the  waves  of 
the  west — 

Give  the  light  of  your  look  to  each  sorrow- 
ing spot, 

Nor  oh  !  be  the  shamrock  of  Erin  forgot, 
While  you  add  to  your  garland  the  olive 
of  Spain  ! 

If  the  fame  of  our  fathers,  bequeath'd  with 

their  rights, 
Give  to  country  its  charm,  and  to  home  its 

delights, 

If  deceit  be  a  wound,  and  suspicion  a  stain, 
Then,  ye  men  of  Iberia !  our  cause  is  the  same ; 
And  oh  !  may  his  tomb  want  a  tear  and  a 

name, 

Who  would  ask  for  a  nobler,  a  holier  death, 

Than  to  turn  his  last  sigh  into  victory's  breath 

For  the   shamrock  of  Erin  and  olive  of 

Spain ! 

Ye   Blakes   and   O'Donnels,   whose   fathers 

resign'd 
The    green    hills    of    their    youth    among 

strangers  to  find 
That  repose  which  at  home  they  had  sigh'd 

for  in  vain, 
Breathe  a  hope  that  the  magical  flame  which 

you  light 

May  be  felt  yet  in  Erin,  as  calm  and  as  bright ; 
And  forgive  even  Albion,  while  blushing  she 

draws, 
Like  a  truant,  her  sword,  in  the  long-slighted 

cause 
Of  the  shamrock  of  Erin  and  olive  of  Spain ! 

God  prosper  the  cause  ! — oh!  it  cannot  but 

thrive 

hii^  the  pulse  of  one  patriot  heart  is  alive 
;y  devotion  to  feel  and  its  rights  to  main- 
tain ; 
Then  how  sainted  by  sorrow  its  martyrs  will 

die  ! 

Tb*  finger  of  glory  shall  point  where  they  He, 
While,  far  from  the  footstep  of  coward  or 

slave, 
T  «  young  spirit  of  Freedom  shall  shelter 

their  grave 

Beneath  shamrocks  of  Erin  and  olives  of 
Spain. 


BELIEVE    ME,  IF    ALL    THOSE    EN- 
BEARING  YOUNG   CHARMS. 

BELIEVE  me,  if  all  those  endearing  young 

charms, 

Which  I  gaze  on  so  fondly  to-day, 
Were  to  change  by  to-morrow,  and  fleet  in 

my  arms, 

Like  fairy-gifts  fading  away  ! 
Thou  wouldst  still  be  adored,  as  this  moment 

thou  art, 

Let  thy  loveliness  fade  as  it  will, 
And  around  the  dear  ruin  each  wish  of  my 

heart 
Would  entwine  itself  verdantly  still. 

It  is  not  while  beauty  and  youth  are  thine  own, 

And  thy  cheeks  unprofaned  by  a  tear, 
That  the  fervor  and  faith  of  a  soul  may  be 

known, 
To  which  time  will  but  make  thee  more 

dear ! 
Oh  the  heart  that  has  truly  loved  never  foi- 

gets, 

But  as  truly  loves  on  to  the  close, 
As  the  sunflower  turns  to  her  god  when  she 

sets 

The  same  look  which  she  turn'd  when  he 
rose! 


ERIN  !   O  ERIN  ! 

LIKE  the  bright  lamp  that  lay  on  Kildare'a 

holy  shrine, 
And  burn'd  through  long  ages  of  darkness 

and  storm, 
Is  the  heart  that  sorrows  have  frown'd  on  m 

vain, 
Whose  spirit  outlives  them,  unfading  and 

warm ! 

Erin  !  O  Erin  !  thus  bright  through  the  tears 
Of  a  long  night  of  bondage,  thy  spirit  appears ! 

The  nations  have  fallen,  and  thou  still  art 

young, 

Thy  sun  is  but  rising  when  others  are  set ; 
And  though  slavery's  cloud  o'er  thy  morning 

hath  hung, 


40 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


The  full  moon  of  freedom  shall  beam  round 

thee  yet. 

Erin  !  O  Erin  !  though  long  in  the  shade, 
Thy  star  will  shine  out  when  the  proudest 

shall  fade  1 

Unchill'd  by  the  rain,  and  unwaked  by  the 

wind, 
The   lily   lies   sleeping   through   winter's 

cold  hour, 

Till  the  hand  of  spring  her  dark  chain  unbind, 
And  daylight  and  liberty  bless  the  young 

flower. 

Erin  !  O  Erin !  thy  winter  is  past, 
And   the   hope   that  lived  through  it  shall 

blossom  at  last ! 


DRINK  TO  HER. 

DRINK  to  her  who  long 

Hath  waked  the  poet's  sigh  ; 
The  girl  who  gave  to  song 

What  gold  could  never  buy. 
Oh  !  woman's  heart  was  made 

For  minstrel  hands  alone  ! 
By  other  fingers  play'd, 

It  yields  not  half  the  tone. 
Then  here's  to  her  who  long 

Hath  waked  the  poet's  sigh, 
The  girl  who  gave  to  song 

What  gold  could  never  buy  ! 

At  beauty's  door  of  glass 

When  wealth  and  wit  once  stood, 
They  ask'd  her,  "  which  might  pass  ?" 

She  answer'd,  "  He  who  could. " 
With  golden  key  wealth  thought 

To  pass — but  'twould  not  do  : 
While  wit  a  diamond  brought 

Which  cut  his  bright  way  through ! 
Then  here's  to  her  who  Ions: 

O 

Hath  waked  the  poet's  sigh, 
The  girl  who  gave  to  song 
What  gold  could  never  buy  ! 

The  love  that  seeks  a  home 

Where  wealth  and  grandeur  shines, 
Is  like  the  gloomy  gnome 

That  dwells  in  dark  gold  mines. 
9 


But  oh  !  the  poet's  love 

Can  boast  a  brighter  sphere ; 
Its  native  home's  above, 

Though  woman  keeps  it  here  ! 
Then  drink  to  her  who  long 

Hath  waked  the  poet's  sigh, 
The  girl  who  gave  to  song 

What  gold  could  never  buy  ! 


OH  BLAME  NOT  THE  BARD.' 

OH  blame  not  the  bard   if  he  flies  to  the 

bowers 
Where  pleasure  lies  carelessly  smiling  at 

fame ; 
He  was  born  for  much  more,  and  in  happier 

hours 
His  soul  might  have  burn'd  with  a  holier 

flame. 
The   string   that  now  languishes  loose  o'er 

the  lyre, 

Might  have  bent  a  bright  bow  to  the  war- 
rior's dart,* 
And  the  lip  which  now  breathes  but  the  song 

of  desire, 

Might  have  pour'd  the  full  tide  of  a  patri- 
ot's heart ! 

But,  alas  for  his  country ! — her  pride  is  gone 

by, 

And   that   spirit   is   broken  which   never 

would  bend. 
O'er  the  ruin  her  children  in  secret  must  sigh. 

O      r 

For  'tis  treason  to  love  her,  and  death  to 

defend. 
Unprized  are  her  sons,  till  they've  learn'd  to 

betray ; 
Undistinguish'd  they  live,  if  they  shame 

not  their  sires ; 


1  We  may  suppose  this  apology  to  have  been  uttered  by 
one  of  those  wandering  bards  whom  Spencer  so  severely,  and 
perhaps  truly,  describes  in  his  State  of  Ireland,  and  whose 
poems,  he  tells  us,  "  were  sprinkled  with  some  pretty  flowers 
of  their  natural  device,  which  gave  good  grace  and  comeliness 
unto  them,  the  which  it  is  great  pity  to  see  abused  to  the  gra- 
cing of  wickedness  and  vice,  which  with  good  usage,  would 
serve  to  adorn  and  beautify  virtue." 

3  It  is  conjectured  by  Wormius  that  the  name  of  Ireland  is 
derived  from  Tr,  the  Runic  for  a  bow,  in  the  use  of  whic* 
weapon  the  Irish  were  once  very  expert. 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


41 


And  the  torch  that  would  light  them  through 

dignity's  way 

Must  be  caught  from  the  pile  where  their 
country  expires ! 

Then  blame  not  the  bard,  if,  in   pleasure's 

soft  dream, 
He  should  try  to  forget  what  he  never  can 

heal ; 

Oh  !  give  but  a  hope — let  a  vista  but  gleam 
Through  the  gloom  of  his  country,  and 

mark  how  he'll  feel ! 
That  instant  his  heart  at  her  shrine  would 

lay  down 
Every   passion   it  nursed,   every  bliss   it 

adored, 
While  the  myrtle,  now  idly  entwined  with 

his  crown, 

Like  the  wreath  of  Harmodius,   should 
cover  his  sword.1 

But  though  glory  be  gone,  and  though  hope 

fade  away, 
Thy  name,  loved  Erin !   shall  live  in  his 

songs ; 
Not  even  in  the  hour  when  his  heart  is  most 

gay 

Will  he  lose  the  remembrance  of  thee  and 

thy  wrongs ! 
The  stranger  shall  hear  thy  lament  on  his 

plains ; 
The  sigh  of  thy  harp  shall  be  sent  o'er  the 

deep, 
Till  thy  masters   themselves,  as   they  rivet 

thy  chains, 

Shall  pause  at  the  song  of  their  captive 
and  weep ! 


WHILE    GAZING    ON    THE    MOON'S 
LIGHT. 

WHILE  gazing  on  the  moon's  light, 

A  moment  from  her  smile  I  turuM, 
To  look  at  orbs  that  more  bright 
In  lone  arid  distant  glory  burn'd. 
Hut  too  far 
Each  proud  star 


1  8««  the  hymn  attributed  to  Alo*ui«.  "I  will  carry  my 
iT.x;d,  hidden  in  myitleo,  like  Harmodiiu  and  Ariflogitou," 


For  me  to  feel  its  warming  flame- 
Much  more  dear 
That  mild  sphere 

Which  near  our  planet  smiling  came ;' 
Thus,  Mary,  be  but  tho;i  my  cwn — 

While  brighter  eyes  unheeded  play, 
I'll  love  those  moonlight  looks  alone, 
Which  bless  my  home  and  guide  my  way 

The  day  had  sunk  in  dim  showers, 

But  midnight  now,  with  lustre  meek, 
Illumined  all  the  pale  flowers, 

Like  hope  that  lights  a  mourner's  cheek, 
I  said,  (while 
The  moon's  smile 

Play'd  o'er  a  stream  in  dimpling  blisa,) 
"  The  moon  looks 
On  many  brooks, 

The  brook  can  see  no  moon  but  this :' 
And  thus  I  thought  our  fortunes  run, 

For  many  a  lover  looks  to  thee, 
•While  oh  !  I  feel  there  is  but  one, 
One  Mary  in  the  world  for  me. 


ILL  OMENS. 

WHEN  daylight  was  yet  sleeping  under  the 

billow, 
And    stars   in  the  heavens  still  ling'ring 

shone, 
Young  Kitty,  all  blushing,  rose  up  from  her 

pillow, 

The  last  time  she  e'er  was  to  press  it  alone. 
For  the  youth,  whom  she  treasured  her  heart 

and  her  soul  in, 
Had  promised  to  link  the  last  tie  before 

noon ; 
And  when  once  the  young  heart  of  a  maiden 

is  stolen, 
The  maiden  herself  will  steal  after  it  soon  ! 

As  she  look'd  in  the  glass,  which  a  woman 
ne'er  misses, 


1  "  Of  each  celestial  bodle*  as  are  risible,  the  Ron  except  «d. 
the  single  moon,  a*  despicable  as  it  Is  in  comparison  to  most 
of  the  othen*.  l«  much  more  beneficial  than  they  all  pat  to 
Ki'thrr."  —  Whifton't  Theory,  Ac, 

*  Thin  image  was  irnggueted  by  the   following  thought, 
which   ocean  somewhere   In  Sir  William  Jones's   « 
"The  moon  took*  upoi«  tnary  night-flower*,  the  night-flow** 
sees  bat  one  u*on." 


42 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


Nor  ever  wants  time  for  a  sly  glance  or 

two, 
A    butterfly,  fresh   from   the   night-flower's 

kisses, 
Flew  over  the   mirror,   and   shaded   her 

view. 

Enraged  with  the  insect  for  hiding  her  graces, 
She  brush'd  him — he  fell,  alas !  never  to 

rise — 
"  Ah  !  such,"  said  the  girl,  "  is  the  pride  of 

our  faces, 

For  which  the  soul's  innocence  too  often 
dies !" 

While  she  stole  through  the  garden  where 

heart's-ease  was  growing, 
She  cull'd  some,  and  kiss'd  off  its  night- 
fallen  dew; 
And  a  rose,  further  on,  look'd  so  tempting 

and  glowing, 
That,  spite  of  her  haste,  she  must  gather 

it  too ; 

But  while  o'er  the  roses  too  carelessly  lean- 
ing, 
Her  zone  flew  in  two,  and  her  heart's-ease 

was  lost — 
™  Ah !    this  means,"  said  the  girl,  (and  she 

sigh'd  at  its  meaning,) 
"  That  love  is  scarce  worth  the  repose  it 
will  cost !" 


BEFORE  THE  BATTLE. 

BY  the  hope  within  us  springing, 

Herald  of  to-morrow's  strife ; 
By  that  sun  whose  light  is  bringing 

Chains  or  freedom,  death  or  life — 
Oh !  remember,  life  can  be 
Mo  charm  for  him  who  lives  not  free! 

Like  the  day-star  in  the  wave, 

Sinks  a  hero  to  his  grave, 
Midst  the  dew-fall  of  a  nation's  tears  1 

Bless'd  is  he  o'er  whose  decline 
The  smiles  of  home  may  soothing  shine, 
And  light  him  down  the  steep  of  years : — 
But,  oh,  how  grand  they  sink  to  rest 
Who  close  their  eyes  on  victory's  breast ! 


O'er  his  watch-fire's  fading  embers 
Now  the  foeman's  cheek  turns  white, 

While  his  heart  that  field  remembers 
Where  we  dimm'd  his  glory's  light ! 

Never  let  him  bind  again 

A  chain  like  that  we  broke  from  then. 

Hark  !  the  horn  of  combat  calls — 

Oh,  before  the  evening  falls, 
May  we  pledge  that  horn  in  triumph  round  I 

Many  a  heart  that  now  beats  high, 
In  slumber  cold  at  night  shall  lie, 
Nor  waken  even  at  victory's  sound : — 
But,  oh,  how  blest  that  hero's  sleep, 
O'er  whom  a  wondering  world  shall  weep ! 


AFTER  THE  BATTLE.  . 

NIGHT  closed  around  the  conqueror's  way, 

And  lightning  show'd  the  distant  hill, 
Where  those  who  lost  that  dreadful  clay, 

Stood  few  and  faint,  but  fearless  still 
The  soldier's  hope,  the  patriot's  zeal, 

Forever  dimm'd,  forever  crost — 
Oh  who  shall  say  what  heroes  feel, 

When  all  but  life  and  honor's  lost ! 

The  last  sad  hour  of  freedom's  dream 
.  And  valor's  task  moved  slowly  by, 
While  mute  they  watch'd  till  morning's  beam 

Should  rise  and  give  them  light  to  die ! 
There  is  a  world  where  souls  are  free, 

Where  tyrants  taint  not  nature's  bliss  ; 
If  death  that  world's  bright  opening  be, 

Oh  !  who  would  live  a  slave  in  this  ? 


OH  'TIS  SWEET  TO  THINK. 

OH  'tis  sweet  to  think  that  where'er  we  rove, 
We  are*  sure  to  find  something  blissful  and 

dear ; 

And  that,  when  we're  far  from  the  lips  we 
love, 


1  "The  Irish  Coma  was  not  entirely  devoted  to  rcartia. 
purposes.  In  the  heroic  ages  our  ancestors  quaffed  meadh 
out  of  them,  as  the  Danish  hunters  do  their  beverage  at  this 
day."—  Walker. 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS 


4:1 


We  have  but  to  make  love  to  the  lips  we 

are  near!1 

The  heart  like  a  tendril  accustom'd  to  cling, 
Let  it  grow  where  it  will,  cannot  flourish 

alone, 

But  will  lean  to  the  nearest  and  loveliest  thing 
It  can  twine  with  itself  and  make  closely 

its  own. 

Then  oh  what  pleasure,  where'er  we  rove, 
To  be  doom'd  to  find  something  still  that 

is  dear, 

And  to  know,  when  far  from  the  lips  we  love, 
We  have  but  to  make  love  to  the  lips  we 
are  near. 

'Twere  a  shame,  when  flowers  around  us  rise, 
To  make  light  of  the  rest,  if  the  rose  is  not 

there, 

And  the  world's  so  rich  in  resplendent  eyes, 

'Twere  a  pity  to  limit  one's  love  to  a  pair. 

Love's  wing  and  the   peacock's  are  nearly 

alike, 
They  are  both  of  them  bright,  but  they're 

changeable  too, 
And  wherever  a  new  beam  of  beauty  can 

strike, 

It  will  tincture  love's  plume  with  a  differ- 
ent hue ! 

Then  oh  what  pleasure,  where'er  we  rove, 
To  be  doom'd  tc  find  something  still  that 

is  dear, 

And  to  know,  when  far  from  the  lips  we  love, 
We  have  but  to  make  love  to  the  lips  we 
are  near. 


THE    IRISH    PEASANT    TO    HIS 
MISTRESS. 

THROUGH  grief  and  through  danger  thy 
smile  hath  cheer'd  my  way 

Till  hope  seem'd  to  bud  from  each  thorn 
that  round  me  lay; 


1  I  believe  it  i*  Marmontcl  who  nayf .  "  Qnniid  on  n'a  pa*  ce 
gut  Crm  aiint.  Ufaul  aitntr  ct  (jiit  Con  a."  Then-  Hre  eo  many 
matter-of-fact  people  who  take  curh  jfnf  uT'*i>rit  at-  thi* 
defence  of  inconstancy  to  bu  the  uciuul  uiiil  x1  "iii'n-1  '-'•nti- 
ment.8  of  him  who  write*  them,  that  they  compel  one.  in  ^elf- 
defence,  to  be  as  matter-of-fact  as  themi-elvos,  and  to  rein i ml 
thi-oi  that  Democritus  was  not  the  worse  physiologist  for 
hav  Dir  playfully  contended  that  enow  wap  black,  nor  Erasmus 
ID  ai.y  (Ic-.'ree  the  le»:«  wise  for  havinp  written  an  Inyrulou* 
,rn  of  folly. 


The   darker   our  fortune,  the  brighter  our 

pure  love  burnM, 
Till  shame  into  glory,  till  fear  into  zeal  was 

turn'd ; 
Oh  !  slave  as  I  was,  in  thy  arms  my  spirit 

felt  free, 
And  bless'd  even  the  sorrow  that  made  me 

more  dear  to  thee. 

Thy  rival    was    honor'd,    while   thou    wi-rt 

wrong'd  and  scornM, 
Thy  crown   was  of  briers,   while  gold  her 

brows  adorn'd ; 
She  woo'd  me  to  temples,  while  thou  lay'st 

hid  in  caves, 
Her  friends  were  all  masters,  while   thine, 

alas !  were  slaves  ; 
Yet,  cold  in  the  earth,  at  thy  feet  I  would 

rather  be, 
Than   wed   what   I  loved  not,  or  turn  one 

thought  from  thee. 

They  slander  thee  sorely,  who  say  thy  vows 

are  frail — 
Hadst  thou  been  a  false  one,  thy  cheek  had 

look'd  less  pale  ! 
They  say  too,  so  long  thou  hast  worn  those 

lingering  chains, 
That  deep  in  thy  heart  they  have  printed 

their  servile  stains — 
Oh!  do  not  believe  them — no  chain  could 

that  soul  subdue. 
Where    shineth    thy    spirit,    there    liberty 

shineth  too  ! 


ON  MUSIC. 

WHEN  through  life  unblest  we  rove, 
Losing  all  that  made  life  dear, 

Should  some  notes  we  used  to  love 
In  days  of  boyhood  meet  our  ear, 

Oh!   how  welcome  breathes  the  strain! 

Wakening  thoughts  that  long  have  slept 
Kindling  former  smiles  again, 

In  faded  eyes  that  long  have  wept  ! 

Like  the  gale  that  sighs  along 
Uetls  of  oriental  flowers 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


Is  the  grateful  breath  of  song 

That  once  was  heard  in  happier  hours; 
Fill'd  with  balm,  the  gale  sighs  on, 

Though  the  flowers  have  sunk  in  death ; 
So,  when  pleasure's  dream  is  gone, 

Its  memory  lives  in  music's  breath  ! 

Music  ! — oh  !  how  faint,  how  weak, 

Language  fades  before  thy  spell ! 
Why  should  feeling  ever  speak,     • 

When  thou  canst  breathe  her  soul  so  well  ? 
Friendship's  balmy  words  may  feign, 

Love's  are  even  more  false  than  they  ; 
Oh  !  'tis  only  music's  strain 

Can  sweetly  soothe,  and  not  betray ! 


THE  ORIGIN  OF  THE  HARP. 

'Tis  believed  that  this  harp  which  I  wake 

now  for  thee 

Was  a  siren  of  old  who  sung  under  the  sea  ; 
And  who  often  at  eve  through  the  bright 

billow  roved 
To  meet  on  the  green  shore  a  youth  whom 

she  loved. 

But  she  loved  him  in  vain,  for  he  left  her  to 
weep, 

And  in  tears  all  the  night  her  gold  ringlets 
to  steep, 

Till  Heaven  look'd  with  pity  on  true-love  so 
warm, 

And  changed  to  this  soft  harp  the  sea- 
maiden's form  ! 

Still  her  bosom  rose   fair — still   her   cheek 

smiled  the  same — 
While    her    sea-beauties   gracefully    curl'd 

round  the  frame ; 
And  her  hair,  shedding  tear-drops  from  all 

its  bright  rings, 
Fell  over  her  white  arm,  to  make  the  gold 

strings  ! 

Hence  it  came  that  this  soft  harp  so  long 

hath  been  known 
To  mingle  love's  language  with  sorrow's  sad 

tone ; 


Till  thou  didst  divide  them,  and  teach  the 

fond  lay 
To  be  love  when  I'm  near  thee  and  grief 

when  away ! 


IT    IS    NOT    THE    TEAR    AT    THIS 
MOMENT  SHED.1 

IT  is  not  the  tear  at  this  moment  shed, 

When  the  cold  turf  has  just  been  laid  o'er 

him, 

That  can  tell  how  beloved  was  the  soul  that's 
fled, 

Or  how  deep  in  our  hearts  we  deplore  him. 
'Tis  the  tear,  through  many  a  long  day  wept, 

Through  a  life,  by  his  loss  all  shaded  ; 
'Tis  the  sad  remembrance  fondly  kept 

When  all  lighter  griefs  have  faded  ! 

Oh  !  thus  shall  we  mourn,  and  his  memory's 

light, 
While  it  shines  through  our  hearts,  will 

improve  them, 
For  worth  shall  look  fairer,  and  truth  more 

bright, 
When  we  think  how  he  lived  but  to  love 

them  ! 
And  as  buried  saints  the  grave  perfume 

Where  fadeless  they've  long  been  lying, 

So  our  hearts  shall  borrow  a  sweet'ning  bloom 

From  the  image  he  left  there  in  dying  ! 


LOVE'S  YOUNG  DREAM. 

OH  !  the  days  are  gone  when  beauty  bright 

My  heart's  chain  wove  ; 
When  my  dream  of  life,  from  morn  till  night. 
Was  love,  still  love  ! 
New  hope  may  bloom, 
And  days  may  come, 
Of  milder,  calmer  beam, 
But  there's  nothing  half  so  sweet  in  life 

As  love's  young  dream  ! 
Oh  !  there's  nothing  half  so  sweet  in  life 
As  love's  young  dream  ! 


1  These  lines  were  occasioned  by  the  loss  of  a  very  nesr  and 
dear  relative,  who  died  lately  at  Madeira. 


I'OKMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


45 


Though  the  bard  to  purer  fame  may  soar, 

When  wild  youth's  past  ; 
Though  he  win  the  wise,  who  trownM  before, 

To  smile  at  last ; 

He'll  never  meet 

A  joy  so  sweet 
In  all  his  noon  of  fame, 
As  when  first  he  sung  to  woman's  ear 

His  soul-felt  flame, 
And  at  every  close  she  blush'd  to  hear 

The  one  loved  name  ! 

Oh  !  that  hallow'd  form  is  ne'er  forgot, 

Which  first  love  traced; 
Still  it  lingering  haunts  the  greenest  spot 

On  memory's  waste  ! 
'Twas  odor  fled 
As  soon  as  shed  ; 

'Twas  morning's  winged  dream  ; 
'Twas  a  light  that  ne'er  can  shine  again 

On  life's  dull  stream  ! 
Oh  !  'twas  a  light  that  ne'er  can  shine  again 

On  life's  dull  stream  ! 


I  SAW  THY  FORM  IN  YOUTHFUL 
PRIME. 

I  SAW  thy  form  in  youthful  prime, 

Nor  thought  that  pale  decay 
Would  steal  before  the  steps  of  time, 

And  waste  its  bloom  away,  Mary  1 
Yet  still  thy  features  wore  that  light 

Which  fleets  not  with  the  breath  ; 
And  life  ne'er  look'd  more  purely  bright 

Than  in  thy  smile  of  death,  Mary  ! 

As  streams  that  run  o'er  golden  mines, 

With  modest  murmur  glide, 
Nor  seem  to  know  the  wealth  that  shines 

Within  their  gentle  tide,  Mary  ! 
So,  veil'd  beneath  the  simple  guise, 

Thy  radiant  genius  shone, 
And  that  which  charm'd  all  other  eyes 

Seem'd  worthless  in  thy  own,  Mary  ! 

If  souls  could  always  dwell  above, 
Thou  ne'er  hadst  left  that  sphere ; 


Or  could  we  keep  the  souls  we  love, 
We  ne'er  had  lost  thee  here,  Mary  ! 

Though  many  a  gifted  mind  we  meet, 
Though  fairest  forms  we  see, 

To  live  with  them  is  far  less  sweet, 
Than  to  remember  thee,  Mary  1 


THE  PRINCE'S  DAY.1 

THOUGH  dark  are  our  sorrows,  to-day  well 

forget  them, 

And  smile  through  our  tears,  like  a  sun- 
beam in  showers ; 
There  never  were  hearts,  if  our  rulers  would 

let  them, 
More  form'd  to  be  grateful  and  blessed 

than  ours ! 

But  just  when  the  chain 
Has  ceased  to  pain, 
And  hope  has  enwreathed  it  round  with 

flowers, 

There  comes  a  new  link 
Our  spirit  to  sink — 
Oh  !  the  joy  that  we  taste,  like  the  light  of 

the  poles, 
Is  a  flash  amid  darkness,  too  brilliant  tc 

stay; 
But  though  'twere  the  last  little  spark  in  our 

souls, 

We  must  light  it  up  now,  on  our  Prince's 
day. 

Contempt  on  the  minion  who  calls  you  dis- 
loyal ! 
Though  fierce  to  your  foe,  to  your  friends 

you  are  true ; 
And  the  tribute  most  high  to  a  head  that  i* 

royal, 

Is  love  from  a  heart  that  loves  liberty  too. 
While  cowards,  who  blight 
Your  fame,  your  right, 
Would  shrink  from  the  blaze  of  the  battle 

array, 

The  standard  of  green 
In  front  would  be  scon — 


*  Thin  »oug  was  written  Tor  a  (Pte  In  honor  of  the  Priaot  of 
Wales'*  birthday,  jrlvcu  by  my  friend  Major  Bryan,  at  hi>  MM 
in  the  county  of  Kilkenny. 


46 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


Oh  !  my  life  on  your  faith  !  were  you  sum- 

ruon'd  this  minute, 

You'd  cast  ever  bitter  remembrance  away, 
And  show  what  the  arm  of  old  Erin  has  in  it 
When  roused  by  the  foe  on  her  Prince's 
day. 

He  loves  the  Green  Isle,  and  his  love  is  re- 
corded 
In  hearts  which  have  suffer'd  too  much  to 

forget ; 
And  hope  shall  be  crown'd  and  attachment 

rewarded, 

And  Erin's  gay  jubilee  shine  out  yet ! 
The  gem  may  be  broke 
By  many  a  stroke, 

But  nothing  can  cloud  its  native  ray  ; 
Each  fragment  will  cast 
A  light  to  the  last  ! — 
And  thus,  Erin,  my  country  !  though  broken 

thou  art, 
There's  a  lustre  within  thee  that  ne'er  will 

decay ; 
A  spirit  that  beams  through  each  suffering 

part, 

And  now  smiles  at  their  painon.the  Prince's 
day  ! 


LESBIA  HATH  A  BEAMING  EYE. 

LESBIA  hath  a  beaming  eye, 

But  no  one  knows  for  whom  it  beameth ; 
Right  and  left  its  arrows  fly, 

But  what  they  aim  at  no  one  dreameth  1 
Sweeter  'tis  to  gaze  upon 

My  Nora's  lid,  that  seldom  rises  ; 
Few  its  looks,  but  every  one. 

Like  unexpected  light,  surprises  ! 

O  my  Nora  Creina,  dear  ! 
My  gentle,  bashful  Nora  Creina  1 
Beauty  lies 
In  many  eyes, 
But  love  in  yours,  my  Nora  Creina  1 

Lesbia  wears  a  robe  of  gold, 

But  all  so  close  the  nymph  hath  laced  it, 
Not  a  charm  of  beauty's  mould 

Presumes  to  stay  where  nature  placed  it ! 


Oh  !  my  Nora's  gown  for  me, 

That  floats  as  wild  as  mountain  breezes, 
Leaving  every  beauty  free 

To  sink  or  swell,  as  Heaven  pleases  ! 

Yes,  my  Nora  Creina  ! 
My  simple,  graceful  Nora  Creiiia  ! 
Nature's  di-ess 
Is  loveliness — 
The  dress  you  wear,  my  Nora  Creina  ! 

Lesbia  hath  a  wit  refined, 

But  when  its  points  are  gleaming  round  ua 
Who  can  tell,  if  they're  design'd 

To  dazzle  merely,  or  to  wound  us  ? 
Pillow'd  on  my  Nora's  heart, 

In  safer  slumber  Love  reposes — 
Bed  of  peace  !  whose  roughest  part 
Is  but  the  crumpling  of  the  roses. 

O  my  Nora  Creina,  dear  ! 
My  mild,  my  artless  Nora  Creina  ! 
Wit,  though  bright, 
Hath  not  the  light 
That  warms  your  eyes,  my  Nora  Crenia  1 


WEEP  ON,  WEEP  ON. 

WEEP  on,  weep  on,  your  hour  is  past, 

Your  dreams  of  pride  are  o'er, 
The  fatal  chain  is  round  you  cast, 

And  you  are  men  no  more  ! 
In  vain  the  hero's  heart  hath  bled ; 

The  sage's  tongue  hath  waru'd  in  vain  ' 
O  freedom  !  once  thy  flame  hath  fled 

It  never  lights  again  ! 

O  O 

Weep  on — perhaps,  in  after  days, 

They'll  learn  to  love  your  name  ; 
And  many  a  deed  may  wake  in  praise 

That  long  has  slept  in  blame  ! 
And  when  they  tread  the  ruin'd  isle, 

Where  rest,  at  length,  the  lord  and  slave, 
They'll  wond'ring  ask  how  hands  so  vile 

Could  conquer  hearts  so  brave  ! 

"  'Twas  fate,"  they'll  say,  "  a  wayward  fate 

Your  web  of  discord  wove  ; 
And  while  your  tyrants  join'd  in  hate, 

You  never  joiu'd  in  love  ! 


PoK.MS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


Brt  hearts  fell  off  that  ought  to  twine, 
And  man  profaned  what  Goa  had  given, 

Till  some  were  heard  to  curse  the  shrine 
Where  others  knelt  to  Heaven  !" 


BY  THAT  LAKE,  WHOSE  GLOOMY 
SHORE.1 

BY  that  lake,  whose  gloomy  shore 
Skylark  never  warbles  o'er, 
Where  the  cliff  hangs  high  and  steep, 
Young  Saint  Kevin  stole  to  sleep. 
"  Here,  at  least,"  he  calmly  said, 
"  Woman  ne'er  shall  find  my  bed." 
Ah  !  the  good  saint  little  knew 
What  that  wily  sex  can  do. 

'Twas  from  Kathleen's  eyes  he  Hew, 
Eyes  of  most  unholy  blue  ! 
See  had  loved  him  well  and  long, 
Wish'd  him  hers,  nor  thought  it  wrong. 
Wheresoe'er  the  saint  would  fly, 
Still  he  heard  her  light  foot  nigh  : 

o  o       * 

East  or  west,  where'er  he  turn'd, 
Still  her  eyes  before  him  burn'd. 

On  the  bold  cliff's  bosom  cast, 
Tranquil  now  he  sleeps  at  last ; 
Dreams  of  heaven,  nor  thinks  that  e'er 
Woman's  smile  can  haunt  him  there. 
But  nor  earth,  nor  heaven  is  free 
From  her  power,  if  fond  she  be  ; 
Even  now,  while  calm  he  sleeps, 
Kathleen  o'er  him  leans  and  weeps. 

Fearless  she  had  track'd  his  feet, 
To  this  rocky,  wild  retreat ; 
And  when  morning  met  his  view, 
Her  mild  glances  met  it  too. 
Ah  !  your  saints  have  cruel  hearts ! 
Sternly  from  his  bed  he  starts, 
And  with  rude,  repulsive  shock, 
Hurls  her  from  the  beetling  rock. 


Glendalough  !  thy  gloomy  wave 
Soon  was  gentle  Kathleen's  grave! 
Soon  the  saint  (yet  ah  !  too  late) 
Felt  her  love,  and  mourn'd  her  fate. 
When  he  said,  "  Heaven  rest  her  soui !" 
Round  the  lake  like  music  stole ; 
And  her  ghost  was  seen  to  glide, 
Smiling,  o'er  the  fatal  tide  1 


1  This  ballad  Is  founded  upon  one  of  the  many  stories  re- 
nted of  iSiiint  Kevin,  whose  bed  in  the  rock  IB  to  be  Been  at 
ndaloutfh,  a  most  gloomy  and  romantic  spot  In  the  county 
of  Wtcklow. 


[This  poem  refers  to  the  betrothed  of  Robert  Emmet.   She 
afterward  became  the  wife  of  an  officer,  who  took  berio  Sicily 
in  the  hope  that  travel  would  restore  her  spirit-,  but  h.  r 
for  Emmet  was  so  great  that  the  died  of  a  oroken  heart.] 

SHE  is  far  from  the  land  where  her  young 

hero  sleeps, 

And  lovers  are  round  her  sighing  ; 
But  coldly  she  turns  from  their  gaze,  ami 

weeps, 
For  her  heart  in  his  grove  is  lying  ! 

She  sings  the  wild  songs  of  her  dear  native 

plains, 

Every  note  which  he  loved  awaking ; 
Ah  !  little  they  think   who  delight  in   her 

strains, 
How  the  heart  of  the  minstrel  is  breaking ! 

lie  had  lived  for  his  love,  for  Ms  country  he 

died, 
They  were  all  that  to  life  hsvd  entwined 

him; 
Nor  soon   shall  the  tears  of  his  c?nntry  b« 

dried, 
Nor  long  will  his  love  stay  behind  h>nu 

Oh  !  make  her  a  grave  where  the  suul^ami 

rest, 

When  they  promise  a  glorious  morrow  ; 
They'll  shine  o'er  her  sleep,  like  a  smile  froir 

the  west, 
From  her  own  loved  island  of  sorrow  I 


NAY,  TELL  ME  NOT. 


NAY, 


tell   me  not,  dear !    that  thcP  goblet 

drowns 

One  charm  of  feeling,  one  fond  regret ; 
Believe  me,  a  few  of  thy  angry  frowns 
Are  all  I've  sunk  in  its  bright  wave  yet 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


Ne'er  hath  a  beam 
Been  lost  in  the  stream 
That  ever  was  shed  from  thy  form  or  soul ; 
The  balm  of  thy  sighs, 
The  spell  of  thine  eyes, 
Still  float  on  the  surface,  and  hallow  my 

bowl ! 

Then  fancy  not,  dearest !  that  wine  can  steal 
One  blissful  dream  of  the  heart  from  me  ! 
Like  founts  that  awaken  the  pilgrim's  zeal, 
The  bowl  but  brightens  my  love  for  thee ! 

They  tell  us  that  love  in  his  fairy  bower 

Had  two  blush-roses  of  birth  divine  ; 
He   sprinkled    the    one    with    a    rainbow's 

shower, 

But  bathed  the  other  with  mantling  wine. 
Soon  did  the  buds, 
That  drank  of  the  floods, 
Distill'd  by  the  rainbow,  decline  and  fade ; 
While  those  which  the  tide 
Of  ruby  had  dyed, 
All  blush'd  into  beauty,  like  thee,  sweet 

maid ! 

Then  fancy  not,  dearest !  that  wine  can  steal 
One  blissful  dream  of  the  heart  from  me  ; 
Like  founts  that  awaken  the  pilgrim's  zeal, 
The  bowl  but  brightens  my  love  for  thee. 


AVENGING  AND  BRIGHT. 

AVENGING  and  bright  fall  the  swift  sword  of 

Erin1 
On  him  who  the  brave  sons  of  Usna  be- 

tray'd  ! 

For  every  fond  eye  he  hath  waken'd  a  tear  in, 
A  drop  from  his  heart-wounds  shall  weep 
o'er  her  blade. 


By  the  red  cloud  that  hung   over  Conor's 

dark  dwelling,4 
When  Ulad's'  three  champions  lay  sleep- 


in  £  in  trore: 


1  The  words  of  thie  song  were  suggested  by  the  very  ancient 
Irish  story  called  "  Deirdri ;  or  The  Lamentable  Pate  of  the 
Sons  of  Usnnch." 

8  "  O  Naisi  1  view  the  cloud  that  I  here  see  in  the  sky  !  I 
»ee  over  Eman  gree:i  a  chilling  clocd  of  blood-tinged  red."— 
Deirdri'f  Song. 

•  Ulster. 


By  the  billows  of  war  which  so  often  high 

swelling 

Have   wafted    these    heroes   to    victory's 
shore  ! 

We  swear  to  revenge  them  ! — no  joy  shall 

be  tasted, 

The  harp  shall  be  silent,  the  maiden  unwed, 
Our  halls  shall  be  mute,  and  our  fields  shall 

lie  wasted, 

Till  vengeance  is  wreak 'd  on  the  murder- 
er's head  ! 

Yes,  monarch  !  though  sweet  are  our  home 

recollections, 
Though   sweet   are  the   tears  that   from 

tenderness  fall ; 
Though  sweet  are  our  friendships,  our  hopes, 

and  affections, 
Revenge  on  a  tyrant  is  sweetest  of  all ! 


LOVE  AND  THE  NOVICE. 

"  HERE  we  dwell,  in  holiest  bowers, 

Where   angels   of  light   o'er  our  orisons 

bend; 
Where  sighs  of  devotion  and  breathings  of 

flowers 

To  Heaven  in  mingled  odor  ascend  ! 
Do  not  disturb  our  calm,  O  Love ! 
So  like  is  thy  form  to  the  cherubs  above, 
It  well  might  deceive  such  hearts  as  ours." 

Love  stood  near  the  Novice,  and  listen'd, 

And  Love  is  no  novice  in  taking  a  hint ; 
His  laughing   blue   eyes    soon   with    piety 

glisten 'd  ; 

His  rosy  wing  turn'd  to  heaven's  own  tint. 
"  Who  would  have  thought,"  the  urchin 

cries, 
"  That  Love  could  so  well,  so  gravely 

disguise 
His  wandering  wings  and  wounding  eyes  ?" 

Love  now  warms  thee,  waking  and  sleeping  : 
Young  Novice,  to  him  all  thy  orisons  rise  ; 
lie    tinges    the    heavenly  fount   with    hii 
weeping, 


POKMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


He  brightens  the  censer's  ilainc  with  his 

ngha. 

Love  is  the  saint  enshrined  in  thy  breast, 
And   angels    themselves   would   admit 

such  a  guest, 
If  he  came  to  them  clothed  in  piety's  vest. 


WHAT  THE  BEE  IS  TO  THE 
FLOWERET. 

lie. — What  the  bee  is  to  the  floweret, 

When  he  looks  for  honey-dew 
Through  the  leaves  that  close  embower  it, 
That,  my  love,  I'll  be  to  you  ! 

She. — What  the  bank  with  verdure  glowing 

Is  to  waves  that  wander  near, 
Whispering  kisses,  while  they're  going, 
That  I'll  be  to  you,  my  dear ! 

She. — But  they  say  the  bee's  a  rover, 

That  he'll  fly  when  the  sweets  are  gone ; 
And  when  once  the  kiss  is  over, 
Faithless  brooks  will  wander  on ! 

He.  — Nay,  if  flowers  will  lose  their  looks, 

If  snnny  banks  will  wear  away, 
'Tis  but  right  that  bees  and  brooks 
Should  sip  and  kiss  them  while  they 
may. 


THIS  LIFE  IS  ALL  CHECKER'D  WITH 
PLEASURES  AND  WOES. 

THIS  life  is  all  checker'd  with  pleasures  and 

woes, 
That  chase  one  another  like  waves  of  the 

deep, 

Each  billow,  as  brightly  or  darkly  it  flows, 
Reflecting  our  eyes  as  they  sparkle  or  weep, 
closely  our  whims  on  our  miseries  tread, 
That  the  laugh  is  awaked  ere  the  tear  can 

be  dried ; 

And  as  fast  as  the  rain-drop  of  pity  is  shed, 
The  goose-plumage  of  folly  can  turn  it  aside. 


But  pledge  me  the  cup — if  existence  would 

cloy 
With  hearts  ever  happy  and  heads  ever 

wise, 

Be  ours  the  light  grief  that  is  sister  to  joy, 
And  the  short  brilliant  folly  that  flasbe* 
and  dies ! 

When  Hylas  was  sent  with  his  urn  to  the 

fount, 
Through  fields  full  of  sunshine,  with  heart 

full  of  play, 
Light  rambled  the  boy  over  meadow  and 

mount, 
And  neglected  his  task  for  the  flowers  on 

the  way.1 
Thus  some  who,  like  me,  should  have  drawn 

and  have  tasted 
The   fountain  that    runs  by  philosophy's 

shrine, 
Their  time  with  the  flowers  on  the  m.irg:n 

have  wasted, 
And  left  their  light  urus  all  as  empty  as 

mine ! 
But  pledge  me  the   goblet,  while   idlenest 

weaves 

Her  flowerets  together ;  if  wisdom  can  see 
One  bright  drop  or  two  that  has  fallen  on 

the  leaves 

From  her  fountain  divine,  'tis  sufficient  for 
me ! 


O  THE  SHAMROCK  ! 

THROUGH  Erin's  Isle, 

To  sport  a  while, 
As  Love  and  Valor  wander'd, 

With  Wit,  the  sprite, 

Whose  quiver  bright 
A  thousand  arrows  squander'd  ; 

Where'er  they  pass, 

A  triple  grass* 


•  "  Proposlto  florem  pnetnllt  offlclo."—  Proper*.,  lib.  1  eleg. 
SO. 

*  Saint  Patrick  I*  said  to  have  made  n»e  of  that  •prrlt*  of 
tho  trefoil  to  which  In  Ireland  we  giro  the  name  of  Sham- 
rock, In  explaining  the  doctrine  of  the  Trinity  to  the  pagan 
Irish.     1  do  not  know  If  there  be  any  other  reason  for  oar 
adoption  of  this  plant  as  a  national  emblem.    Hope,  among 
the  ancients,  wa«  sometimes  represented  a*  a  beautiful  child. 


50 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


Shoots  up,  with  dew-drops  streaming, 
As  softly  green 
As  emerald  seen 

Through  purest  crystal  gleaming  ! 
O  the  Shamrock,  the  green,  immortal  Sham- 
rock ! 

Chosen  leaf 
Of  bard  and  chief, 
Old  Erin's  native  Shamrock ! 

Says  Valor,  "  See, 

They  spring  for  me, 
Those  leafy  gems  of  morning  !" 

Says  Love,  "  No,  no, 

For  me  they  grow, 
My  fragrant  path  adorning  !" 

But  Wit  perceives 

The  triple  leaves, 
And  cries — "  Oh !  do  not  sever 

A  type  that  blends 

Three  godlike  friends, 
Love,  Valor,  Wit,  forever  !" 
O  the  Shamrock,  the  green,  immortal  Sham- 
rock! 

Chosen  leaf 

Of  bard  and  chief, 
Old  Erin's  native  Shamrock! 


AT  THE  MID-HOUR  OF  NIGHT. 

Ax  the  mid-hour  of  night,  when  stars  are 

weeping,  I  fly 
To  the  lone  vale  we  loved  when  life  shone 

warm  in  thine  eye, 
And  I  think  that,  if  spirits  can  steal  from 

the  region  of  air 
To  revisit  past  scenes  of  delight,  thou  wilt 

come  to  me  there, 
And  tell  me  our  love  is  remember'd  even  in 

the  sky  ! 

Then  I  sing  the  wild  song  which  once  'twas 

rapture  to  hear, 
When  our  voices,  both  mingling,  breathed 

like  one  on  the  ear  ; 


"r landing  npon  tip-toes,  and  a  trefoil  or  three-colored  grass 
In  bei  hand." 


And  as  Echo  far  off  through  the  vale  my 

sad  orison  rolls, 
I  think,  O  my  love !    'tis  thy  voice  from 

the  kingdom  of  souls' 
Faintly  answering  still  the  notes  that  once 

were  so  dear. 


ONE  BUMPER  AT  PARTING. 

ONE  bumper  at  parting ! — though  many 

Have  circled  the  board  since  we  met, 
The  fullest,  the  saddest,  of  any 

Remains  to  be  crown'd  by  us  yet 
The  sweetness  that  pleasure  has  in  k 

Is  always  so  slow  to  come  forth, 
That  seldom,  alas,  till  the  minute 

It  dies,  do  we  know  half  its  worth  I 
But,  oh,  may  our  life's  happy  measure 

Be  all  of  such  moments  made  up ; 
They're  born  on  the  bosom  of  pleasure, 

They  die  'midst  the  tears  of  the  cup. 

As  onward  we  journey,  how  pleasant 

To  pause  and  inhabit  a  while 
Those  few  sunny  spots,  like  the  present, 

That  'mid  the  dull  wilderness  smile  ! 
But  Time,  like  a  pitiless  master, 

Cries    "  Onward !"    and    spurs    the    j> 

hours, 
And  never  does  Time  travel  faster 

Than  when  his  way  lies  among  flowers. 
But  come,  may  our  life's  happy  measure 

Be  all  of  such  moments  made  up ; 
They're  born  on  the  bosom  of  pleasure, 

They  die  'midst  the  tears  of  the  cup. 

How  brilliant  the  sun  look'd  in  sinking, 

The  waters  beneath  him  how  bright ! 
Oh  !  trust  me,  the  farewell  of  drinking 

Should  be 'like  the  farewell  of  light. 
You  saw  how  he  finish'd  by  darting 

His  beam  o'er  a  deep  billow's  brim — 
So  fill  up,  let's  shine  at  our  parting, 

In  full  liquid  glory  like  him. 


1  *'  There  are  countries,"  says  Montaigne,  "  where  they  be- 
lieve the  souls  of  the  happy  live  in  all  manner  of  liberty,  in 
delightful  fields ;  and  that  it  is  those  souls  repeat.'ng  the  word* 
we  utter  which  we  call  Echo." 


THE  MINSTREL   BOY, 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


51 


And  oil  !  may  our  life's  happy  measure 
Of  moments  like  this  he  made  up  ; 

Twas  born  on  the  bosom  of  pleasure, 
It  dies  'midst  the  tears  of  the  cup ! 


TIS  THE  LAST  ROSE  OF  SUMMER 

Tis  the  last  rose  of  summer, 
Left  blooming  alone; 

O  7 

All  her  lovely  companions 

Are  faded  and  gone  ; 
No  flower  of  her  kindred, 

No  rosebud  is  nigh 
To  reflect  back  her  blushes, 

Or  give  sigh  fix.  sigh  ! 

I'll  not  leave  thee,  thou  lone  one  ! 

To  pine  on  the  stem ; 
Since  the  lovely  are  sleeping, 

Go,  sleep  thou  with  them  ; 
Thus  kindly  I  scatter 

Thy  leaves  o'er  the  bed, 
Where  thy  mates  of  the  garden 

Lie  scentless  and  dead. 

So  soon  may  /follow, 

When  friendships  decay, 
And  from  love's  shining  circle 

Thy  gems  drop  away  ! 
When  true  hearts  lie  wither'd, 

And  fond  ones  are  flown, 
Oh  !  who  would  inhabit 

This  bleak  world  alone  ? 


THE  YOUNG  MAY  MOON. 

Tin.  young  May  moon  is  beaming,  love, 
The  glowworm's  lamp  is  gleaming,  love, 

How  sweet  to  rove 

Through  Morna's  grove, 
NVliile  the  drowsy  world  is  dreaming,  love ! 
Tin- n  awake  ! — the  heavens  look  bright,  my 

dear ! 
Ti>  never  too  late  for  delight,  my  dear  ! 

And  the  best  of  all  ways 

To  lengthen  our  days 

IB  to  steal  a  few  hours  from  the  night,  my 
dear! 


Now  all  the  world  is  sleeping,  love, 

But  the  sage,  his  star-watch  keeping,  love, 

And  I,  whose  star, 

More  glorious  far, 

Is  the  eye  from  that  casement  peeping,  love. 
Then  awake  .'—till  rise  of  sun,  my  dear, 
The  sage's  glass  we'll  shun,  my  dear, 

Or,  in  watching  the  flight 

Of  bodies  of  light, 

He  might  happen  to  take  thee  for  one,  my 
dear! 


THE  MINSTREL  BOY. 

THE  minstrel  boy  to  the  war  is  gone, 

IB  the  ranks  of  death  you'll  find  him, 
His  father's  sword  he  has  girded  on, 

And  his  wild  harp  slung  behind  him. 
'  Land  of  song !"  said  the  warrior  bard, 

"  Though  all  the  world  betrays  thee, 
One  sword,  at  least,  thy  rights  shall  guard, 

One  faithful  harp  shall  praise  thee  !" 

["he  minstrel  fell ! — but  the  foeman's  chain 

Could  not  bring  his  proud  soul  under ; 
["he  harp  he  loved  ne'er  spoke  again, 

For  he  tore  its  chords  asunder ; 
And  said,  "  No  chains  shall  sully  thee, 

Thou  soul  of  love  and  bravery  ! 
y  songs  were  made  for  the  pure  and  free, 

They  shall  never  sound  in  slavery  !" 


HE  valley  lay  smiling  before  me, 

Where  lately  I  left  her  behind, 
fet  I  trembled,  and  something  hung  o'er  me, 

TKat  sadden'd  the  joy  of  my  mind. 


i  Founded  upon  an  event  of  most  melancholy  important* 
Ireland,  if,  as  we  are  told  by  oar  Irian  historian*,  it  nave 
ngland  the  first  opportunity  of  enslaving  us.  The  km.-  cl 
einster  ..ad  conceived  a  violent  affection  for  Dearbhorgll 
a  lighter  to  the  king  of  Meath,  though  die  had  been  for  tome 
me  married  to  O'Huark,  prince  of  Brefflil.  They  carried  on 
private  correspondence,  and  she  informed  him  that  O'Kuark 
tended  toon  to  go  on  a  pilgrimage,  and  conjured  him  to  em- 
race  that  opportunity  of  conveying  her  from  a  hu-band  she 
eteated.  MacMurcbad  too  punctually  obeyed  the  Miuunons, 
A  had  the  lady  conveyed  to  bin  capital  of  Fern*.  The  mun- 
ch Rodrick  ecpoused  the  cause  of  O'Ruark.  \\  bile  MacMnr 
chad  fled  to  England,  and  obtain*!  the  a»»lsuiire  of  lUurr  II 


52 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


I  look'd  for  the  lamp  which,  she  told  me, 
Should  shine  when  her  pilgrim  return'd, 

But  though  darkness  began  to  infold  me, 
No  lamp  from  the  battlements  burn'd  ! 

I  flew  to  her  chamber — 'twas  lonely 

As  if  the  loved  tenant  lay  dead  ! — 
Ah,  would  it  were  death,  and  death  only  1 

But  no — the  young  false  one  had  fled. 
And  there  hung  the  lute  that  could  soften 

My  very  worst  pains  into  bliss, 
While  the  hand  that  had  waked  it  so  often, 

Now  throbb'd  to  my  proud  rival's  kiss. 

There  was  a  time,  falsest  of  women  ! 

When  Breffni's  good  sword  would  have 

sought 
That  man,  through  a  million  of  foemen, 

Who  dared  but  to  doubt  thee  in  thought ! 
While  now — O  degenerate  daughter 

Of  Erin,  how  fallen  is  thy  fame  ! 
And,  through  ages  of  bondage  and  slaughter, 

Thy  country  shall  bleed  for  thy  shame. 

Already  the  curse  is  upon  her, 

And  strangers  her  valleys  profane  ; 
They  come  to  divide — to  dishonor, 

And  tyrants  they  long  will  remain  ! 
But,  onward  ! — the  green  banner  rearing, 

Go,  flesh  every  sword  to  the  hilt ; 
On  our  side  is  Virtue  and  Erin  ! 

On  theirs  is  the  Saxon  and  Guilt. 


OH  !  HAD  WE  SOME  BRIGHT  LITTLE 
ISLE  OF  OUR  OWN  ! 

OH  !   had  we  some  bright  little  isle  of.  our 

own, 

In  a  blue  summer  oce'an,  far  off  and  alone, 
Where  a  leaf  never  dies  in  the  still-blooming 

bowers, 
And  the  bee  banquets  on  through  a  whole 

year  of  flowers ; 
Where  the  sun  loves  to  pause 

With  so  fond  a  delay, 
That  the  night  only  draws 
A  thin  veil  o'er  the  day ; 


Where  simply  to  feel  that  we  bieathe,  that 

we  live, 
Is  worth  the  best  joy  that  life  elsewhere  can 

give! 

There,  with  souls  ever  ardent,  and  pure  as 

the  clime, 
We  should  love  as  they  loved  in  the  first 

golden  time ; 

The  glow  of  the  sunshine,  the  balm  of  the;  air, 
Would  steal  to  our  hearts,  and  make  all 

summer  there ! 
With  affection  as  free 

From  decline  as  the  bowers, 
And  with  hope,  like  the  bee, 
Living  always  on  flowers, 
Our  life  should  resemble  a  long  day  of  light, 
And  our  death  come  on  holy  and  calm  as 
the  night ! 


FAREWELL!  BUT  WHENEVER  YOU 
WELCOME  THE  HOUR. 

FAREWELL  !  but  whenever  you  welcome  the 

hour 
That  awakens  the  night-song   of  mirth   in 

your  bower, 
Then  think  of  the  friend  who  once  welcomed 

it  too, 
And  forgot  his  own  griefs  to  be  happy  with 

you. 
His   griefs    may    return — not  a  hope    may 

remain 
Of  the  few  that  have  brighten'd  his  pathway 

of  pain — 
But  he  ne'er  will  forget  the  short  vision  that 

threw 
Its  enchantment  around  him  while  ling'ring 

with  you  ! 

And  still  on  that  evening,  when  pleasure 

fills  up 
To  the  highest  top  sparkle  each  heart  and 

each  cup, 

Where'er  my  path  lies,  be  it  gloomy  or  bright, 
My  soul,  happy  friends  !  shall  be  with  you 

that  night ; 
Shall  join  in  your  revels,  your  sports,  and 

your  wiles, 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOOKK. 


53 


And  return  to  me  beaming  all  o'er  with  your 

smiles ! — 
Too  blest,  if  it  tells  me  that,  'mid  the  gay 

cheer, 
Some  kind  voice  had  raurmurd,  "  I  wish  he 

were  here  !" 

Let  fate  do  her  worst,  there  are  relics  of  joy, 
Bright  dreams  of  the  past,  which  she  cannot 

destroy ; 
And  which  come,  in  the  night-time  of  sorrow 

and  care, 
To  bring  back  the  features  that  joy  used  to 

wear. 
Long,  long  be  my  heart  with  such  memories 

fill'd ! 
Like  the  vase  in  which  roses  have  once  been 

distill'd— 
You  may  break,  you  may  ruin  the  vase,  if 

you  will, 
But  the  scent  of  the  roses  will  hang  round  it 

still. 


YOU  REMEMBER  ELLEN.1 

You  remember  Ellen,  our  hamlet's  pride, 

How  meekly  she  bless'd  her  humble  lot, 
When  the  stranger,  William,  had  made  her 
his  bride, 

And  love  was  the  light  of  their  lowly  cot. 
Together  they  toil'd  through  winds  and  rains, 

Till  William  at  length,  in  sadness,  said, 
"  We  must  seek  our  fortune  on  other  plains  ;" 

Then,  sighing,  she  left  her  lowly  shed. 

They  roam'd  a  long  and  a  weary  way, 

Nor  much  was  the  maiden's  heart  at  ease, 
When  now,  at  close  of  one  stormy  day, 

They  see  a  proud  castle  among  the  trees. 
"To-night,"  said  the  youth,  "we'll  shelter 
there ; 

The  wind  blows  cold,  the  hour  is  late :" — 
So  he  blew  the  horn  with  a  chieftain's  air, 

And  the  porter  bow'd  as  they  pass'd  the 
gate. 

N<>\v,    welcome,    Lady!"     exclaimed    the 
youth  ; 


This  ballad  was  cntrgested  by  a  well-known  and  interect- 
•K  fto»y  told  of  a  certain  noble  faintly  in  England. 


"  This  castle  is  thine,  and  these  dark  woods 

all." 
She  believed  him  wild,  but  his  words  were 

truth, 

For  Ellen  is  Lady  of  Rosna  Hall ! 
And  dearly  the  Lord  of  Rosna  loves 

What  William  the  stranger  woo'd  and  wed ; 
And  the  light  of  bliss  in  these  lordly  groves 
Is  pure  as  it  shone  in  the  lowly  shed. 


OH!   DOUBT  ME  NOT. 

On  !  doubt  me  not — the  season 

Is  o'er  when  folly  made  me  rove, 
And  now  the  vestal  reason 

Shall  watch  the  fire  awaked  by  love. 
Although  this  heart  was  early  blown, 

And  fairest  hands  disturb'd  the  tree, 
Th^y  only  shook  some  blossoms  down, 
Its  fruit  has  all  been  kept  for  thee. 
Then  doubt  me  not — the  season 

Is  o'er  when  folly  made  me  rove, 
And  now  the  vestal  reason 

Shall  watch  the  fire  awaked  by  love. 

And  though  my  lute  no  longer 

May  sing  of  passion's  ardent  spell, 
Oh,  trust  me,  all  the  stronger 
I  feel  the  bliss  I  do  not  tell. 
The  bee  through  many  a  garden  roves, 

And  sings  his  lay  of  courtship  o'er, 
But  \\hen  he  finds  the  flower  he  loves 
He  settles  there,  and  hums  no  more. 
Then  doubt  me  not — the  season 

Is  o'er  when  folly  kept  me  free, 
And  now  the  vestal  reason 

Shall  guard  the  flame  awaked  by  thee, 


I'D  MOURN  THE  HOPES. 

I'D  mourn  the  hopes  that  leave  me, 
If  thy  smiles  had  left  me  too ; 

I'd  weep,  when  friends  deceive  me, 
It'thou  wert,  like  them,  untrue. 

T.iit  while  I've  thee  before  me, 

With  heart  so  warm  and  i  vrs  so  bright, 


54 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


No  clouds  can  linger  o'er  me, 
That  smile  turns  them  all  to  light ! 

'Tis  not  in  fate  to  harm  me, 

While  fate  leaves  thy  love  to  me ; 
*Tis  net  in  joy  to  charm  me, 

Unless  joy  be  shared  with  thee. 
One  minute's  dream  about  thee 

Were  worth  a  long,  an  endless  year 
Of  waking  bliss  without  thee, 

My  own  love,  my  only  dear ! 

And  though  the  hope  be  gone,  love, 

That  long  sparkled  o'er  our  way, 
Oh  !  we  shall  journey  on;  love, 

More  safely  without  its  ray. 
Far  better  lights  shall  win  me 

Along  the  path  I've  yet  to  roam — 
The  mind  that  burns  within  me, 

And  pure  smiles  from  thee  at  home. 

Thus,  when  the  lamp  that  lighted 

The  traveller,  at  first,  goes  out, 
He  feels  a  while  benighted, 

And  looks  round  in  fear  and  doubt. 
But  soon,  the  prospect  clearing, 

By  cloudless  starlight  on  he  treads, 
And  thinks  no  lamp  so  cheering 

As  that  lio-lit  which  Heaven  sheds. 


COME  O'ER  THE  SEA. 

COME  o'er  the  sea, 
Maiden  !  with  me, 

Mine  thro'  sunshine,  storm,  and  snows ! 
Seasons  may  roll. 
But  the  true  soul 
Burns  the  same  where'er  it  goes. 
Let  fate  frown  on,  so  we  love  and  part  not ; 
'Tis  life  where  thou  art,  'tis  death  where  thou 
art  not ! 

Then  come  o'er  the  sea, 
Maiden  !  with  me, 

Come  wherever  the  wild  wind  blows ; 
Seasons  may  roll, 
But  the  true  soul 
Bums  tho  same  where'er  it  goes. 


Is  not  the  sea 
Made  for  the  free, 
Land  for  courts  and  chains  alone  ? 
Here  we  are  slaves, 
But  on  the  waves 
Love  and  liberty's  all  our  own  ! 
No  eye  to  watch,  and  no  tongue  to  wound  us, 
All  earth  forgot,  and  all  heaven  around  us ! — 
Then  come  o'er  the  sea, 
Maiden  !  with  me, 

Come  wherever  the  wild  wind  blows ; 
Seasons  may  roll, 
But  the  true  soul 
Burns  the  same  where'er  it  goes. 


HAS    SORROW    THY  YOUNG  DAYS 
SHADED? 

HAS  sorrow  thy  young  days  shaded, 

As  clouds  o'er  the  morning  fleet  ? 
Too  fast  have  those  young  days  faded, 

That  even  in  sorrow  were  sweet  ? 
Does  time  with  his  cold  wing  wither 

Each  feeling  that  once  was  dear  ? 
Come,  child  of  misfortune  !  corne  hither, 

I'll  weep  with  thee,  tear  for  tear. 

Has  love  to  that  soul  so  tender, 

Been  like  our  Lagenian  mine,1 
Where  sparkles  of  golden  splendor 

All  over  the  surface  shine — 
But,  if  in  pursuit  we  go  deeper, 
Allured  by  the  gleam  that  shone, 
Ah  !  false  as  the  dream  of  the  sleeper, 

Like  love,  the  bright  ore  is  gone. 

Has  hope,  like  the  bird  in  the  story* 

That  flitted  from  tree  to  tree 
With  the  talisman's  glittering  glory — 

Has  hope  been  that  bird  to  thee  ? 
On  branch  after  branch  alighting, 

The  gem  did  she  still  display, 
And  when  nearest  and  most  inviting, 

Then  waft  the  fair  gem  away  ? 


1  Our  Wicklow  gold  mines,  to  which  this  verse  aL  odes,  de- 
serve, I  fear,  the  character  here  given  of  them. 

a  "The  bird,  having  -rot  its  prize,  settled  not  far  off,  with 
the  talisman  in  his  mouth.  The  prince  drew  near  it,  hoping 
it  would  drop  it ;  but,  as  he  approached,  the  bird  took  wing, 
and  settled  again,"  <fcc.—  Arabian  Nights.  Story  of  Kunun'J 
al  Ziimtnnmi  and  the  Princess  of  Cb'ua 


I'OK.MS  OF  THOMAS 


If  thus  the  sweet  hours  have  fleeted 

When  sorrow  herself  lookM  bright : 
If  thus  the  fond  hope  has  cheated, 

That  led  thee  along  so  light ; 
If  thus  the  unkind  world  wither 

Each  feeling  that  once  \v:is  dear; 
Come,  child  of  misfortune  !  come  hither, 

I'll  weep  with  thee,  tear  for  tear. 


NO,  NOT  MORE  WELCOME. 

No,  not  more  welcome  the  fairy  numbers 

Of  music  fall  on  the  sleeper's  ear, 
When,  half-awaking  from  fearful  slumbers, 

He  thinks  the  full  choir  of  heaven  is  near, 
Than  came  that  voice,  when  all  forsaken, 

This  heart  long  had  sleeping  lain, 
Nor  thought  its  cold  pulse  would  ever  waken 

To  such  benign,  blessed  sounds  again. 

Sweet  voice  of  comfort !  'twas  like  the  steal- 
ing 
Of  summer  wind  through  some  wreathed 

ihell— 
Each  secret  winding,  each  inmost  feeling 

Of  all  my  soul  echo'd  to  its  spell ! 
'Twas     whisper'd     balm  —  'twas    sunshine 

spoken  ! — 

I'd  live  years  of  grief  and  pain 
To  have  my  long  sleep  of  sorrow  broken 
By  such  benign,  blessed  sounds  again  ! 


WHEN  FIRST  I  MET  THEE. 

WHEN  first  I  met  thee,  warm  and  young, 

There  shone  such  truth  about  thee, 
And  on  thy  lip  such  promise  hung, 

I  did  not  dare  to  doubt  thee. 
I  saw  thee  change,  yet  still  relied, 
Still  clung  with  hope  the  fonder, 
And  thought,  though  false  to  all  beside, 
From  me  thou  couldst  not  wander. 
But  go,  deceiver  !  go, — 

The  heart,  whose  hopes  could  make  it 
Trust  one  so  false,  so  low, 

Deserves  that  thou  shouldst  break  it! 


When  every  tongue  thy  follies  named, 

I  fled  the  unwelcome  story; 
Or  found,  in  even  the  faults  they  blamed, 

Some  gleams  of  future  glory, 
/still  was  true,  when  nearer  friends 

Conspired  to  wrong,  to  slight  thee ; 
The  heart,  that  now  thy  falsehood  rends, 
Would  then  have  bled  to  right  thee. 
But  go,  deceiver!  go, — 

Some  day,  perhaps,  thou'lt  waken 
From  pleasure's  dream  to  know 
The  grief  of  hearts  forsaken. 

Even  now,  though  youth  its  bloom  has  shed 

No  lights  of  age  adorn  thee  ; 
The  few  who  loved  thee  once,  have  fled, 

And  they  who  flatter,  scorn  thee. 
Thy  midnight  cup  is  pledged  to  slaves, 

No  genial  ties  cnwreath  it; 
The  smiling  there,  like  light  on  graves, 
lias  rank  cold  hearts  beneath  it ! 
Go — go — though  worlds  were  thine, 

I  would  not  now  surrender 
One  taintless  tear  of  mine 
For  all  thy  guilty  splendor  ! 

And  days  may  come,  thou  false  one  !  yet, 

When  even  those  ties  shall  sever; 
When  thou  wilt  call  with  vain  regret 

On  her  thou'st  lost  forever ! 
On  her  who,  in  thy  fortune's  fall, 

With  smiles  had  still  received  thee, 
And  gladly  died  to  prove  thee  all 
Pier  fancy  first  believed  thee. 
Go — go — 'tis  vain  to  curse, 

'Tis  weakness  to  upbraid  thee, 
Hate  cannot  wish  thee  worse 

Than  guilt  and  shame  have  made  thee, 


WHILE  HISTORY'S  MUSE. 

WHILE   history's   muse   the   memorial   was 

keeping 

Of  all  that  the  dark  hand  of  destiny  weaves, 

Beside  her  the  genius  of  Erin  stood  weeping, 

For  hers  was  the  story  that  blotted  the 

leaves. 

But  oh,  how  the  tear  in  her  eyelids  grew 
bright. 


56 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORL. 


When,  after  whole  pages  of  sorrow  and 

shame, 

She  saw  history  write 
With  a  pencil  of  light 

That  illumed  all  the  volume,  her  Wellington's 
name ! 

"  Hail,  star  of  my  isle  !"  said  the  spirit,  all 

sparkling 
With  beams  such  as  break  from  her  own 

dewy  skies; — 
"  Through    ages   of   sorrow,   deserted   and 

darkling, 
I've  watch'd  for  some  glory  like  thine  to 

arise. 
For  though  heroes  I've  number'd,  unblest 

was  their  lot, 

And  unhallow'd  they  sleep  in  the  cross- 
ways  of  fame ! — 
But  oh  there  is  not 
One  dishonoring  blot 

On  the  wreath  that  encircles  my  Wellington's 
name ! 

And  still  the  last  crown  of  thy  toils  is  re- 
maining, 
The  grandest,  the  purest  even  thou  hast 

yet  known  ; 
Though  proud  was  thy  task,  other  nations 

unchaining, 
Far  prouder  to  heal  the  deep  wounds  of 

thy  own. 
At  the  foot  of  that  throne,  for  whose  weal 

thou  hast  stood, 
Go,  plead  for  the  land  that  first  cradled 

thy  fame — 

And  bright  o'er  the  flood 
Of  her  tears  and  her  blood 
Let  the  rainbow  of  hope  be  her  Wellington's 
name !" 


THE  TIME  I'VE  LOST  IN  WOOING. 

THE  time  I've  lost  in  wooing, 
In  watching  and  pursuing 

The  light  that  lies 

In  woman's  eyes, 
lias  been  my  heart's  undoing. 


Though  wisdom  oft  has  taught  me, 
I  scorn  the  lore  that  bought  me, 

My  only  books 

Were  woman's  looks, 
And  folly's  all  they've  taught  me. 

Her  smile  when  beauty  granted, 
I  hung  with  gaze  enchanted, 

Like  him,  the  sprite,1 

Whom  maids  by  night 
Oft  meet  in  glen  that's  haunted. 
Like  him,  too,  beauty  won  me, 
But  while  her  eyes  were  on  me, 

If  once  their  ray 

Was  turn'd  away, 
Oh  !  winds  could  not  outrun  me. 

And  are  those  follies  going  ! 
And  is  my  proud  heart  growing 

Too  cold  or  wise 

For  brilliant  eyes 
Again  to  set  it  glowing  ? 
No — vain,  alas  !  the  endeavor 
From  bonds  so  sweet  to  sever ; — 

Poor  wisdom's  chance 

Against  a  glance 
Is  now  as  weak  as  ever  ! 


WHERE'S  THE  SLAVE. 

OH  !  where's  the  slave  so  lowly, 
Condemn'd  to  chains  unholy, 

Who,  could  he  burst 

His  bonds  at  first, 
Would  pine  beneath  them  slowly? 
What  soul,  whose  wrongs  degrade  it, 
Would  wait  till  time  decay'd  it, 

When  thus  its  wing 

At  once  may  spring 
To  the  throne  of  Him  who  made  it  ? 
Farewell,  Erin  ! — fai'ewell  all 
Who  live  to  weep  our  fall ! 

Less  dear  the  laurel  growing, 
Alive,  untouch'd,  and  blowing, 


1  This  alludes  to  a  kind  of  Irish  fairy,  which  is  to  he  met 
with,  they  eay,  in  the  fields  at  dusk.  As  long  as  you  keep 
your  eyes  upon  him,  he  is  fixed  and  in  your  power ;  but  th« 
moment  you  look  away  (and  he  is  ingenious  in  furnishing  eom« 
inducement)  he  vanishes. 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


Than  that  whose  braid 

Is  pluck'd  to  shade 
The  brows  with  victory  glowing  ! 
We  tread  the  land  that  bore  us, 
Our  green  flag  glitters  o'er  us, 

The  friends  we've  tried 

Are  by  our  side, 
And  the  foe  we  hate  before  us  1 
Farewell,  Erin  ! — farewell  all 
Who  live  to  weep  our  fall  1 


'TIS  GONE,  AND  FOREVER. 

Tis  gone,  and    forever,  the   light   we  saw 

breaking, 
Like  heaven's  first  dawn  o'er  the  sleep  of 

the  dead — 

When  man,  from  the  slumber  of  ages  awak- 
ing, 
Look'd  upward,  and  bless'd  the  pure  ray 

ere  it  fled ! 
'Tis  gone — and  the  gleams  it  has  left  of  its 

burning 
But  deepen  the  long  night  of  bondage  and 

mourning 
That  dark  o'er  the  kingdoms  of  earth  is  re- 

tnrning, 
And,  darkest  of  all,  hapless  Erin,  o'er  thee. 

For  high  was  thy  hope  when  those  glories 

were  darting 
Around  thee  through  all  the  gross  clouds 

of  the  world ; 
When  Truth,  from  her  fetters  indignantly 

starting, 
At  once,  like  a  sun-burst,  her  banner  un- 

furl'd.1 
Oh  1    never  shall  earth  see   a  moment  so 

splendid ! 
Then,  then — had  one  hymn  of  deliverance 

blended 
The  tongues  of  all  nations — how  sweet  had 

ascended 
The  first  note  of  liberty,  Erin  !  from  thee. 


1  "  The  Sun-burst"  was  the  fanciful  name  given  by  the  an- 
cient Irish  to  the  royal  banner. 


But,  shame  on  those  tyrants  who  envied  the 

blessing ! 
And  shame  on  the  light  race,  unworthy 

its  good, 
Who,  at  Death's  reeking  altar,  like  furiet, 

caressing 
The  young  hope  of  Freedom,  baptized  it 

in  blood ! 

Then  vanish'd  forever  that  fair  sunny  vision, 
Which,  spite  of  the  slavish,  the  cold  he-art's 

derision, 
Shall  long  be  remember'd,  pure,  bright,  and 

elysian, 
As  first  it  arose,  my  lost  Erin  !  on  thee. 


I  SAW  FROM  THE  BEACH. 

I   SAW  from  the  beach,  when  the  morning 

was  shining, 

A  bark  o'er  the  waters  move  gloriously  on  ; 
I  came  when  the  sun  o'er  that  beach  \vas  de- 
clining,— 

The  bark  was  still  there,  but  the  waters 
were  gone ! 

Ah  !  such  is  the  fate  of  our  life's  early  promise, 
So  passing  the  spring-tide  of  joy  we  have 

known : 
Each  wave  that  we  danced  on  at  morning 

ebbs  from  us, 

And  leaves  us  at  eve  on  the  bleak  shore 
alone. 

Ne'er  tell  me  of  glories  serenely  adorning 
The  close  of  our  day,  the  calm  eve  of  our 

night ; 

Give  me  back,  give  me  back  the  wild  fresh- 
ness of  morning, 

Her  clouds  and  her  tears  are  worth  even- 
ing's best  light. 

Oh  who  would  not  welcome  that  monu-nt'i 

returning, 
When    passion    first   waked    a  new   life 

through  his  frame, 
And    his   soul — like   the  wood   that    grows 

precious  in  burning — 
Gave  out  all  its  sweets  to  love's  exquisite 
flame ! 


58 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


COME,  REST  IN  THIS  BOSOM. 

COME,  rest  in  this  bosom,  my  own  stricken 

deer  ! 
Though  the  herd  have  fled  from  thee,  thy 

home  is  still  here  ; 
Here  still  is  the  smile  that  no  cloud  can  o'er- 

cast, 
And  the  heart  and  the  hand  all  thy  own  to 

the  last ! 

Oh  !  what  was  love  made  for,  if  'tis  not  the 

same 
Through  joy  and  through  torments,  through 

glory  and  shame  ? 
I  know  not,  I   ask   not,  if  guilt's  in  that 

heart, 
I  but  know  that  I  love  thee,  whatever  thou 

art! 

Thou  hast  call'd  me  thy  angel  in  moments 

of  bliss, 
Still  thy  angel  I'll  be,  'mid  the  horrors  of 

this, — 
Through  the  furnace,  unshrinking,  thy  steps 

to  pursue, 
And  shield  thee,  and  save  thee,  or  perish 

there  too ! 


FILL  THE  BUMPER  FAIR! 

FILL  the  bumper  fair ! 

Every  drop  we  sprinkle 
O'er  the  brow  of  care 

Smooths  away  a  wrinkle. 
Wit's  electric  flame 

Ne'er  so  swiftly  passes, 
As  when  through  the  frame 

It  shoots  from  brimming  glasses. 
Fill  the  bumper  fair  ! 

Every  drop  we  sprinkle 
O'er  the  brow  of  care 

Smooths  away  a  wrinkle. 

Sages  can,  they  say, 

Grasp  the  lightning's  pinions, 
And  bring  down  its  ray 

From  the  starr'd  dominions ; 


So  we,  sages,  sit, 

And  'mid  bumpers  bright'iiing. 
From  the  heaven  of  wit 

Draw  down  all  its  lightning ! 

Wouldst  thou  know  what  first 

Made  our  souls  inherit 
This  ennobling  thirst 

For  wine's  celestial  spirit  ? 
It  chanced  upon  that  day, 

When,  as  bauds  inform  us, 
Prometheus  stole  away 

The  living  fires  that  warm  us. 

The  careless  youth,  when  up 
To  glory's  fount  aspiring, 

Took  nor  urn  nor  cup, 

To  hide  the  pilfer'd  fire  in ; 

But,  oh,  his  joy  !  when,  round 
The  halls  of  heaven  spying, 

Amongst  the  stars  he  found 

O 

A  bowl  of  Bacchus  lying. 

Some  drops  were  in  the  bowl, 

Remains  of  last  night's  pleasure, 
With  which  the  sparks  of  soul 

Mix'd  their  burning  treasure  ! 
Hence  the  goblet's  shower 

Hath  such  spells  to  win  us — 
Hence  its  mighty  power 

O'er  that  flame  within  us. 
Fill  the  bumper  fair  ! 

Every  drop  we  sprinkle 
O'er  the  brow  of  care 

Smooths  away  a  wrinkle. 


DEAR  HARP  OF  MY  COUNTRY 

DEAR  Harp  of  my  country !  in  darkness  I 

found  thee, 

The  cold  chain  of  silence  had  hung  o'er 
thee  long, 

When  proudly,  my  own  Island  Harp  !  I  un- 
bound thee, 

And  gave  all  thy  chords  to  light,  freedom, 
and  song ! 

The  warm  lay  of  love  and  the  light  note  of 
gladness 


COME,  REST  IX  TUTS  BOSOM. 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS 


Have  waken'd  thy  fondest,  thy  liveliest 

thrill ; 
But  so  oft  hast  thou  echo'd  the  deep  sigh  of 

sadness, 

That  even  in  thy  mirth  it  will  steal  from 
thee  still. 

Dear  Harp  of  my  country !  farewell  to  thy 

numbers, 
This  sweet  wreath  of  song  is  the  last  we 

shall  twine ; 
Go,  sleep  with  the  sunshine  of  fame  on  thy 

slumbers, 
Till  touch'd  by  some  hand  less  unworthy 

than  mine. 
If  the  pulse  of  the  patriot,  soldier,  or  lover, 

Has  throbb'd  at  our  lay,  'tis  thy  glory  alone ; 
I  was  but  as  the  wind  passing  heedlessly  over, 
And  all  the  wild  sweetness  I  waked  was 
thy  own. 


REMEMBER  THEE. 

REMEMBER  thee  !    yes,  while  there's  life  in 

this  heart, 

It  shall  never  forget  thee,  all  lorn  as  thou  art, 
More  dear  in  thy  sorrow,  thy  gloom,  and  thy 

showers, 
Than  the  rest  of  the  world  in  their  sunniest 

hours. 

Wert  thou  all  that  I  wish  thee,  great,  glori- 
ous, and  free, 

First  flower  of  the  earth,  and  first  gem  of 
the  sea, 

I  might  hail  thee  with  prouder,  with  happier 
brow, 

But  oh !  could  I  love  thee  more  deeply  than 
now  ? 

No,  thy  chains  as  they  rankle,  thy  blood  as 

it  runs, 
But  make  thee  more  painfully  dear  to  thy 

sons — 
Whose  hearts,  like  the  young  of  the  desert 

bird's  nest, 
Drink  love  in  each  life-drop  that  flows  from 

thy  breast. 


OH  FOR  THE  SWORDS  OF  FORMER 
TIME! 

OH  for  the  swords  of  former  time ! 

Oh  for  the  men  who  bore  them, 
When  arm'd  for  Right,  they  stood  sublime, 

And  tyrants  crouch'd  before  them : 
When  pure  yet,  ere  courts  began 

With  honors  to  enslave  him, 
The  best  honors  worn  by  Man 

Were  those  which  Virtue  gave  him. 
Oh  for  the  swords,  <fcc.,  &c. 

Oh  for  the  Kings  who  flourish'd  then  ! 

Oh  for  the  pomp  that  crown'd  '.hem, 
When  hearts  and  hands  of  freeborn  men 

Were  all  the  ramparts  round  them. 
When,  safe  built  on  bosoms  tnu-. 

The  throne  was  but  the  centiv, 
Round  which  LOVE  a  circle  dre\v, 

That  Treason  durst  not  enter. 
Oh  for  the  Kings  who  flourish'd  tlu>n! 

Oh  for  the  pomp  that  crown'd  them, 
When  hearts  and  hands  of  freeborn  men, 

Were  all  the  ramparts  round  them ! 


WREATH  THE  BOWL. 

WREATH  the  bowl  with  flowers  of  soul 

The  brightest  Wit  can  find  us ; 
We'll  take  a  flight  toward  heaven  to-night. 

And  leave  dull  earth  behind  us. 
Should  Love  amid  the  wreaths  be  hid, 

That  Joy,  the  enchanter,  brings  us, 
No  danger  fear  while  wine  is  near, 

We'll  drown  him  it'  he  stings  us. 
Then  wreath  the  bowl  with  flowers  of  soul 

The  brightest  Writ  can  find  us  ; 
We'll  take  a  flight  toward  heaven  to-night, 

And  leave  dull  earth  In-hind  us. 

'Twas  nectar  fed  of  old,  'tis  said. 

Their  Junos,  Joves,  Apollos ; — 
And  man  may  brew  his  in-i-tar  too, 

The  rich  receipt's  as  follows: 
Take  wine  like  this,  let  looks  of  bliss 

Around  it  well  be  blended. 
Then  bring  Wit's  beam  to  warm  the  ft  roam, 

And  tln-iv's  your  iicrtar  splendid  ! 


60 


FOEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


So,  wreath  the  bowl  with  flowers  of  soul 
The  brightest  Wit  can  find  us ; 

We'll  take  a  flight  toward  heaven  to-night, 
And  leave  dull  earth  behind  us  ! 

Say,  why  did  Time  his  glass  sublime 

Fill  up  with  sands  unsightly, 
When  wine,  he  knew,  runs  brisker  through, 

And  sparkles  far  more  brightly  ? 
Oh,  lend  it  us,  and,  smiling  thus, 

The  glass  in  two  we'll  sever, 
Make  pleasure  glide  in  double  tide, 

And  fill  both  ends  forever ! 
Then  wreath  the  bowl  with  flowers  of  soul 

The  brightest  Wit  can  find  us  ; 
We'll  take  a  flight  toward  heaven  to-night, 

~  O  7 

And  leave  dull  earth  behind  us. 


THE  PARALLEL. 

YES,  sad  one  of  Siox1 — if  closely  resembling, 
In  shame  and  in  sorrow,  thy  wither'd-up 

heart — 
It  drinking  deep,  deep,  of  the  same  "  cup  of 

trembling" 

Could  make  us  thy  children,  our  parent 
thou  art. 

Like  thee  doth  our  nation  lie  conquer'd  and 

broken, 
And  fallen  from  her  head  is  the  once  royal 

crown  ; 
In  her  streets,  in  her  halls,  Desolation  hath 

spoken, 

And  "while  it  is  day  yet,  her  sun  hath 
gone  down."8 

Like  thine  doth  her  exile,  'mid  dreams  of 

returning, 

Die  far  from  the  home  it  were  life  to  be- 
hold ; 
Like  thine  do  her  sons,  in  the  day  of  their 

mourning, 

Remember  the  bright  things  that  bless'd 
them  of  old. 


1  These  verses  were  written  after  the  perusal  of  a  treatise 
by  Mr.  Hamilton,  professing  to  prove  that  the  Irish  were  origi- 
nally Jews. 

3  "  Her  rim  is  gone  down  while  it  was  yet  day. "'—Jer.  xv.  9. 


Ah,  well  may  we  call  her  like   ,iee,  "  the 

Forsaken,'" 
Her  boldest  are  vanish 'd,  her  proudest  are 

slaves ; 
And  the  harps  of  her  minstrels,  when  gayest 

they  waken, 

Have  breathings  as  sad  as  the  wind  over 
graves ! 

Yet  hadst  thou  thy  vengeance — yet  came 

there  the  morrow, 
That  shines  out,  at  last,  on  the  longest 

dark  night, 
When   the   sceptre,   that   smote   thee   with 

slavery  and  sorrow, 

Was  shiver'd  at  once,  like  a  reed,  in  thy 
sight : 

When  that  cup,  which  for  others  the  proud 

Golden  City4 
Had  brimm'd  full  of  bitterness,  drench'd 

her  own  lips, 
And  the  world  she  had  trampled  on  heard, 

without  pity, 

The  howl  in  her  halls,  and  the  cry  from 
her  ships : 

When  the  curse  Heaven  keeps  for  the  haughty 

came  over 

Her  merchants  rapacious,  her  rulers  unjust, 
And,  a  ruin,  at  last,  for  the  earth-worm  to 

cover,6 

The  Lady  of  Kingdoms'  lay  low  in  the 
dust. 


OH,  YE  DEAD  ! 

OH,  ye  Dead !  oh,  ye  Dead !  whom  we  know 

by  the  light  you  give 
From  your  cold  gleaming  eyes,  though  you 

move  like  men  who  live, 
Why  leave  you  thus  your  graves, 
In  far-off  fields  and  waves, 


•  "Thou  Bhalt  no  more  be    termed   Forsakeu." — Isaiah, 
Ixii.  4. 

«  "  How  hath  the  oppressor  ceased  !  the  golden  city  ceased  !" 
—Isaiah,  xiv.  11. 

•  "Thy  pomp  is  brought  down  to  the  grave ?ud  tu« 

worms  cover  thee." — Isaiah,  xiv.  4. 

•  "  Thou  shall  no  more  be  called  tin-  Lady  of  Kiugaonm  ."— 
Igaiah,  xlvii  5. 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOO  I  IK. 


61 


Where  the  worm  and  the  sea-bird  only  know 

your  bed  ; 

To  haunt  this  spot  where  all 
Those  eyes  that  wept  your  fall, 
And  the  hearts  that  bewail'd  you,  like  your 
own,  lie  dead  ? 

It  is  true — it  is  true — we  are  shadows  cold 

and  wan  ; 
It  is  true — it  is  true — all  the  friends  we  loved 

are  gone ; 

But  oh  !  thus  even  in  death, 
So  sweet  is  still  the  breath 
Of  the  fields  and  the  flowers  in  our  youth  we 

wander'd  o'er, 
That  ere,  condemn'd,  we  go 
To  freeze  'mid  HECLA'S'  snow, 
We  would  taste  it  awhile,  and  dream  we 
live  once  more  ! 


O'DONOHUE'S  MISTRESS. 

OP  all  the  fair  months,  that  round  the  sun 
In  light-link'd  dance  their  circles  run, 

Sweet  May,  sweet  May,  shine  thou  for  me ; 
For  still,  when  thy  earliest  beams  arise, 
That  youth,  who  beneath  the  blue  lake  lies, 

Sweet  May,  sweet  May,  returns  to  me. 

Of  all  the  smooth   lakes,  where    day-light 

leaves 
His  lingering  smile  on  golden  eves, 

Fair  Lake,  fair  Lake,  thou'rt  dear  to  me ; 
For  when  the  last  April  sun  grows  dim, 
Thy  Xaiads  prepare  his  steed"  for  him 
Who  dwells,  who  dwells,  bright  Lake,  in 
thee. 

1  Paul  Zealand  mentions  that  there  is  a  mountain  in  some 
part  of  Ireland,  where  the  ghosts  of  persons  who  have  died  in 
foreign  lands  walk  about  and  converse  with  those  they  meet, 
like  living  people.  If  a»ked  why  they  do  not  return  to  their 
honi"-.  they  i<ay  they  arc  obliged  to  go  to  Mount  Hecla,  and 
disappear  immediately. 

*  The  particular?  of  the  tradition  respecting  O'Donohne  and 
his  White  Ht.rsc-,  may  be  found  in  Mr.  Weld's  Account  of 
Killarney,  or  more  fully  detailed  in  Derrick's  Letters.  For 
many  years  after  his  death,  the  spirit  of  this  hero  is  supposed 
to  have  been  seen  on  the  morning  of  May-day,  gliding  ever  the 
'ake  on  hi.'  favorite  white  horse,  to  the  sound  of  sweet  un- 
earthly music,  and  preceded  by  group*  of  youths  and  maid- 
sng,  who  flung  wreaths  of  delicate  spring-flowers  in  hie  path. 

Among  other  stories,  connected  with  this  Legend  of  the 
Lakes,  it  is  said  that  there  was  a  young  and  beautiful  girl, 


Of  all  the  proud  steeds,  that  ever  bore 
Young  plumed  Chiefs  on  sea  or  shore, 
White  Steed,  white  Steed,  most  joy  to 

thee  ; 
Who  still,  with  the  first  young  glance  of 

spring, 

From  under  that  glorious  lake  dost  bring 
Proud  Steed,  proud  Steed,  my  love  to  me. 

While,  white  as  the  sail  some  bark  unfurls, 
When  newly  launch 'd,  thy  long  mane*  curls, 

Fair  Steed,  tail  Steed,  as  white  and  free ; 
And  spiriv   irom  all  the  lake's  deep  bowers, 
Glide  over  the  blue  wave  scattering  flowers, 

Fair  Steed,  around  my  love  and  thee. 

Of  all  the  sweet  deaths  that  maidens  die, 
Whose  lovers  beneath  the  cold  wave  lie, 

Most  sweet,  most  sweet,  that  death  will  be, 
Which,  under  the  next  May  evening's  light, 
When  thou  and  thy  steed  are  lost  to  sight, 

Dear  love,  dear  love,  I'll  die  for  thee. 


SHALL  THE  HARP  THEN  BE  SILENT. 

SHALL  the  Harp  then  be  silent,  when  he  who 

first  gave 
To  our  country  a  name,  is  withdrawn  from 

all  eyes  ? 
Shall  a  Minstrel  of  Erin  stand  mute  by  the 

grave, 

Where  the  first — where  the  last   of  her 
Patriots  lies  ? 

No — faint  tho'  the  death-song  may  fall  from 

his  lips, 
Though  his  Harp,  like  his  soul,  may  with 

shadows  be  crost, 

Yet,  yet  shall  it  sound,  'mid  a  nation's  eclipse, 
And  proclaim  to  the  world  what  a  star 
hath  been  lost  !* 


whose  imagination  was  so  impressed  with  the  idea  of  thin 
visionary  chieftain,  that  she  fancied  herself  in  IOTC  with  him, 
and  at  last,  in  a  fit  of  insanity,  on  a  May-morning  threw  her- 
self into  the  lake. 

*  The  boatmen  at  Killarney  call  those  wave*  which  come 
on  a  windy  day,  crested  with  foam,  "  O'Donohoe's  whit* 

«  It  is  only  the  two  first  Tenet  that  are  either  fitted  or  IB 
tended  to  be  sung. 


62 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


What  a  union  of  all  the  affections  and  powers 
By   which    life    is    exalted,   embellish'd, 

refined, 
Was  embraced  in  that  spirit — whose  centre 

was  ours, 
While   its   mighty   circumference   circled 

mankind. 

Oh,  who  that  loves  Erin — or  who  that  can  see, 
Through   the  waste   of  her  annals,  that 

epoch  sublime — 

Like  a  pyramid  raised  in  the  desert — where  he 
And  his  glory  stand  out  to  the  eyes  of  all 
time; 

That  one  lucid  interval,  snatch'd  from  the 

gloom 
And  the  madness  of  ages,  when  fill'd  with 

his  soul, 
A  Nation  o'erleap'd  the  dark  bounds  of  her 

doom, 

And  for  one  sacred  instant,  touch'd  Liber- 
ty's goal  ? 

Who,  that  ever  hath  heard  him — hath  drank 

at  the  source 

Of  that  wonderful  eloquence,  all  Erin's  own, 
In  whose   high-thoughted  daring,  the  fire, 

and  the  force, 

And  the  yet  untamed  spring  of  her  spirit 
are  shown  ? 

An  eloquence  rich,  wheresoever  fts  wave 
Wander'd    free     and     triumphant,    with 

thoughts  that  shone  through, 
As  clear  as   the  brook's  "stone  of  lustre," 

that  gave, 
With  the  flash  of  the  gem,  its  solidity  too. 

Who,  that  ever  approach'd  him,  when  free 

from  the  crowd, 

In  a  home  full  of  love,  he  delighted  to  tread 
'Mong  the  trees  which  a  nation  had  given, 

and  which  bow'd, 

As  if  each  brought  a  new  civic  crown  for 
his  head — 

That  home,  where — like  him  who,  as  fable 

hath  told,1 

Put  the  rays  from  his  brow,  that  his  child 
might  come  near, 


>  Apollo,  In  his  interview  with  Phaeton,  as  described  by 
Orid— "  Deposuit  radios  propiusyue  accederejussit." 


Every  glory  forgot,  the  most  wise  of  the  old 
Became  all  that  the  simplest  and  youngest 
hold  dear. 

Is  there  one,  who  hath  thus,  through  his  or- 
bit of  life, 
But  at  distance   observed   him — through 

glory,  through  blame, 
In  the  calm  of  retreat,  in  the  grandeur  of 

strife, 

Whether  shining  or  clouded,  still  high  and 
the  same. — 

Such  a  union  of  all  that  enriches  life's  hour 
Of  the  sweetness  we  love,  and  the  great- 
ness we  praise, 
As  that  type  of   simplicity   blended   with 

power, 

A  child,  with   a   thunderbolt,  truly  por- 
trays— 
Oh  no,  not  a  heart,  that  e'er  knew  him,  but 

mourns 
Deep,    deep   o'er  the   grave,  where  such 

glory  is  shiined — 
O'er  a  monument  Fame  will  preserve,  'mong 

the  urns 

Of  the  wisest,  the  bravest,  the  best  of 
mankind ! 


OH,  THE  SIGHT  ENTRANCING. 

OH,  the  sight  entrancing, 

When  morning's  beam  is  glancing 

O'er  files,  array'd 

With  helm  and  blade, 
And  plumes,  in  the  gay  wind  dancing  ! 
When  hearts  are  all  high  beating, 
And  the  trumpet's  voice  repeating 

That  song,  whose  breath 

May  lead  to  death, 
But  never  to  retreating. 
Oh,  the  sight  entrancing, 
When  morning's  beam  is  glancing 

O'er  files,  array'd 

With  helm  and  blade, 
And  plumes,  in  the  gay  wind  dancing  1 

Yet,  'tis  not  helm  or  feather — 
For  ask  yon  despot,  whether 


1'oK.MS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


63 


His  plmm'd  bunds 

Could  bring  such  hands 
And  hearts  as  ours  together. 
Leave  pomps  to  those  who  need  'era — 
Adorn  but  man  with  freedom, 

And  proud  he  braves 

The  gaudiest  slaves 
That  crawl  where  monarchs  lead  'em. 
The  sword  may  pierce  the  beaver, 
Stone  walls  in  time  may  sever, 

Tis  heart  alone, 

Worth  steel  and  stone, 
That  keeps  men  free  forever  ! 
Oh,  that  sight  entrancing, 
When  morning's  beam  is  glancing 

O'er  files,  array 'd 

With  helm  and  blade, 
And  in  Freedom's  cause  advancing  ! 


SWEET  INNISFALLEN. 

SWEET  Innisfallen,  fare  thee  well, 

May  calm  and  sunshine  long  be  thine  ! 

How  fair  thou  art  let  others  tell, 
While  but  to  feel  how  fair  is  mine  ! 

Sweet  Innisfallen,  fare  thee  well, 

And  long  may  light  around  thee  smile, 

Ard  soft  as  on  that  evening  fell, 
When  first  I  saw  thy  fairy  isle  ! 

Thou  wert  too  lovely  then  for  one, 
Who  had  to  turn  to  paths  of  care — 

Who  bad  through  vulgar  crowds  to  run, 
And  leave  thee  bright  and  silent  there ; 

No  more  along  thy  shores  to  come, 
But,  on  the  world's  dim  ocean  tost, 

Dream  of  thee  sometimes,  as  a  home 
Of  sunshine  he  had  seen  and  lost ! 

Far  better  in  thy  weeping  hours 
To  part  from  thee,  as  I  do  now, 

When  mist  is  o'er  thy  blooming  bowers 
Like  sorrow's  veil  on  beauty's  brow. 

For,  though  unrivall'd  still  thy  grace, 
Thou  dost  not  look,  as  then,  too  blest, 

But,  in  thy  shadow,  seem'st  a  place 

Where  weary  man  might  hope  to  rest — 


Might  hope  to  rest,  and  find  in  thee 
A  gloom  like  Eden's,  on  the  day 

He  left  its  shade,  when  every  tree, 

Like  thine,  hung  weeping  o'er  his  way  ! 

Weeping  or  smiling,  lovely  isle  ! 

And  still  the  lovelier  for  thy  tears — 
For  though  but  rare  thy  sunny  smile, 

'Tis  heaven's  own  glance  when  it  appear?. 

Like  feeling  hearts,  whose  joys  are  few, 
But,  when  indeed  they  come,  divine — 

The  steadiest  light  the  sun  e'er  threw 
Is  lifeless  to  one  gleam  of  thine  ! 


'TWAS  ONE  OF  THOSE  DREAM- 

'TWAS  one  of  those  dreams,  that  by  music 

are  brought, 
Like   a  light   summer  haze,  o'er  the  poet's 

warm  thought — 

When,  lost  in  the  future,  his  soul  wanders  on, 
And  all  of  this  life,  but  its  sweetness,  is  gone. 

The  wild  notes  he  beard  o'er  the  water  were 

those, 
To  which  he  had  sung  Erin's  bondage  and 

woes, 
And   the   breath  of  the  bugle  now  wafted 

them  o'er 
From  Dinis'  green  isle,  to  Glena's  wooded 

shore. 

He  listen'd — while,  high  o'er  the  eagle's  rude 

nest, 
The  lingering  sounds  on  their  way  loved  to 

rest ; 
And  the  echoes  sung  back  from  their  full 

mountain  choir, 
As  if  loth  to  let  song  so  enchanting  expire. 

It  seem'd  as  if  ev'ry  sweet  note,  that  died  1 1 
Was  again  brought  to   life  in  some  airier 

sphere, 
Some  heaven  in  those  hills,  where  the  soul 

of  the  strain 
That  had    ceased  upon  earth  was  awaking 

again  ! 


84 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


Oh    forgive,   if,   while   listening    to    music 

whose  breath 
Seem'd   to   circle  his   name   with   a   charm 

against  death, 
He   should   feel  a  proud  Spirit  within  him 

proclaim, 
"  Even  so  shalt  thou  live  in  the  echoes  of 

Fame: 

"  Even  so,  though  thy  memory  should  now 

die  away, 
'Twill  be  caught  up  again  in  some  happier 

day, 

And  the  hearts  and  the  voice  of  Erin  prolong, 
Through  the  answering  Future,  thy  name 

and  thy  song  !" 


FAIREST!    PUT  ON  AWHILE. 

FAIREST  !  put  on  awhile 

These  pinions  of  light  I  bring  thee, 
And  o'er  thy  own  green  isle 

In  fancy  let  me  wing  thee. 
Never  did  Ariel's  plume, 

At  golden  sunset  hover 
Above  such  scenes  of  bloom, 

As  I  shall  waft  thee  over  ! 

Fields,  where  the  Spring  delays 

And  fearlessly  meets  the  ardor 
Of  the  warm  Summer's  gaze 

With  only  her  tears  to  guard  her. 
Rocks,  through  myrtle  boughs 

In  grace  majestic  frowning — 
Like  a  bold  warrior's  brows 

That  Love  has  just  been  crowning. 

Islets,  so  freshly  fair, 

That  never  hath  bird  come  nigh  them 
But  from  his  course  through  air 

He  hath  been  won  down  by  them,1 — 
Types,  sweet  maid,  of  thee, 

Whose  look,  whose  blush,  inviting, 
Never  did  Love  yet  see 

From  heaven,  without  alighting. 


i  In  describing  the  Skeligs  (islands  of  the  Barony  of  Forth), 

IX  Keating  says,  "  There  is  a  certain  attractive  virtue  in  the 
6o»l  which  draws  down  all  the  birds  that  attempt  to  fly  over 

X  And  obliges  them  to  light  upon  the  rock." 


Lakes,  where  the  pearl  lies  hid,1 

And  caves,  where  the  diamond's  sleeping, 
Bright  as  the  gems  thy  lid 

Or  snow  lets  fall  in  weeping. 
Glens,1  where  Ocean  comes, 

To  'scape  the  wild  wind's  rancor, 
And  Harbors,  worthiest  homes 

Where  Freedom's  fleet  could  anchor. 

Then,  if,  while  scenes  so  grand, 

So  beautiful,  shine  before  thee, 
^vide  for  thy  own  dear  land 

Should  haply  be  stealing  o'er  thee, 
Oh,  let  grief  come  first, 

O'er  pride  itself  victorious — 
Thinking  how  man  hath  curst 

What  Heaven  hath  made  so  glorious ! 


AS  VANQUISH'D  ERIN. 

As  vanquish'd  ERIN  wept  beside 

The  Boyne's  ill-fated  river, 
She  saw  where  Discord,  in  the  tide, 

Had  dropp'd  his  loaded  quiver. 
"  Lie  hid,"  she  cried,  "  ye  venom'd  darts, 

Where  mortal  eye  may  shun  you; 
Lie  hid — for  oh  !  the  stain  of  hearts 

That  bled  for  me  is  on  you." 

But  vain  her  wish,  her  weeping  vain,- — 

As  time  too  weJl  hath  taught  her — 
Each  year  the  Fiend  returns  again, 

And  dives  into  that  water  ; 
And  brings,  triumphant,  from  beneath 

His  shafts  of  desolation, 
And   sends  them,  wing'd  with  worse 
death, 

Through  all  her  madd'ning  nation. 

o  o 

Alas  for  her  who  sits  and  mourns, 
Even  how  beside  that  river — 

Unwearied  still  the  Fiend  returns, 
And  stored  is  still  his  quiver. 


than 


J  "  Nennius,  a  British  writer  of  the  niutli  century,  mentions 
the  abundance  of  pearls  in  Ireland.  Their  princes,  he  say», 
hung  them  behind  their  ears  ;  and  this  we  find  confirmed  by 
a  present  made  A.  c.  1094,  by  Gilbert,  Bishop  of  Limerick,  to 
Anselm,  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  of  a  considerable  qni,n 
tity  of  Iris<h  pearls." — O'Halloran. 

'  Qlengariff. 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


05 


M  When  will  this  end,  ye  Powers  of  God  ?" 

She  weeping  asks  forever ; 
But  only  hears  from  out  that  flood, 

The  Demon  answer,  "  Never  I" 


DESMOND'S  SONG.1 

BY  the  Feal's  wave  benighted, 

Not  a  star  in  the  skies, 
To  thy  door  by  Love  lighted, 

I  first  saw  those  eyes. 
Some  voice  whisper'd  o'er  me 

As  the  threshold  I  crost, 
There  was  ruin  before  me, 

If  I  loved,  I  was  lost. 

Love  came,  and  brought  sorrow 

Too  soon  in  his  train  ; 
Yet  so  sweet,  that  to-morrow 

'Twere  welcome  again. 
Though  misery's  full  measure 

My  portion  should  be, 
I  would  drain  it  with  pleasure, 

If  pour'd  out  by  thee. 

You,  who  call  it  dishonor 

To  bow  to  this  flame, 
If  you've  eyes,  look  but  on  her, 

And  blush  while  you  blame. 
I  lath  the  pearl  less  whiteness 

Because  of  its  birth  ? 
Hath  the  violet  less  brightness 

For  growing  near  earth  ? 

No — Man  for  his  glory, 

To  ancestry  flies ; 
While  Woman's  bright  story 

Is  told  in  her  eyes. 
While  the  Monarch  but  traces 

Through  mortals  his  line, 
Beauty,  born  of  the  Graces, 

Ranks  next  to  Divine  ! 


1  "Thomas,  the  heir  of  the  Desmond  family,  had  accident- 
ally been  so  engaged  in  the  chase,  that  he  was  benighted  near 
Trulee,  and  obliged  to  take  shelter  ut  the  Abbey  of  Feal,  in  the 
house  of  one  of  his  dependents,  called  MacCormnc.  Cathe- 
rine, a  beautiful  daughter  of  his  host,  instantly  inspired  the 
Earl  with  a  violent  passion,  which  he  could  not  subdue.  He 
married  her,  and  by  this  inferior  alliance  alienated  his  follow- 
ers, \vho«e  brutal  pride  regarded  thl*  indulgi-nce  of  his  love 
*a  aii  unpardonable  degradation  ofln.-  family. "-/x/>i/>d.  vol.  11. 


I  WISH  I  WAS  BY  THAT  DIM  LAKE. 

I  WISH  I  was  by  that  dim  Lake,1 
Where  sinful  souls  their  farewell  take 
Of  this  vain  world,  and  half-way  lie 
In  death's  cold  shadow,  ere  they  die. 
There,  there,  far  from  thee, 
Deceitful  world,  my  home  should  be — 
Where,  come  what  might  of  gloom  and  pain, 
False  hope  should  ue'er  deceive  again  ! 

The  lifeless  sky,  the  mournful  sound 

Of  unseen  waters  falling  round — 

The  dry  leaves,  quivering  o'er  my  head, 

Like  man,  unquiet  even  when  dead — 

These — aye — these  shall  wean 

My  soul  from  life's  deluding  scene, 

And  turn  each  thought,  each  wish  I  have, 

Like  willows,  downward  toward  the  grave. 

As  they,  who  to  their  couch  at  night 
Would  win  repose,  first  quench  the  light, 
So  must  the  hopes,  that  keep  this  breast 
Awake,  be  quench'd,  ere  it  can  rest. 
Cold,  cold,  my  heart  must  grow, 
Unchanged  by  either  joy  or  woe, 
Like  freezing  founts,  where  all  that's  thrown 
Within  their  current  turns  to  stone. 


SONG  OF  INNISFAIL, 

THEY  came  from  a  land  beyond  the  sea, 
And  now  o'er  the  western  main 

Set  sail,  in  their  good  ships,  gallantly, 
From  the  sunny  land  of  Spain. 


1  These  verse*  arc  meant  to  allude  to  that  ancient  haunt  of 
superstition,  called  Patrick's  Purgatory.  "  In  the  rnidsi  of 
thfce  gloomy  rt-fjlons  of  Donegall  (rays  Dr.  OinipN-ll)  lay* 
lake,  which  was  to  become  the  mystic  theatre  of  thi*  fabled 
and  intermediate  state.  In  the  lake  were  several  islands ;  but 
UK-  of  tin-in  wnsdiirniiii-d  with  that  called  the  Month  of  Pur 
gatory,  which,  during  the  dark  ages,  attracted  the  notice  of  all 
'hriwtcndom,  and  was  the  resort  of  penitent*  and  pilgrim* 
Vom  almost  every  country  in  Europe." 

"  It  was,"  ai«  the-  »nnu'  writer  tells  us,  "one  of  the  most  di»- 
mnl  and  dreary  spots  in  the  North,  almost  inaccessible,  t  hrongb 
deep  glens  and  rugged  mountains,  fright ful  with  impending 
rocks,  and  the  hollow  murmur*  or  the  western  wind*  iu  dark 
•avenm.  peopled  only  with  -neli  fantastic  beings  as  the  mind 
lowcvcr  gay,  Is,  from  strange  association,  wont  to  appropriate 
o  such  gloomy  srenes."— Stricture*  on  Uu 
Library  llittory  <y'  Inland. 


66 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


"  Oh,  where's  the  Isle  we've  seen  in  dreams, 
Our  destined  home  or  grave  ?"  ' 

Thus  sung  they  as,  by  the  morning's  beams, 
They  swept  the  Atlantic  wave. 

And  lo,  where  afar  o'er  ocean  shines 

A  sparkle  of  radiant  green, 
As  though  in  that  deep  lay  emerald  mines, 

Whose  light  through  the  wave  was  seen. 
"  'Tis  Innisfail"— 'tis  Innisfail  !" 

Rings  o'er  the  echoing  sea, 
While,  bending  to  heaven,  the  warriors  hail 

That  home  of  the  brave  and  frea 

Then  turn'd  they  unto  the  Eastern  wave, 

Where  now  their  Day -god's  eye 
A  look  of  such  sunny  omen  gave 

As  lighted  up  sea  and  sky. 
Nor  frown  was  seen  through  sky  or  sea, 

Nor  tear  on  leaf  or  sod, 
When  first  on  their  Isle  of  Destiny 

Our  Eastern  fathers  trod. 


OH!   ARRANMORE,  LOVED  ARRAN 
MORE. 

OH  !  Arranmore,  loved  Arranmore, 

How  oft  I  dream  of  thee, 
And  of  those  days  when,  by  thy  shore, 

I  wander'd  young  and  free. 
Full  many  a  path  I've  tried,  since  then, 

Through  pleasure's  flowery  maze, 
But  ne'er  could  find  the  bliss  again 

I  felt  in  those  sweet  days. 

How  blithe  upon  thy  breezy  cliffs 

At  sunny  morn  I've  stood, 
With  heart  as  bounding  as  the  skiffs 

That  danced  along  thy  flood; 
Or,  when  the  western  wave  gvew  bright 

With  daylight's  parting  wing, 
Have  sought  that  Eden  in  its  light 

Which  dreaming  poets  sing  ;3 — 


1  "  Milesius  remembered  the  remarkable  prediction  of  the 
principal  Druid,  who  foretold  that  the  posterity  of  Gadelus 
Fhould  obtain  the  possession  of  a  Western  Island  (which  was 
Ireland),  and  there  inhabit." — Keating. 

8  The  Island  of  Destiny,  one  of  the  ancient  names  of  Ireland. 

1  "  The  inhabitants  of  Arranmore  are  still  persuaded  that, 
I*  a  clear  day,  they  can  see  from  this  coast  Ily  Brysail  or  the 


That  Eden,  where  the  immortal  brave 

Dwell  in  a  land  serene, 
Whose  bowers  beyond  the  shining  wave, 

At  sunset,  oft  are  seen. 
Ah,  dream  too  full  of  sadd'ning  truth  ! 

Those  mansions  o'er  the  main 
Are  like  the  hopes  I  built  in  youth, — 

As  sunny  and  as  vain  1 


LAY  HIS  SWORD  BY  HIS  SIDE. 

LAY  his  sword  by  his  side4 — it  hath  served 

him  too  well 

Not  to  rest  near  his  pillow  below ; 
To  the  last  moment  true,  from  his  hand  ere 

it  fell, 

Its  point  was  still  turn'd  to  a  flying  foe. 
Fellow-laborers  in  life,  let  them  slumber  in 

death, 
Side   by   side,  as   becomes   the   reposing 

brave, — 
That  sword  which  he  loved  still  unbroke  in 

its  sheath, 
And  himself  unsubdued  in  his  grave. 

Yet  pause — for,  in  fancy,  a  still  voice  I  hear, 
As  if  breathed  from  his  brave  heart's  re 

mains ; — 

Faint  echo  of  that  which,  in  Slavery's  ear, 
Once  sounded  the  war-word  "  Burst  your 

chains !" 
And  it  cries,  from  the  grave  where  the  hero 

lies  deep, 
"  Though  the  day  of  your  Chieftain  forever 

hath  set, 
Oh  leave  not  his  sword  thus  inglorious  to 

sleep, — 
It  hath  victory's  life  in  it  yet ! 

"Should  some  alien,  unworthy  such  weapon 
to  wield, 

Dare  to  touch  thee,  my  own  gallant  sword, 
Then  rest  in  thy  sheath,  like  a  talisman  seal'd, 

Or  return  to  the  grave  of  thy  chainless  lord. 


Enchanted  Island,  the  Paradise  of  the  Pagan  Irish,  and  con- 
cerning which  they  relate  a  number  of  romantic  stories."— 
Beaufort's  Ancient  Tojxx/raphy  of  Ireland. 

*  It  was  the  custom  of  the  anc-ient  Irish,  in  the  manner  of 
the  Scythians,  to  bury  the  favorite  sword*  of  their  b«ro*t 
alone  with  them. 


C7 


But,  if  grasp'd  by  a  hand  that  hath  known 

the  bright  use 

Of  a  falchion,  like  thee,  on  the  battle- 
plain — 
Then,  at  Liberty's  summons,  like  lightning 

let  loose, 
Leap  forth  from  thy  dark  sheath  again !" 


THE  WINE-CUP  IS  CIRCLING. 

THE  wine-cup  is  circling  in  Almhin's  hall,1 
And  its  Chief,  'mid  his  heroes  reclining, 
Looks  up,  with  a  sigh,  to  the  trophied  wall, 
Where  his  falchion  hangs  idly  shining. 
When,  hark  !  that  shout 
From  the  vale  without, — 
"  Arm  ye  quick,  the  Dane,  the  Dane  is 

nigh  !" 

Every  Chief  starts  up 
From  his  foaming  cup, 
And  "To  battle,  to  battle,"  is  the  Finian's 
cry. 

The  minstrels  have  seized  their  harps  of  gold, 

And  they  sing  such  thrilling  numbers — 
Oh  !  'tis  like  the  voice  of*  the  Dead,  of  old, 
Breaking  forth  from  their  place  of  slumbers ! 
Spear  to  buckler  rang 
As  the  minstrels  sang, 
And  the  Sun-burst"  o'er  them  floated  wide ; 
While  rememb'ring  the  yoke 
Which  their  fathers  broke, 
"  On  for  liberty,  for  liberty  !"  the  Finians 
cried. 

Like  clouds  of  the  night  the  Northmen  came, 

O'er  the  valley  of  Almhin  lowering; 
While  onward  moved,  in  the  light  of  its  fame, 
That  banner  of  Erin,  towering. 
With  the  mingling  shock 
Ring  cliff  and  rock, 
\Vhile,  rank  on  rank,  the  invaders  die  : 


The  Palace  of  Pin  MacCumhal  (the  Fingal  of  Macpherson) 
n.  Leingtcr.    It  wag  built  on  the  top  of  the  hill,  which  lia*  re- 
in >m  th<  ,,<-.•  the  name  of  the  Hill  of  Allen,  in  the  County 
01  Kildare     The  Fiuians,  or  Fenii.  were  the  celebrated  Na- 
tional Militia  of  Ireland,  which  thin  Chief  commanded.    The 
ti.troiliction  of  the  Danes  in  the  above  song  !s  an  anachronism 
common  to  moct  of  the  Finian  and  Oxsianic  legends. 
'  Th*  name  given  to  the  banner  Df  the  Irish. 


And  the  shout,  that  last 
O'er  the  dying  pass'd, 
Was    "  victory  1"    was    "  victoiy  !'  — the 
Finian's  cry. 


OH!  COULD  WE  DO  WITH  THIS 
WORLD  OF  OURS. 

OH  !  could  we  do  with  this  world  of  ours 
As  thou  dos4  with  thy  garden  bowers, 
Reject  the  weeds  and  keep  the  flowers, 

What  a  heaven  on  earth  we'd  make  it ! 
So  bright  a  dwelling  should  be  our  own, 
So  warranted  free  from  sigh  or  frown, 
That  angels  soon  would  be  coming  down, 

By  the  week  or  month  to  take  it. 

Like  those  gay  flies  that  wing  through  air 
And  in  themselves  a  lustre  bear, 
A  stock  of  light,  still  ready  there, 

Whenever  they  wish  to  use  it ; 
So,  in  this  world  I'd  make  for  thee, 
Our  hearts  should  all  like  fireflies  be, 
And  the  flash  of  wit  or  poesy 

Break  forth  whenever  we  choose  it. 

While  every  joy  that  glads  our  sphere 
Hath  still  some  shadow  hovering  near, 
In  this  new  world  of  ours,  my  dear, 

Such  shadows  will  all  be  omitted  :  — 
Unless  they  are  like  that  graceful  one, 
Which,  when  thou'rt  dancing  in  the  sun, 
Still  near  thee,  leaves  a  charm  upon 

Each  spot  where  it  hath  flitted  1 


THE  DREAM  OF  THOSE  DAYS.* 

THE  dream  of  those  days  when  first  I  sung 

thee  is  o'er, 
Thy  triumph  hath  stain'd  the  charm  thy  sor 

rows  then  wore, 
And  even  of  the  light  which  Hope  once  shed 

o'er  thy  chains 
Alas,  not  a  gleam  to  grace  thy  freedom  ro 

mains. 


1  Written  in  one  of  those  moods  of  hoj>«'le#*ness  and  di§- 
KiiHt  which  come  occasionally  over  the  mind,  in  contcapla- 
I  ling  the  preftout  i"Jite  of  Irish  patriotism. 


68 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


Say,  is  it  that  slavery  sunk  so  deep  in  thy 

heart, 
That  still  the  dark  brand  is  there,  though 

chainless  thou  art ; 
And  Freedom's   sweet  fruit,  for  which  thy 

spirit  long  burn'd, 
Now,  reaching  at  last  thy  lip,  to  ashes  hath 

turn'd  ? 

Up  Liberty's  steep  by  Truth  and  Eloquence 
led, 

With  eyes  on  her  temple  fix'd,  how  proud 
was  thy  tread  ! 

Ah,  better  thou  ne'er  hadst  lived  that  sum- 
mit to  gain, 

Or  died  in  the  porch,  than  thus  dishonor  the 
fane. 


SILENCE  IS  IN  OUR  FESTAL  HALLS.1 

SILENCE  is  in  our  festal  halls, — 
O  Son  of  Song  !  thy  course  is  o'er ; 

In  vain  on  thee  sad  Erin  calls, 

Her  minstrel's  voice  responds  no  more ; — 


J  It  Is  hardly  necessary,  perhaps,  to  inform  the  reader,  that 
'ifcese  lines  arc  meant  as  a  tribute  of  sincere  friendship  to  the 
memory  of  an  old  and  valued  colleague  in  this  wr.-^  gir  John 


All  silent  as  the  Eolian  shell 

Sleeps  at  the  close  of  some  bright  day, 
"When  the  sweet  breeze,  that  waked  its  swell 

At  sunny  morn,  hath  died  away. 

Yet,  at  our  feasts,  thy  spirit  long, 

Awaked  by  music's  spell,  shall  rise ; 
For,  name  so  link'd  with  deathless  song 

Partakes  its  charm  and  never  dies  : 
And  even  within  the  holy  fane, 

When  music  wafts  the  soul  to  heaven, 
One  thought  to  him,  whose  earliest  strain 

Was  echo'd  there,  shall  long  be  given. 

But,  where  is  now  the  cheerful  day, 

The  social  night,  when,  by  thy  side, 
He,  who  now  weaves  this  parting  lay, 

His  skilless  voice  with  thine  allied ; 
And  sung  those  songs  whose  every  tone, 

When  bai-d  and  minstrel  long  have  past, 
Shall  still,  in  sweetness  all  their  own, 

Embalm'd  by  fame,  undying  last  ? 

Yes,  Erin,  thine  alone  the  fame, — 

Or,  if  thy  bard  have  shared  the  crown 
From  thee  the  borrow'd  glory  came, 

And  at  thy  feet  is  now  laid  down. 
Enough,  if  Freedom  still  inspire 

His  latest  song,  and  still  there  be, 
As  evening  closes  round  his  lyre, 

One  rav  wr»on  its  chords  from  thee. 


LALLA   ROOKH. 


In  the  eleventh  year  of  the  reign  of  Anrnngzebe,  Abdalla, 
King  of  the  Lesser  Bucharia,  a  lineal  descendant  from  the 
Great  Zingis,  having  abdicated  the  throne  in  favor  of  his  son, 
•el  ont  on  a  pilgrimage  to  the  Shrine  of  the  Prophet,  and, 
passing  into  India  through  the  delightful  valley  of  Cashmere, 
rested  for  a  short  time  at  Delhi  on  his  way.  He  was  enter- 
tained by  Aurungzebe  in  a  style  of  magnificent  hospitality, 
worthy  alike  of  the  visitor  and  the  host,  and  was  afterward 
escorted  with  the  same  splendor  to  Surat,  where  he  embarked 
for  Arabia.  During  the  stay  of  the  Royal  Pilgrim  at  Delhi,  a 
marriage  was  agreed  upon  between  the  Prince,  his  son,  and 
the  youngest  daughter  of  the  Emperor,  Lalla  Rookh1 — a 
urincens  described  by  the  poets  of  her  time  as  more  beautiful 
than  Leila,  Shirine,  Dewitde,  or  any  of  those  heroines  whose 
names  and  loves  embellish  the  songs  of  Persia  and  Hindustan. 
It  was  intended  that  the  nuptials  should  be  celebrated  at 
Cashmere  ;  where  the  young  King,  as  soon  as  the  cares  of  the 
•mpire  would  permit,  was  to  meet,  for  the  first  time,  his 
lovely  bride,  and,  after  a  few  months'  repose  in  that  enchant- 
ing valley,  conduct  her  over  the  snowy  hihs  into  Bucharia. 

The  day  of  Lalla  Rookh's  departure  from  Delhi  was  a» 
splendid  as  sunshine  aud  pageantry  could  make  it.  The 
bazaars  and  baths  were  all  covered  with  the  richest  tapestry ; 
hundreds  of  gilded  barges  upon  the  Jumna  floated  with  their 
banners  shining  in  the  water;  while  through  the  streets 
groups  of  beautiful  children  went  strewing  the  most  delicious 
flowers  around,  as  in  that  Persian  festival  called  Gul  Reazce, 
or  the  Scattering  of  the  Roses,  till  every  part  of  the  city  was 
as  fragrant  as  if  a  caravan  of  musk  from  Khoten  had  passed 
through  it.  The  Princess,  having  taken  leave  of  her  kind 
father,— who  at  parting  hung  a  cornelian  of  Yemen  round  her 
neck,  on  which  was  inscribed  a  verse  from  the  Koran,— and 
Having  sent  a  considerable  present  to  the  Fakirs,  who  kept 
np  tne  perpetual  lamp  in  her  sister's  tomb,  meekly  ascended 
chc  palankeen  prepared  for  her  ;  and,  while  Aurungzebe  stood 
to  take  a  last  look  from  his  balcony,  the  procession  moved 
•lowly  on  the  rond  to  Lahore. 

Seldom  had  the  Eastern  world  seen  a  cavalcade  so  superb. 
From  the  gardens  in  the  suburbs  to  the  imperial  palace  it  was 
one  unbroken  line  of  splendor.  The  gallant  appearance  of  the 
Rajahs  and  Mogul  lords,  distinguished  by  those  insignia  of 
the  Emperor's  favor,1  the  feathers  of  the  egret  of  Cashmere  in 
their  turbnns.  and  the  small  silver-rimmed  kettle-drums  at  the 
bows  of  their  caddie? ;— the  costly  armor  of  their  Cavaliers, 
who  vied,  on  this  occasion,  with  the  guards  of  the  great  Keder 
Khan.'  in  the  'Brightness  of  their  silver  battlc-axea  and  the 


1  Tulip  Cheek. 

1  "  One  mark  of  honor  or  knighthood  bestowed  by  the  em- 
pero.-  is  the  permisttion  to  wear  a  small  kettle-drum  at  the 
bows  of  their  saddles,  which  at  first  was  invented  for  the 
training  of  hawks,  and  is  worn  in  the  field  by  all  sports- 
men for  ilia1  eml." — Fryer's  Travels. 

"  Those  on  whom  the  king  has  conierred  the  privilege 
must  wear  an  ornament  of  jewels  on  the  right  side  of  the  tar- 
b»L,  surmounted  by  a  high  plume  of  the  feathers  of  a  kind  of 
egret."— EljMnf  tone's  Account  of  Caubul. 

'  "  Kheriar  Khan,  the  Khakau.  or  King  of  Turquesun.  be- 


massiness  of  their  maces  o'  gold  ;— the  glittering  of  the  gill 
pineapples,4  on  the  tops  or  tne  palankeens  ;— the  embroidered 
trappings  of  the  elephants,  bearing  on  their  backs  tm»U 
turrets,  in  the  shape  ot  little  antique  temples,  within  which 
the  ladies  of  Lalla  Rookh  lay,  as  it  were  enshrined :— the  rose- 
colored  veils  of  t>*«s  Princess's  own  sumptuous  litter.*  at  the 
front  of  which  %  fair  young  female  slave  sat  iauning  her 
through  the  cp'iains  with  feathers  of  the  Argus  pheasant's 
wing;— and  the  lovely  troop  of  Tartarian  and  Cashmeriaa 
maids  of  honor,  whom  the  young  King  had  sent  to  accompany 
his  bride,  ana  who  rode  on  each  side  of  the  litter,  upon  small 
Arabian  horses;— all  was  brilliant,  tasteful,  and  magnificent, 
aud  pleasoa  even  the  critical  and  fastidious  Fadladeen,  Great 
Nazir  or  C'hamborlain  of  the  Haram,  who  was  borne  in  hi* 
palan  kf".n  immediately  after  the  Princess,  and  considered  him- 
self not  the  least  important  personage  of  the  pageant. 

Fadladeen  was  a  judge  of  everything,— from  the  pencilling 
of  %  Circassian's  eyelids  to  the  deepest  questions  of  science 
and  literature ;  from  the  mixture  of  a  conserve  of  rose-leave* 
to  the  composition  of  an  epic  poem :  and  such  influence  had 
his  opinion  upon  the  various  tastes  of  the  day  th&:  »u  the 
cooks  and  poets  of  Delhi  stood  in  awe  of  him.  His  political 
conduct  and  opinions  were  founded  upon  that  line  if  Sadi,— 
"  should  the  Prince  at  noonday  say,  '  It  is  night,1  ueclare  that 
you  behold  the  moon  and  stars."  And  his  zeal  for  religion, 
of  which  Aurungzebe  was  a  munificent  protector,'  was  about 


yond  the  Gihon  (at  the  end  of  the  eleventh  century,)  when- 
ever he  appeared  abroad  was  preceded  by  seven  hundred 
horsemen  with  silver  battle-axes,  and  was  followed  by  au 
equal  number  bearing  maces  of  gold." — Richardson's  Duser- 
lotion  prefixed  to  Ids  Dictionary, 

•  "  The  kulxleh,  a  Urge  golden  knob,  generally  in  the  snap* 
of  a  pineapple,  on  the  top  of  the  canopy  over  -the  litter  or 
palanquin." — Scott's  Nottt  on  the  JioJiardanufli. 

•  In  the  poem  of  Zobair,  in  the  Moallakat,  there  is  the 
following  lively  description  of  "  a  company  of  maidens  seated 
on  camels:"— 

"They  are  mounted  in  carriages  covered  with  costly  awn 
ings  and  with  rose-colored  veils,  the  linings  of  which  bar* 
the  hue  of  crimson  Andemwood. 

"  When  they  ascend  from  the  bosom  of  the  vale,  they  sit 
forward  on  the  saddle-cloths  with  ever/  mark  of  a  voluptuous 
gayety 

"  Now,  when  they  have  reached  the  brink  of  yon  blue  gush- 
big  rivulet,  they  fix  the  poles  of  their  tents  like  the  Arabs 
with  a  settled  mansion." 

•  This  hypocritical  emporor  would  have  made  a  w*no; 
associate  of  certain  Holy  Leagues.     "He  held  the  cloak  of 
religion,"  says  Dow,  "between  bis  action*  and  the  vulgar ; 
and  impiously  thanked  the  Divinity  for  a  success  which  he 
ow«d  to  his  own  wickedness.    When  he  was  mmdering  and 
persecuting  his  brothers  and  their  families,  he  was  building  s 
magnificent  mosque  at  Delhi,  as  an  offering  to  Ood  for  Hit 
assistance  to  him  in  the  civil  wars.    He  acted  a*  high  priest 
at  tne  consecration  of  this  temple;  and  nude  a  prctic*  of 
attending  divine  service    there,   in    the  humMe  di*Mi  of  s 


70 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


BS  disinterested  as  that  of  the  goldsmith  who  fell  in  love  with 
the  diamond  eyec  of  the  idol  of  Jugghernaut.1 

During  the  first  days  of  their  journey,  Lalla  Rookh,  who 
nad  passed  all  her  life  within  the  shadow  of  the  royal  gardens 
Df  Delhi,  found  enough  in  the  beauty  of  the  scenery  through 
which  they  passed  to  interest  her  mind,  and  delight  her  ins- 
agination  ;  and  when,  at  evening  or  in  the  heat  of  the  day, 
they  turned  off  from  the  high  road  to  those  retired  and 
romantic  places  which  had  been  selected  for  her  encamp- 
ments,—sometimes  on  the  banks  of  a  small  rivulet,  as  clear  as 
the  waters  of  the  Lake  of  Pearl  ;2  sometimes  under  the  sacred 
shade  of  a  Banian  tree,  from  which  the  view  opened  upon  a 
glade  covered  with  antelopes;  and  often  in  those  hidden, 
embowered  spots,  described  by  one  from  the  Isles  of  the 
West,*  as  "  places  of  melancholy,  delight,  and  safety,  where 
all  the  company  around  was  wild  peacocks  and  turtle-doves," 
— she  felt  a  charm  in  these  scenes,  so  lovely  and  so  new  to 
her,  which,  for  a  time,  made  her  indifferent  to  every  other 
amusement.  But  Lalla  Rookh  was  young,  and  the  young  love 
variety ;  nor  could  the  conversation  of  her  ladies  and  the  great 
chamberlain,  Fadladeen,  (the  only  persons,  of  course,  admitted 
to  her  pavilion,)  sufficiently  enliven  those  many  vacant  hours, 
wnich  were  devoted  neither  to  the  pillow  nor  the  palankeen. 
There  was  a  little  Persian  slave  who  sung  sweetly  to  the  vina, 
and  who,  now  and  then,  lulled  the  Princess  to  sleep  with  the 
ancient  ditties  of  her  country,  about  the  loves  of  Wamak  and 
Ezra,4  the  fair-haired  Zal  and  his  mistress  Rodahver  ;6  not  for- 
getting the  combat  of  Rustam  with  the  terrible  White  Demon.  • 
At  other  times  she  was  amused  by  those  graceful  dancing-girls 
of  Delhi,  who  had  been  permitted  by  the  Brahmins  of  the 
Great  Pagoda  to  attend  her.  much  to  the  horror  of  the  good 
Mussulman,  Fadladeen,  who  could  see  nothing  graceful  or 
agreeable  in  idolaters,  and  to  whom  the  very  tingling  of  their 
golden  anklets7  was  an  abomination. 

Bet  these  and  many  other  diversions  were  repeated  till  they 


fakeer.  But  when  he  lifted  one  hand  to  the  Divinity,  he  with 
the  other  signed  warrants  for  the  assassination  of  his  rela- 
tions."— History  of  Hindostan,  vol.  iii.,  p.  235.  See  also  the 
curious  letter  of  Aurungzebe  given  in  the  Oriental  Collections, 
vol.  i.,  p.  320. 

1  "The  idol  at  Jaghernat  has  two  fine  diamonds  for  eyes. 
No  goldsmith  is  suffered  to  enter  the  pagoda;  one  having 
stolen  one  of  these  eyes,  being  locked  up  all  night  with  the 
idol. "—  Tavernier. 

*  "  In  the  neighborhood  is  Notte  Gill,  or  the  Lake  of  Pearl, 
which  receives  this  name  from  its  pellucid  water.  "—Pennant's 
Hindostan. 

*  Sir  Thomas  Roe.  ambassador  from  James  I.  to  Jehanguire. 

*  "  The  Romance  Wamakweazra,  written  in  Persian  verse, 
which  contains  the  loves  of  W^mak  and  Ezra,  two  celebrated 
lovers  who  lived  before  the  time  of  Mohammed." — Note  on  the 
Oriental  Tales. 

5  There  is  much  beauty  in  the  passage  which  describes  the 
slaves  of  Rodahver  sitting  on  the  bank  of  the  river  and  throw- 
ing flowers  into  the  stream  in  order  to  draw  the  attention  of 
the  young  hero  who  is  encamped  on  the  opposite  side.  Vide 
"  Champion's  Translation  of  the  Shah  Nameh  of  Ferdousi." 

*  Rustam  is  the  Hercules  of  the  Persians.    For  the  particu- 
lars of  his  victory  over  the  Sepeed  Deeve,  or  White  Demon, 
see  Oriental  Collections,  vol.  ii.,  p.  45.    Near  the  city  of  Shiraz 
is    an    immense   quadrangular  monument   in   commemora- 
tion of  this  combat,  called  the  "  Kelaat-i-Deev  Sepeed,"  or 
Castle  of  the  White    Giant,   which  Father  Angelo,  in    his 
Gazophylacium  Persicum,  p.  12?,  declares  to  have  been  the 
most  memorable  monument  of  antiquity  which  he  had  seen  i-n 
Persia.     Vide  "Onseley's  Persian  Miscellanies." 

7  "  The  women  of  the  idol,  or  dancing-girls  of  the  Pagoda, 
have  little  golden  bells  fastened  to  their  feet,  the  soft  harmo- 
nious tinkling  of  which  vibrates  in  unison  with  the  exquisite 
melody  of  their  voices." — Maurice's  Indian  Antiquities.  "The 
Arabian  princesses  wear  golden  rings  on  their  fingers,  to 
which  little  bells  are  suspended,  as  well  as  in  the  flowing 
tresses  of  their  hair,  that  their  superior  rank  may  be  known." 
Vide  "Calmet's  Dictionary,"  art.  B'lls. 


lost  all  their  charm,  and  the  nights  and  noondays  were  begin- 
ning to  move  heavily,  when  at  length,  it  was  recollected  that, 
among  the  attendants  sent  by  the  bridegroom,  was  a  young 
poet  of  Cashmere,  much  celebrated  throughout  the  va  ley  for 
his  manner  of  reciting  the  stories  of  the  East,  on  whom  his 
royal  master  had  conferred  the  privilege  of  being  admitted  to 
the  pavilion  of  the  Princess,  that  he  might  help  to  beguile  th« 
tediousness  of  the  journey  by  some  of  his  most  agreeable  re- 
citals. At  the  mention  of  a  poet,  Fadladeen  elevated  his 
critical  eyebrows,  and,  having  refreshed  his  faculties  with  a 
dose  of  that  delicious  opium,6  which  is  distilled  from  the 
black  poppy  of  the  Thebais,  gave  orders  for  the  minstrel  to  b« 
forthwith  introduced  into  the  presence. 

The  Princess,  wh<f  had  once  in  her  life  seen  a  poet  from  be- 
hind the  screens  of  gauze  in  her  father's  hall,  and  had  con- 
ceived from  that  epecimen  no  very  favorable  ideas  of  the  cast 
expected  but  little  in  this  new  exhibition  to  interest  her;— 
she  felt  inclined  however  to  alter  her  opinion  on  the  very  first 
appearance  of  Feramorz.  He  was  a  youth  about  Lalla  Rookh's 
own  age,  and  graceful  as  that  idol  of  woman,  Chrishna  (the 
Indian  A.pollo),'— such  as  he  appears  to  their  young  imagina- 
tions, heroic,  beautiful,  breathing  music  from  his  Tery  eyes, 
and  exalting  the  religion  of  his  worshippers  into  love.  His 
dress  was  simple,  yet  not  without  some  marks  of  costliness, 
and  the  ladies  of  the  Princess  were  not  long  in  discovering 
that  the  cloth  which  encircled  hie  high  Tartarian  cap,  was  of 
the  most  delicate  kind  that  the  shawl-goats  of  Tibet  supply. 
Here  and  there,  too,  over  his  vest,  which  was  confined  by  a 
flowered  girdle  of  Kashan,  hung  strings  of  fine  pearl,  dis- 
posed with  an  air  of  studied  negligence ;— nor  did  the  exquisite 
embroidery  of  his  sandals  escape  the  observation  of  these 
fair  critics  ;  who,  however  they  might  give  way  to  Fadladeen, 
upon  the  unimportant  topics  of  religion  and  government,  had 
the  spirit  of  martyrs  in  everything  relating  to  such  momentous 
matters  as  jewels  and  embroidery. 

For  the  purpose  of  relieving  the  pauses  of  recitation  by 
music,  the  young  Cashmerian  held  in  his  hand  a  kitar, — such 
as,  in  old  times,  the  Arab  maids  of  the  west  used  to  listen  to 
by  moonlight  in  the  gardens  of  the  Alhambra, — and,  having 
premised,  with  much  humility,  that  the  story  he  was  about  to 
relate  was  founded  on  the  adventures  of  that  Veiled  Prophet 
of  Khorassan,10  who.  in  the  year  of  the  Hegira  163,  created 
such  alarm  throughout  the  Eastern  Empire,  made  an  obeisance 
to  the  Princess,  and  thus  began :— 


THE   VEILED  PROPHET   OF 
KHORASSAN.11 

IN  that  delightful  Province  of  the  Sun, 
The  first  of  Persian  lands  he  shines  upon, 
Where,  all  the  loveliest  children  of  his  beam, 
Flowerets    and    fruits     blush     over    every 
stream,12 


8  "  Abou-Tige.  ville  de  la  Thebalde,  ou  il  croit  beaucoup  dc 
pavot  noir,  dont  se  fait  le  meillenr  opium." — D'Herbetot. 

•  "  He  and  the  three  Ramas  are  described  as  youths  of  per- 
fect beauty ;  and  the  Princesses  of  Hindustan  were  all  pas- 
sionately in  love  with  Crishna,  who  continues  to  this  hour  tha 
darling  god  of  the  Indian  women."— Sir  W.  Jones,  on  the  godt 
of  Greece,  Italy,  and  India. 

10  For  the  real  history  of  this  impostor,  whose  original  name 
was  Hakera  ben  Haschem,  and  who  was  called  Mokanna  from 
the  veil  of  silver  gauze  (or,  as  others  say,  golden)  which  he 
always  wore,  vide  D'Herbelot. 

11  •'  Khorassan    signifies,    in    the   old    Persian    language, 
Province  or  Region  of  the  Sun." 

12  "The  fruits  of  Meru  are  finer  than  those  of  any  other 
place ;    and  one  cannot  see  in  any  other  city  suet  palaces, 
with   groves,  and   streams,  and   gardens."— Etrn   HaukaTi 
Geography. 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOOIM, 


71 


And  fairest  of  all  streams,  the  Murga  roves 
Among      MerouV      bright     palaces     and 

groves , — 
There   on   that  throne,  to  which  the   blind 

belief 

Of  millions   raised   him,   sat   the   Prophet- 
Chief, 
The    Great    Mokanna.     O'er    his    features 

hung 

The  veil,  the  silver  veil,  which  he  had  flung 
In  mercy  there,  to  hide  from  mortal  sight 
His  dazzling  brow,  till  man  could  bear  its 

light 

For,  far  less  luminous,  his  votaries  said,1 
Were  even  the  gleams  miraculously  shed 
O'er  Moussa's*  cheek,  when  down  the  Mount 

he  trod, 
All  glowing  from  the  presence  of  his  God ! 

On  either  side,  with  ready  hearts  and  hands, 
His  chosen  guard  of  bold  Believers  stands  ; 
Young  fire-eyed  disputants,  who  deem  their 

swords, 
On   points    of   faith,   more    eloquent    than 

words  ; 
And  such  their  zeal,  there's  not  a  youth  with 

brand 

Tj. lifted  there,  but,  at  the  Chief's  command, 
Would   make   his    own    devoted   heart  its 

sheath, 
And  bless  the  lips  that  doom'd   so  dear  a 

death  ! 

In  hatred  to  the  Caliph's  hue  of  night,4 
Their    vesture,    helms    and    all,   is    snowy 

white ; 
Their  weapons  various — some   equipp'd  for 

speed, 

With  javelins  of  the  light  Kathaian  reed  ;* 
Or  bows  of  buffalo  horn,  and  shining  quivers 


1  One  of  the  royal  cities  of  Khorassan. 

'  "See ^disciples  aceuroient  qu'il  BC  couvroit  Ic  visage  pour 
tie  par  eblouir  ceux  qui  1'approchoit  par  1'eclat  de  son  visage, 
tore  me  Moyse."— D'Herbelot. 

'  Mose§. 

«  Black  was  the  color  adopted  by  the  Caliphs  of  the  House 
at  Abba*,  in  their  garments,  turbans,  and  standards. 

"  II  faut  remarquer  ici  touchant  lea  habits  blancs  des 
iisc'.plef  de  Hakcm.  que  la  couletir  des  habit*,  des  coiffure*,  et 
dec  ttendardt  des  Khalifas  Abastides  plant  la  noire,  ce  chef  de 
replies  ne  poavoit  pas  choisir  one  qui  Ini  flit  plus  op- 
pose- "-D' 7/eri/elot. 

*  'Our  dark  jnvellns.  exquisitely  wrought  of  Kathaian 
••  -.a.  slender  and  delicate." — Poem  ofAmru. 


FilPd  with  the  stems'  that  bloom  on  Iran'i 
rivers ;f 

While  some,  for  war's  more  terrible  attack?, 

Wield  the  huge  mace  and  ponderous  battle- 
axe; 

And  as  they  wave  aloft  in  morning's  beam 

The  milk-white  plumage  of  their  helms,  thev 
seem 

Like  a  chenar-tree  grove,'  when  winter 
throws 

O'er  all  its  tufted  heads  his  feathering 
snows. 

Between  the  porphyry  pillars  that  uphold 
The  rich  moresque-work  of  the  roof  of  gold, 
Aloft  the  Haram's  curtain'd  galleries  rise, 
Where,  through  the  silken   net-work,  glao- 

cing  eyes, 
From  time  to  time,  like  sudden  gleams  that 

glow 
Through  autumn  clouds,  shine  o'er  the  pomp 

below. 
What  impious   tongue,  ye   blushing  saints, 

would  dare 
To  hint  that  aught  but  Hfoven  had  p.av,ec? 

you  there  ? 
Or  that  the  loves  of  this  light  world  could 

bind 
In  their  gross  chain  your  Prophet's  soaring 

mind  ? 
No — wrongful  thought ! — commission'd  from 

above 
To   people  Eden's  bowers  with  shapes  of 

love, 
(Creatures  so  bright,  that  the  same  lips  and 

eyes 

They  wear  on  earth  will  serve  in  Paradise,) 
There   to   recline  among    Heaven's    native 

maids, 
And  crown  the  Elect  with  bliss  that  never 

fades ! — 
Well    hath   the   Piophet-Chief  his  bidding 

done ; 


•  Piclmla.  usec  anciently  for  arrows  by  the  Persians. 

'  The  Persians  call  this  plant  Oaz.  The  celebrated  shaft  of 
Isfendiar,  one  of  their  ancient  heroes,  was  made  of  it.— 
"  Nothing  can  be  more  beautiful  than  the  appearance  of  thii 
plant  In  flower  during  the  rain*  on  the  banks  ofrlton.  when 
It  l»  usually  interwoven  with  a  lovely  twining ascl«i>la»."— Air 
W.  Janet,  Botanical  Observation*. 

•  The  oriental  plane.    "The  chenar  Is  a   delightful  trc«. 
It*  bole  Is  of  a  fine  white  and  smooth  bark     and  iu  foliage, 
which  grows  in  a  tuft  at  tha  summit,  is  of  a  or'gbt  p*»'n."  — 
Morler'i  Traretf. 


72 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


And  every  beauteous  race  beneath  the  sun, 
From  those  who  kneel  at  Brahma's  burning 

founts,1 
To  the  fresh  nymphs  bounding  o'er  Yemen's 

mounts ; 

From  Persia's  eyes  of  full  and  fawn-like  ray, 
To  the  small,  half-shut  glances  of  Kathay ;" 
And   Georgia's  bloom,  and   Azab's   darker 

smiles, 

And  the  gold  ringlets  of  the  Western  Isles  ; 
All,  all  are  there ; — each  land  its  flower  hath 

given, 
To     form     that     fair     young    nursery    for 

Heaven  ! 

But  why  this  pageant   now  ?    this  arm'd 

array  ? 

What  triumph  crowds  the  rich  Divan  to-day 
With  turban'd  heads  of  every  hue  and  race 
Bowing  before  that  veil'd  and  awful  face, 
Like  tulip-beds  of  different  shape  and  dyes' 
Bending    beneath    the   invisible   west-wind 

sighs  ? 
What  new-made  mystery  now  for  Faith  to 

sign 

And  blood  to  seal  as  genuine  and  divine, — 
What    dazzling    mimicry    of    God's     own 

power 
Hath  the  bold  Prophet  plann'd  to  grace  this 

hour? 
"Vot  such  the  pageant  now,  though  not  less 

proud, 
You    warrior    youth    advancing    from    the 

crowd 
With   silver  bow,   with   belt    of   broider'd 

crape, 

And  fur-bound  bonnet  of  Bucharian  shape,4 
So  fiercely  beautiful  in  form  and  eye, 
Like  war's  wild  planet  in  a  summer  sky — 
That    youth    to-day, — a    proselyte,    worth 

hordes 
Of     cooler     spirits     and      less      practised 

swords. — 


1  "  Near  Chittagong,  esteemed  as  holy." 

"  China. 

1  "  The  name  of  tulip  is  said  to  be  of  Turkish  extraction, 
and  given  to  the  flower  on  account  of  its  resembling  a 
turban." — Beckmaris  IRstory  of  Inventions. 

4  "  The  inhabitants  of  Bucharia  wear  a  vound  cloth  bonnet 
shaped  much  after  the  Polish  fashion,  having  a  large  fur 
border.  They  tie  their. kaftans  about  the  middle  with  a  girdle 
sf  a  kind  of  silk  crape,  several  times  round  the  body." — 
nt  Tart-ary,  in  I*irJb>rlon's  Col. 


Is  come  to  join,  all  bravery  and  belief, 
Th-e  creed  and  standard  of  the  Heaven-sent 
Chief 

Though  few  his  years,  the  West  already 

knows 
Young  Azim's  fame ; — beyond  the  Olympian 

snows, 

Ere  manhood  darken'd  o'er  his  downy  cheek, 
O'erwhelm'd   in   fight   and   captive   to    the 

Greek, 
He    linger'd   there   till   peace  dissolved  his 

chains. 
Oh  !   who  could,  even  in  bondage,  t«re>ad  the 

plains 

Of  glorious  Greece,  nor  feel  his  spirit  rise 
Kindling  within  him  ?   who,  with  heart  and 

eyes, 

Cou4d  walk  where  Liberty  had  been,  nor  set. 
The  shining  foot-prints  of  her  Deity, 
Nor  feel  those  god-like  breathings  in  the  air,. 
Which  mutely  told  her  spirit  had  been  there* 
Not  hb,  that  youthful  warrior, — no,  too  well 
For  his  soul's  quiet  work'd  the  awakening 

spell ; 

And  now,  returning  to  his  own  dear  land, 
Full  of  those  dreams  of  good  that,  vainly 

grand, 
Haunt   the   young   heart; — proud  views  of 

human-kind, 

Of  men  to  gods  exalted  and  refined ;  — 
False  views  like  that  horizon's  fair  deceit, 
Where  earth  and  heaven  but  seem,  alas,  to- 

meet ! — 

Soon  as  he  heard  an  arm  divine  was  raised 
To  right  the  nations,  and  beheld,  emblazed 
On  the  white  flag  Mokanna's  host  unfurl'd, 
Those  words  of  sunshine,  "  Freedom  to  the- 

World," 

At  once  his  faith,  his  sword,  his  soul  obey'd 
The  inspiring  summons ;  every  chosen  blade 
That  fought  beneath  that  banner's  sacred  text 
Seem'd  doubly  edged,  for  this  world  and  the 

next ; 

And  ne'er  did  Faith  with  her  smooth  band- 
age bind 

Eyes  more  devoutly  willing  to  be  blind 
In  Virtue's  cause — never  was  soul  inspired 
With  livelier  trust  in  what  it  most  desired, 
Than  his,  the  enthusiast  there,  who  kneeling 

pale 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


With  pious  awe,  before  that  silver  veil, 
Believes  the  form  to  which  he  bends  his  knee 
Some  pure,  redeeming  angel,  sent  to  free 
This   fetter'd  world   from   every  bond  and 

stain, 
And  bring  its  primal  glories  back  again ! 

Low   as  young  Azim   knelt,  that  motley 

crowd 
Of  all   earth's  nations  sunk  the   knee   and 

bow'd. 
With  shouts  of  "  Alia !"   echoing  long  and 

loud; 

While  high  in  air,  above  the  Prophet's  head, 
Hundreds    of    banners,    to     the     sunbeam 

spread, 
Waved  like  the  wings  of  the  white   birds 

that  fan 

The  flying  throne  of  star-taught  Soliman  !' 
Then   thus  he  spoke: — "Stranger,   though 

new  the  frame 
Thy   soul   inhabits    now,   I've    track'd    its 

flame 
For    many    an   age,'   in   every  chance   and 

change 
Of  that   existence    through    whose    varied 

range,— 
As  through  a  torch-race,  where,  from  hand 

to  hand 
The   flying   youths   ti'ansmit  their    shining 

brand, — 
From   frame   to   frame   the   unextinguish'd 

soul 
Rapidly  passes,  till  it  reach  the  goal ! 

".Nor   think   'tis   only   the   gross  spirits, 

warm'd 
With   duskier  fire  and  for  earth'fc  medium 

form'd, 
That    run    this    course; — beings   the   most 

divine 
Fhus  deign  through  dark  mortality  to  shine. 


1  Thin  wonderful  mror.c  was  called  the  "  Star  of  the  Genii." 
vVhen  Solomon  tr&.cned,  the  eastern  writers*  fay,  •'he  had  a 
;arpct  of  preen  silk  on  which  hi*  throne  was  placed,  being  of 
*  provisions  length  and  breadth,  and  suflicicnt  for  all  hit 
forces  to  Maud  upon,  the.  meii  placing  thcinsclve?  on  hi«  right 
band  and  the  spirits  on  bin  left;  and  that  when  all  were  in 
order,  the  wind,  at  hit*  command,  took  up  the  carpet,  and 
transported  it  with  all  that  were  upon  it.  wherever  he  pleased  ; 
the  army  of  birds  at  the  same  time  flying  over  their  head*, 
uid  forming  a  kind  of  canopy  to  shade  them  from  the  ran." 
-Sale'*  Koran,  vol.  ii.,  p.  214.  note. 

•  "The  transmigration  of  souls  was  one  of  his  doctrine*. " 


was  the  Essence  that  in  Adam  dwelt, 
To  which  all  heaven,  except  the  Proud  One, 

knelt:1 

Such  the  refined  Intelligence  that  glowM 
In  Moussa's  frame — and,  thence  descending, 

f.ow'd 
Through  many  a  prophet's  breast* — in  I     i 

shone, 

And  in  Mohammed  burn'd ;  till,  hastening  on, 
(As  a  bright  river  that,  from  fall  to  fall 
In  many  a  maze  descending,  bright  through 

all, 
Finds  some  fair  region  where,  each  labyrinth 

past, 

In  one  full  lake  of  light  it  rests  at  last !) 
That  Holy  Spirit,  settling  calm  and  free 
From  lapse  or  shadow,  centres  all  in  me !" 

Again,  throughout  the  assembly  at  these 

words, 
Thousands   of  voices   rung:    the    warriors' 

swords 

Were  pointed  up  to  heaven ;  a  sudden  wind 
In  the  open  banners  play'd,  and  from  behind 
Those  Persian  hangings  that  but  ill  could 

screen 
The   Haram's  loveliness,  white  hands  were 

seen 
Waving  embroider'd  scarves,  whose  motion 

gave 
A  perfume  forth — like    those    the   HourU 

wave 

When  beckoning  to  their  bowers  the  immor- 
tal brave 

"But    these,"   pursued   the  Chief,    "are 

truths  sublime, 

That  claim  a  holier  mood  and  calmer  time 
Than   earth    allows   us    now ; — this    sword 

must  first 
The  darkling  prison-house  of  mankind  burst, 


'And  when  we  said  onto  the  angels.  "Worship  Art  tin  " 
they  all  worshipped  him  except  EUlis.  <  Lucifer.)  who  refused 
—  The  Koran,  chap.  ii. 

4  This  is  according  to  D'Hcrbelot's  account  of  the  doctrine* 
of  Mokanna;— "Sa  doctrine  6tolt  qne  Dlen  avolt  pri»  on* 
forme  et  figure  humaine  depots  qu'il  eni  commar.de  aoz 
Anges  d'adorer  Adam,  lu  premier  des  homines.  <ju'  apret  U 
mort  d'Adam.  Dim  etoit  apparn  sous  la  figure  de  pltuieur* 
prophetes,  et  ant  res  grands  hommen,  qu'il  avoit  choi«K 
Jusqu'a  ce  qu'il  pnt  ci-ilc  d'Abu  Moslem,  Prince  de  KhoranMuv 
Icqnel  professoU  I'erreur  de  la  Tonasunkhtah,  on  Metemp«r • 
daoxe;  et  qu'  aprei-  la  mort  de  ce  Prince.  )a  Divlnlte*  Atoll 
pa»»6r.  et  deKenrioc  en  M  personne." 

»  Je*u*. 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


Ere  Peace  can  visit  them,  or  Truth  let  in 
Her  wakening  daylight  on  a  world  of  sin  ! 
But  then,  celestial  warriors,  then  when  all 
Earth's  shrines  and  thrones  before  our  ban- 
ner fall ; 
When  the  glad  slave  shall  at  these  feet  lay 

down 

His  broken  chain,  the  tyrant  lord  his  crown, 
The    priest    his    book,   the    conqueror    his 

wreath, 
And   from    the   lips   of  truth  one     mighty 

breath 

Shall,  like  a  whirlwind,  scatter  in  its  breeze 
That  whole  dark  pile  of  human  mockeries ; — 
Then  shall  the  reign  of  Mind  commence  on 

earth, 

And  starting  fresh  as  from  a  second  birth, 
Man,  in  the  sunshine   of  the   world's   new 

spring, 

Shall  walk  transparent,  like  some  holy  thing ! 
Then,    too,    your   Prophet    from   his   angel 

brow 
Shall  cast  the  veil  that  hides  its  splendors 

now, 
And   gladden'd   Earth    shall,   through    her 

wide  expanse, 
Bask  in  the  glories  of  this  countenance ! 

"  For  thee,   young   warrior,  welcome  ! — 

thou  hast  yet 

Some  tasks  to  learn,  some  frailties  to  forget, 
Ere  the  white  war-plume  o'er  thy  brow  can 

wave ; 
But,    once    my   own,    mine   all   till   in    the 

grave !" 

The  pomp  is  at  an  end, — the  crowds  are 

gone — 

Each  ear  and  heart  still  haunted  by  the  tone 
Of  that  deep  voice  which  thrill'd  like  Alla's 

own  ! 
The  young  all  dazzled  by  the  plumes  and 

lances, 
The   glittering   throne,    and    Haram's   half- 

eaught  glances  ; 
The  old   deep   pondering  on  the  promised 

reign 

Of  peace  and  truth;  and  all  the  female  train 
Ready   to   risk   their  eyes  could    they  but  i 

gaze 
A  moment  on  that  brow's  miraculous  blaze !  i 


But  there  was  one,  among  the  chosen 
maids 

Who  blush'd  behind  the  gallery's  silken 
shades, 

One,  to  whose  soul  the  pageant  of  to-day 

Has  been  like  death ; — you  saw  her  pale  dis- 
may, 

Ye  wondering  sisterhood,  and  heard  the 
burst 

Of  exclamation  from  her  lips,  when  first 

She  saw  that  youth,  too  well,  too  dearly 
known, 

Silently  kneeling  at  the  Prophet's  throne. 

Ah  Zelica !  there  was  a  time  when  bliss 
Shone  o'er  thy  heart  from  every  look  of  his; 
When  but  to  see  him,  hear  him,  breathe  the 

air 
In  which  he  dwelt,  was  thy  soul's  fondest 

prayer ! 
When   round   him   hung  such   a  perpetual 

spell, 

Whate'er  he  did,  none  ever  did  so  well. 
Too   happy   days!  when,   if   he   touch'd   a 

flower 
Or   gem   of  thine,  'twas   sacred  from   that 

hour ; 

When  thou  didst  study  him,  till  every  tone 
And  gesture  and  dear  look  became  thy  own, 
Thy  voice  like  his,  the  changes  of  his  face 
In  thine  reflected  with  still  lovelier  grace, 
Like  echo,  sending  back  sweet  music  fraught 
With    twice    the   aerial   sweetness    it    had 

brought ! 

Yet  now  he  comes — brighter  than  even  he 
E'er  beam'd  before, — but  ah  !  not  bright  for 

thee  ; 

No — dread,  unlook'd  for,  like  a  visitant 
From    the   other  world,  he  comes  as  if  to 

haunt 

Thy  guilty  soul  with  dreams  of  lost  delight, 
Long  lost  to  all  but  memory's  aching  sight: — 
Sad  dreams  !  as  when  the  spirit  of  our  youth 
Returns  in  sleep,  sparkling  with  all  the  truth 
And  innocence  once  ours,  and  leads  us  back, 
In  mournful  mockerv,  o'er  the  shining  track 

•/   *  O 

Of  our  young  life,  and  points  out  every  ray 
Of  hope  and  peace  we've  lost  upon  the  way  ! 

Once  happy  pair! — in  proud  Bokhara's 
grovea 


I '«>!-;  MS  OF  THOMAS  Moo  UK. 


75 


Who  had  not  heard  of  their  first  youthful 

loves  ? 
tiorn  by  that  ancient  flood,1  which  from  its 

spring 

In  the  Dark  Mountains  swiftly  wandering, 
Knrieh'd  by  every  pilgrim  brook  that  shines 
With  relics  from  Bucharia's  ruby  mines, 
And,  lending  to  the  Caspian  half  its  strength, 
In  the  cold  Lake  of  Eagles  sinks  at  length  ;  — 
There,   on   the  banks   of  that  bright  river 

born, 
The   flowers   that  hung  above  its  wave  at 

morn 

Btess'd  not  the  waters  as  they  murmur'd  by, 
Witb  holier  scent  and  lustre  than  the  sigh 

o 

And  virgin  glance  of  first  affection  cast 
Upon   their   youth's   smooth   current,  as  it 

pass'd  ! 

Bui  war  disturb'd  this  vision  —  far  away 
From  her  fond  eyes,  summon'd  to  join  the 

array 

Of  Persia's  warriors  on  the  hills  of  Thrace, 
The  youth  exchanged  his  sylvan  dwelling- 

place 
Vor  the  rude  tent  and  war-field's  deathful 

clash  ; 

HIM  Zelica's  sweet  glances  for  the  flash 
Of  Grecian  wild-fire,  and  love's  gentle  chains 
For     bleeding     bondage    on     Byzantium's 

plains. 


after  month,  in  widowhood  of  soul 
Drooping,  the  maiden  saw  two  summers  roll 
Their  suns  away  —  but,  ah  !  how  cold  and 

dim 
tfven  summer   suns  when  not  beheld  with 

him  ! 

fe'rom  time  to  time  ill-omen'd  rumors  came, 
(Like     spirit-tongues,    muttering    the    sick 

man's  name, 
Just  ere   he  dies,)  —  at  length  those  sounds 

of  dread 

Kell  withering  on  her  soul,  "  Axim  is  dead  !" 
Oh,  grief  beyond  all  other  griefs,  when  fate 
First  leaves  the  young  heart  lone  and  deso- 

late 
i  the  wide  world,  without  that  only  tie 


1  The  Amoo.  which  ri^eg  in  the  Belur  Tap,  or  Dark  Mmin- 
Mien,  and  nmnlnjr  nearly  from  cast  to  we>t,  nplits  Into  two 
annehr*.  one  of  which  falls  into  the  Caspian  Sea,  and  the 
•>L'.er  into  A.-al  Xahr.  <>r  tho  Lake  ',{  Eai;le». 


For  which    it   loved   to   live   or  fearM    to 

die  ;  — 
Lorn  as  the  hung-up  lute  :hat  ne'er  hath 

spoken 
Since  the  sad  day  its  master-chord  wa« 

broken  ! 

Fond  maid,  the  sorrow  of  her  soul  was 

such, 
Even    reason    sunk  —  blighted    beneath    its 

touch  ; 
And  though,  ere  long,  her  sanguine  spirit 

rose 

Above  the  first  dead  pressure  of  its  woes, 
Though    health    and    bloom    return'd,   the 

delicate  chain 
Of   thought,    once    tangled,   never   clear'd 

again. 
Warm,  lively,  soft  as  in  youth's  happiest 


The   mind   was   still   all  there,  but   turn'd 

astray  ;  — 
A    wandering   bark,  upon   whose   pathway 

shone 

All  stars  of  heaven,  except  the  guiding  one! 
Again  she  smiled,  nay,  much  and  brigh'ly 

smiled, 

l>ut  'twas  a  lustre,  strange,  unreal,  wild; 
And  when  she  sung  to  her  lute's  touching 

strain, 

'Twas  like  the  notes,  half  ecstasy,  half  pain, 
The  bulbul*  utters  ere  her  soul  depart, 
When,  vanquish'd  by  some  minstrtTs  pow- 

erful art, 
She   dies   upon    the   lute   whose   sweetnes* 

broke  her  heart  ! 

Such  was  the  mood  in  which  that  mission 

found 

Young  Zi'lica,  —  that  mission,  which  around 
The  Eastern  world,  in  evrry  rrgion  bU'St 
With  woman's  stnilc  sought  out  its  loveliest 
To  gracr  th:it  galaxy  of  lips  and  eyes 
Which  tin-  Yfil'd  Prophet  destined  for  the 

skii's  !  — 

And  such  quick  wercome  as  a  spark  ivr. 
Dropp'd    on   a   bed   of  autumn's    withrr'd 

leaves, 

Did  every  tale  of  these  cntnusiaMs  find 
In  the  wild  inai'lrn's  -sorrow-blight  i'd  mind, 


*  The  nightingale. 


76 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


All  fire   at   once,   the   maddening  zeal   she 

caught ; — 

Elect  of  Paradise !  blest,  rapturous  thought ; 
Predestined  bride,  in  Heaven's  eternal  dome, 
Of  some  brave  youth — ha !  durst  they  say 

"of  some?" 

No — of  the  one,  one  only  object  traced 
In  her  heart's  core  too  deep  to  be  effaced; 
The   one   whose   memory,   fresh   as   life,  is 

twined 

With  every  broken  link  of  her  lost  mind  ; 
Whose  image  lives,  though  reason's  self  be 

wreck'd, 
Safe  'mid  the  ruins  of  her  intellect ! 

Alas,  poor  Zelica  !  it  needed  all 
The  fantasy  which  held  thy  mind  in  thrall 
To  see  in  that  gay  Haram's  glowing  maids 
A  sainted  colony  for  Eden's  shades  ; 
Or  dream  that  he, — of  whose  unholy  flame 
Thou   wert   too    soon   the  victim, — shining 

came 

From  Paradise,  to  people  its  pure  sphere 
With  soul*  like  thine,  which  he  hath  ruin'd 

here ! 

No — had  not  reason's  light  totally  set, 
And  left  thee  dark,  thou  hadst  an  amulet 
In  the  loved  image,  graven  on  thy  heart, 
Which   would   have   saved    thee   from  the 

tempter's  art, 

And  kept  alive,  in  all  its  bloom  of  breath, 
That  purity,  whose  fading  is  love's  death  ! — 
But   lost,   inflamed, — a   restless    zeal    took 

place 
Of   the    mild    virgin's  'still   and    feminine 

grace  ;— 

First  of  the  Prophet's  favorites,  proudly  first 
In  zeal  and  charms, — too  well  the  Impostor 

nursed 

Her  soul's  delirium,  in  whose  active  flame, 
Thus  lighting  up  a  young,  luxuriant  frame, 
He  saw  more  potent  sorceries  to  bind 
To  his  dark  yoke  the  spirits  of  mankind, 
More   subtle    chains   than    hell    itself   e'er 

twined. 
No  art  was  spared,  no  witchery ; — all  the 

skill 

His  demons  taught  him  was  employ'd  to  fill 
Her  mind  with  gloom  and  ecstasy  by  turns — 
That  gloom,  through  which  frenzy  but 

fiercer  burns ; 


That  ecstasy,  which  from  the  depth  ol  sad- 
ness 

Glares  like  the  maniac's  moon,  whose  'light 
is  madness ! 

'Twas  from  a  brilliant  banquet,  where  the 

sound 

Of  poesy  and  music  breathed  around, 
Together  picturing  to  her  mind  and  ear 
The   glories   of  that   heaven,  her   destined 

sphere, 
Where  all  was  pure,  where  every  stain  that 

lay 

Upon  the  spirit's  light  should  pass  away, 
And,  realizing  more  than  youthful  love 
E'er  wish'd  or  dream'd,  she  should  forever 

rove 
Through  fields  of  fragrance  by  her  Azim's 

side, 

His  own  bless'd,  purified,  eternal  bride ! — 
'Twas  from  a  scene,  a  witching  trance  like 

this, 

He  hurried  her  away,  yet  breathing  bliss, 
To  the  dim  charnel  house; — through  all   its 

streams 

Of  damp  and  death,  led  only  by  those  gleams 
Which  foul  corruption  lights,  as  with  design 
To  show  the  gay  and  proud  she  too  cao 

shine  ! — 
And,  passing  on  through  upright  ranks  of 

dead, 
Which  to    the   maiden,  doubly   crazed    by 

dread, 
Seem'd,  through  the  bluish  death-light  round 

them  cast, 
To   move   their   lips  in   mutterings    as  she 

pass'd — 
There,  in  that  awful  place,  when  each  had 

quaff'd 
And    pledged    in    silence     such    a    fearful 

draught, 
Such — oh !    the  look  and  taste  of  that  red 

bowl 
Will  haunt  her  till  she  dies — he  bound  her 

soul 
By   a   dark   oath,   in   hell's   own   language 

framed, 
Never,    while    earth    his    mystic    presence 

claim'd, 
While  the  blue  arch  of  day  hung  o'er  them 

both. 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


77 


i ,  by  that  all-imprecating  oath, 
(n  joy  or  sorrow  from  his  aide  to  sever. 
She  swore,   and   the   wide   charnel   echo'd, 
"  Never,  never !" 

From   that   dread   hour,   entirely,  wildly 

given 
To  him   and — she  believed,  lost   maid ! — to 

Heaven ; 

Her  brain,  her   heart,  her  passions  all  in- 
flamed, 
How  proud  she  stood,  when  in  full  Haram 

named 
The  Priestess  of  the  Faith  ! — how  flash'd  her 

eyes 

With  light,  alas !  that  was  not  of  the  skies, 
When  round  in  trances  only  less  than  hers, 
She  saw  the  Haram  kneel,  her  prostrate 

worshippers ! 

Well  might  Mokanna  think  that  form  alone 
Had  spells  enough  to  make  the  world  his 

own: — 
Light,  lovely  limbs,  to  which   the   spirit's 

play 

Gave  motion,  airy  as  the  dancing  spray, 
When  from  its  stem  the  small  bird  wings 

away ! 
Lips    in    whose    rosy    labyrinth,    when    she 

smiled, 
The  soul  was  lost ;  and  blushes,  swift  and 

wild 

As  are  the  momentary  meteors  sent 
Across  the  uncalm,  but  beauteous  firmament. 
And  then  her  look ! — oh  !  where's  the  heart 

so  wise, 
Could   unbewilder'd  meet   those   matchless 

eyt«? 

Quick,  restless,  strange,  but  exquisite  withal, 
Like  those  of  angels,  just  before  their  fall ; 
Now  shadow'd  with  the  shames  of  earth — 

now  crost 
By  glimpses  of  the  heaven  her  heart  had 

lost; 

In   every  glance  there  broke,  without  con- 
trol, 

The  flashes  of  a  bright  but  troubled  soul, 
Where  sensibility  still  wildly  play'd, 
Like  lightning,  round  the  ruins  it  had  made ! 

And   such    was   now    young    Zelica — so 
changed 


From  her  who,  some  years  since,  delighted 

ranged 

The  almond  groves  that  shade  Bokhara's  tide, 
All  life  and  bliss,  with  Azim  by  her  side ! 
So  altered  was  she  now,  this  festal  day, 
When,    'mid    the   proinl     Divan's    dazzling 

array, 
The  vision  of  that  youth,  whom   she   had 

loved, 
And  wept  as  dead,  before  her  breathed  and 

moved  ; — 
When — bright,    she    thought,    as    if    from 

Eden's  track 

But  half-way  trodden,  he  had  wander'd  back 
Again    to    earth,    glistening    with    Eden's 

light — 
Her  beauteous  Azim  shone  before  her  sight. 

Oh,  Reason  !    wh<    shall  say  what   spells 

renew, 

When  least  we  look  for  it,  thy  broken  clew ! 
Through  what  small  vistas  o'er  the  darkenM 

brain 

Thy  intellectual  day-beam  bursts  again  ; 
And  how,  like  forts,  to  which  beleaguerers  win 
Unhoped-for  entrance  through  some  friend 

within, 

One  clear  idea,  waken'd  in  the  breast 
By  memory's  magic,  lets  in  all  the  rest ! 
Would   it   were   thus,   unhappy   girl,  with 

thee! 
But  though  light  came,  it  came  but   par- 

tiafly ; 
Enough   to   show   the  maze  in  which   thy 

sense 
Wander'd     about, — but    not    to    guide    it 

thence ; 

Enough  to  glimmer  o'er  the  yawning  wave, 
But  not  to  point  the  harbor  which  might 

save. 

Hours  of  delight  and  peace,  long  left  behind, 
With  that  dear  form  came  rushing  o'er  her 

mind; 
But  oh !  to  think  how  deep  her  soul   had 

gone 
In  shame  and  falsehood  since  those  moments 

shone ; 
And,   then,   her    oath — there    madness   lay 

again, 
And   shuddering,  back  she  sunk   into   bet 

chain 


78 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


Of  mental  darkness,  as  if  blest  to  flee 
From  light,  whose  every  glimpse  was  agony ! 
Ye-t,  one  relief  this  glance  of  former  years 
Brought,    mingled    with    its     pain, — tears, 

floods  of  tears, 

Long  frozen  at  her  heart,  but  now  like  rills 
Let  loose  in  spring-time  from   the   snowy 

hills, 

And  gushing  warm,  after  a  sleep  of  frost, 
Through  valleys  where  their  flow  had  long 

been  lost ! 

Sad  and  subdued,  for  the  first  time  her 

frame 
Trembled  with  horror,  when  the  summons 

came 
(A  summons  proud  and  rare,  which  all  but 

she, 

And  she  till  now,  had  heard  with  ecstasy) 
To  meet  Mokanna  at  his  place  of  prayer, 
A  garden  oratory,  cool  and  fair, 
By  the  stream's  side,  where  still  at  close  of 

day 

The  Prophet  of  the  Veil  retired  to  pray ; 
Sometimes  alone — but  oftener  far  with  one, 
One  chosen  nymph  to  share  his  orison. 

Of  late  none  found  such  favor  in  his  sight 
As  the  young  Priestess ;  and  though  since 

that  night 

When  the  death-caverns  echo'd  every  tone 
Of  the  dire  oath  that  made  her  all  his  own, 
The  Impostor,  sure  of  his  infatuate  prize, 
Had  more  than  once  thrown  off  his  soul's 

disguise, 
And    utter'd   such   unheavenly,   monstrous 

things 

As  even  across  the  desperate  wanderings 
Of  a  weak  intellect,  whose  lamp  was  out, 
Threw  startling  shadows  of  dismay  and 

doubt ; 

Yet  zeal,  ambition,  her  tremendous  vow, 
The  thought  still  haunting  her  of  that  bright 

brow 
Whose  blaze,  as  yet  from  mortal  eye  con- 

ceal'd, 
Would  soon,  proud  triumph  !  be  to  her  re- 

veal'd, 
To  her   alone ; — and   then   the   hope,  most 

dear, 
Most  wild  of  all,  that  her  transgression  here 


Was  but  a  passage  through  earth's  grosser 

fire, 

From  which  the  spirit  would  at  last  aspire, 
Even  purer  than  before, — as  perfumes  rise 
Through  flame  and  smoke,  most  welcome  to 

the  skies — 

And  that  when  Azim's  fond,  divine  embrace 
Should  circle  her  in  heaven,  no  darkening 

trace 

Would  on  that  bosom  he  once  loved  remain, 
But  all  be  bright,  be  pure,  be  his  again : — 
These   were   the   wildering   dreams,    whose 

curst  deceit 
Had  chain'd  her  soul  beneath  the  tempter's 

feet, 
And  made  her  think  even  damning  falsehood 

sweet. 
But  now  that  shape,  which  had  appall'd  her 

view, 

That  semblance — oh,  how  terrible,  if  true ! — 
Which  came  across  her  frenzy's  full  career 
With    shock  of  consciousness,   cold,   deep, 

severe, 

As  when,  in  northern  seas,  at  midnight  dark. 
An  isle  of  ice  encountei-s  some  swift  bark, 
And,  startling  all  its  wretches  from   their 

sleep, 
By   one   cold   impulse   hurls   them   to   the 

deep ; — 
So  came  that  shock  not  frenzy's  self  could 

bear, 

And  waking  up  each  long-lull'd  image  there, 
But  check'd  her  headlong  soul,  to  sink  it  iu 

despair ! 

Wan  and  dejected,  through  the  evening 

dusk, 

She  now  went  slowly  to  that  small  kiosk, 
Where,  pondering  alone  his  impious  schemes, 
Mokanna  waited  her — too  wrapt  in  dreams 
Of  the  fair-ripening  futui-e's  rich  success 
To  heed  the  sorrow,  pale  and  spiritless, 
That  sat  upon  his  victim's  downcast  brow, 
Or  mark  how  slow  her  step,  how  alter' (I  now 
From   the   quick,   ardent    Priestess,   whose 

light  bound 
Came     like    a    spirit    o'er    the    unechoing 

groitnd, — 

From  that  wild  Zelica,  whose  every  glance 
Was   thrilling   fire,  whose   very  thought  a 

trance ! 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


Upon  his  couch  the  veil'd  Mokanna  lay, 
While  lamps  around — not  such  as  lend  their 

ray, 
Glimmering  and  cold,  to  those  who  nightly 

pray 

In  holy  Room,1  or  Mecca's  dim  arcades, 
But   brilliant,   soft,   such    lights   as   lovely 

maids 

Look  loveliest  in — shed  their  luxurious  glow 
Upon    his    mystic    veil's    white    glittering 

flow. 
Beside  him,  'stead  of  beads  and  books  of 

prayer, 
Which  the  world  fondly  thought  he  mused 

on  there, 
Stood  vases,  fill'd  with    KishmeeV  golden 

wine, 

And  the  red  weepings  of  the  Shiraz  vine; 
Of  which   his   curtain'd    lips   full   many   a 

draught 
Took     zealously,    as    if    each     drop     they 

quaff 'd, 
Like    Zemzem's   Spring   of   Holiness,'   had 

power 

To  freshen  the  soul's  virtues  into  flower  ! 
And  still  he  drank  and  ponder'd — nor  could 

see 

Phe  approaching  maid,  so  deep  his  reverie  ; 
\t   length,   with   fiendish    laugh,  like  that 

which  broke 

From  Eblis  at  the  fall  of  man,  he  spoke : — 
"  Yes,   ye  vile   race,  for   hell's   amusement 

given, 
Too  mean  for  earth,  yet  claiming  kin  with 

heaven ; 

God's  images,  forsooth  ! — such  gods  as  he 
Whom  India  serves,  the  monkey  deity  ;* 
Ye  creatures  of  a  breath,  proud  tilings  of 

clay, 
To  whom  if  Lucifer,  as  grandams  say, 


1  "  The  cities  of  Com  (or  Koom)  and  Kashan  are  full  of 
mosques,  mausoleum*,  and  sepulchres  of  the  descendant*  of 
All.  the  saints  of  Persia." 

1  An  island  in  the  Persian  Gulf,  celebrated  for  its  white  wine. 

'"The  miraculous  well  at  Mecca;  so  called  from  the  mur- 
muring of  its  waters." 

*  The  good  Hannaman. 

"  Apes  are  in  many  parts  of  India  highly  venerated,  out  of 
r<ppect  to  the  god  Hannnman,  a  deity  partaking  of  the  form 
of  that  race."— Pennant's  Hlndostan. 

See  a  curious  account  in  Stephen's  Persia  of  a  solemn  em- 
hassy  from  some  part  of  the  Indies  to  Goa,  when  the  Portu- 
truese  were  there,  offering  vast  treasures  for  the  recovery  of  a 
monkey1*  tooth,  which  they  held  in  great  veneration,  and 
which  had  been  taken  away  upon  the  conquest  of  the  kingdom 
«f  Jafanapatan. 


Refused,  though  at  the  forfeit  of  heaven'* 

light, 

To  bend  in  worship,  Lucifer  was  right  !*— 
Soon  shall  I  plant  tin's  foot  upon  the  neck 
Of  j'our  foul  race,  and  without  fear  or  chock, 
Luxuriating  in  hate,  avcn^  my  shame, 
My  deep-felt,  long-nurst  loathing  of  man'* 

name  ! — 
Soon,  at   the   head  of  myriads,  blind  and 

fierce 

As  hooded  falcons,  throng})  the  universe 
I'll  sweep  my  darkening,  desolating  way, 
Weak  man  my   instrument,  curst  man  my 

prey ! 

"Ye  wise,  ye  learn'd,  who  grope  your  dull 

way  on 

By  the  dim  twinkling  gleams  of  ages  gone, 
Like  superstitious   thieves,  who   think   the 

light 
From  dead  men's  marrow  guides  them  best 

at  night' — 
Ye  shall  have  honors — wealth, — yes,  sages, 

yes — 

I  know,  grave  fools,  your  wisdom's  nothing- 
ness; 

Undazzled  it  can  track  yon  starry  spuere, 
But  a  gilt  stick,  a  bauble  blinds  it  here. 
How  I  shall  laugh,  when  trumpeted  along 
In  lying  speech,  and  still  more  lying  song, 
By  these  learn'd  slaves,  the  meanest  of  the 

throng  ; 
Their  wits  bought  up,  their  wisdom  shrunk 

so  small, 
A  sceptre's  puny  point  can  wield  it  all ! 

"  Ye  too,  believers  of  incredible  creeds, 
Whose  faith  enshrines  the  mon&ters  which  it 
breeds ; 


•  This  resolution  of  Eblis  not  to  acknowledge  the  new  crea- 
ture man,  was,  according  to  Mohammedan  tradition,  thn* 
adopted  :— "  The  earth  (which  God  had  selected  for  the  mate- 
rials of  His  work)  was  carried  into  Arabia,  to  a  place  be 
Mecca  and  Tayef,  where,  being  first  kneeded  by  the  angels,  it 
was  afterward  fashioned  by  God  himself  into  a  human  form, 
and  left  to  dry  for  the  space  of  forty  days,  or.  a*  others  say,  an 
many  years  ;  the  angels  in  the  mean  time  often  visiting  it,  and 
Eblis  (then  one  of  the  angels  nearest  to  G<><!  after- 
ward the  devil)  among  the  rest;  but  he,  not  contented  wilb 
looking  at  it,  kicked  it  with  his  foot  till  it  rung,  and  knowing 
God  designed  that  creature  to  be  his  superior,  took  a  - 
resolution  never  to  acknowledge  him  as  such."— Sale  0*  IA* 
Koran. 

•  A  kind  of  lantcn.  formerly  used  by  robber*,  ra.lcd  th» 
Hand  of  Glory,  the  candle  for  which  wa*  made  of  'be  tat  of  » 
dead  malefactor. 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


Who,  bolder  even  than  Nimrod,  think  to 

rise, 
By    nonsense    heap'd   on   nonsense,  to  the 

skies ; 

Ye  shall  have  mii'acles,  ay,  sound  ones  too, 
Seen,  heard,  attested,  everything — but  true. 
Your  preaching  zealots,  too  inspired  to  seek 
One  grace  of  meaning  for  the  things  they 

speak ; 

Your  martyrs,  ready  to  shed  out  their  blood 
For  truths  too  heavenly  to  be  understood ; 
And  your  state  priests,  sole  vendors  of  the 

lore 

That  works  salvation  ; — as  on  Ava's  shore, 
Where   none  but  priests  are  privileged  to 

trade 
In    that    best   marble    of   which   gods  are 

made ;' — 
They   shall    have    mysteries — ay,   precious 

stuff 
For      knaves      to     thrive     by — mysterious 

enough  ; 
Dark,  tangled  doctrines,  dark  as  fraxid  can 

weave, 

Which  simple  votai'ies  shall  on  trust  receive, 
While  craftier  feign  belief,  till  they  believe. 
A   heaven  too  ye  must  have,  ye  lords  of 

dust, — 

A  splendid  Paradise, — pure  souls,  ye  must : 
That  prophet  ill  sustains  his  holy  call 
Who  finds  not  heavens  to  suit  the  tastes  of 

all; 

Ilouris  for  boys,  omniscience  for  sages, 
And  wings  and  glories  for  all  ranks  and  acres. 

o  o  o 

Vain  things  ! — as  lust  or  vanity  inspires, 
The  heaven  of  each  is  but  what  each  desires, 
And,  soul  or  sense,  whate:er  the  object  be, 
Man  would  be  man  to  all  eternity  ! 
So  let  him — Eblis  !  grant  this  crowning  curse, 
But   keep   him   what    he  is,   no   hell   were 
\v  orse." — 

"  Oh,  my  lost  soul !"  exdaim'd  the  shud- 
dering maid, 

Whose  ears  had  drunk  like  poison  all  he 
said, — 

Mokanna  started — not  abash'd,  afraid, — 

1  The  nu'.tcrial  of  which  images  of  Guadma  (the  Binnan 
deiry)  is  mtde.  is  held  eacred.  "Birraaus  may  not  purchuce 
the  marbk1  In  muse,  but  are  suffered,  and  indeed  encuiirajfeil. 
lo  buy  flgures  of  the  deity  ready  made." — Syme'a  A  c-u.  vol.  ii., 
».  376. 


He  knew   no   more   of  fear   than   one  who 

dwells 

Beneath  the  tropics  knows  of  icicles  ! 
But  in  those  dismal  words  that  reach'd  bli 

ear, 
"Oh,  my  lost  soul !"  there  was  a  sound  *9 

drear, 

So  like  that  voice,  among  the  sinful  dead, 
In  which  the  legend  o'er  hell's  gate  is  read, 
That,  new  as  'twas  from  her,  whom  naught 

could  dim 
Or  sink  till  now,  it  startled  even  him. 

"Ha,    my    fair    Priestess!" — thus,    wich 

ready  wile, 
The  impostor   turn'd   to  greet   her — "thou 

whose  smile 

Hath  inspiration  in  its  rosy  beam 
Beyond  the  enthusiast's  hope  or  prophet's 

dream ! 
Light  of  the  FaJ.th  !  who  tv/in'st  religion's 

zeal 
So  close  with  IcvoVj,  men  know  net  which 

they  fee1, 
Nor  which  to  s:gh  for,  in  their  trance  of 

heart, 
The  heaven  thou  preachedt  or  the  heaven 

thou  art  ! 
What  should  I  be  without  thee  ?  without 

thee 

How  dull  were  power,  how  joyless  victory ! 
Though  borne  by  angels,  if  that  smile  of 

thine 
Bless'd    not    my   banner,    'twere   but   1?  .if 

divine. 
But — why   so  mournful,  child  ?   those  eyes 

that  shone 
All    life  last  night — what ! — is   their  glory 

gone  ? 
Come,  come — this  morn's  fatigue  hath  made 

them  pale, 
They     want     rekindling — suns    themselves 

would  fail, 

Did  not  their  comets  bring,  as  I  to  thee, 
From  light's  own  fount  supplies  of  brilliancy ! 
Thou.seest   this   cup — no  juice  of  earth  is 

here, 

But  the  pure  waters  of  that  upper  sphere, 
Whose  rills  o'er  ruby  beds  and  topaz  flow, 
Catching  the  gems'  bright  color  as  they  go. 
Nightly  my  genii  come  and  fill  these  urn» — 


POKMS  OF  THOMAS  MooKK. 


81 


Nay,   drink — in   every   drop    life's   essence 

burns ; 
'Twill  make  that  soul  all  fire,  those  eyes  all 

bright — 

Come,  come,  I  want  thy  loveliest  smiles  to- 
night : 
There  is  a  youth — why  start  ? — thou  sawst 

him  then ; 

Look'd  he  not  nobly?  such  the  godlike  men 
Thou'lt  have  to  woo  thee  in  the  bowers 

above ; — 
Though  he,  I  fear,  hath  thoughts  too  stern 

for  love, 

Too  ruled  by  that  cold  enemy  of  bliss 
The  world  calls  Virtue — we   must   conquer 

this ; — 
Nay,  shrink  not,  pretty  sage ;    'tis  not  for 

thee 

To  scan  the  mazes  of  heaven's  mystery. 
The  steel  must  pass  through  fire,  ere  it  can 

yield 

Fit  instruments  for  mighty  hands  to  wield. 
This  very  night  I  mean  to  try  the  art 
•Of  powerful  beauty  on  that  warrior's  heart ; 
All  that  my  Hiram  boasts  of  bloom  and  wit, 
Of  skill  and  charms,  most  rare  and  exquisite, 
Shall  tempt  the  boy  ; — young  Mirzala's  blue 

eyes, 

Whose  sleepy  lid  like  snow  on  violet  lies  ; 
Arouya's  cheeks,  warm  as  a  spring-day  sun, 
And  lips  that,  like  the  seal  of  Solomon, 
Have  magic  in  their  pressure  ;  Zeba's  lute, 
And   Lilla's   dancing   feet,  that  gleam  and 

shoot 
Rapid     and    white    as    sea-birds    o'er    the 

deep  ! — 
All  shall  combine  their  witching  powers  to 

steep 

My  convert's  spirit  in  that  softening  trance, 
From   which   to   heaven    is    but    the   next 

advance ; — 

That  glowing,  yielding  fusion  of  the  breast 
On  which  Religion  stamps  her  image  best. 
But  hear  me,  Priestess! — though  each 

nymph  of  these 
Hath    some    peculiar,    practised   power    to 

please, 
Some   glance  or  step  which,  at  the  mirror 

tried, 
First   charms  herself,   then   all    the   world 

bcrde ; 


There  still  wants  on«,  to  make  the  victory 

sure, 

One,  who  in  every  look  joins  every  lure; 
Through  whom  all  beauty's  beams  concen 

tred  pa 
Dazzling     and     rich,     as     through     love'i 

burning-glass ; 

Whose  gentle  lips  persuade  without  a  word, 
Whose  words,  even    when    unmeaning',  are 

'  O* 

adored, 

Like  inarticulate  breathings  from  a  shrine, 
Which   our    faith    takes    for    granted    ar« 

divine ! 
Such  is  the  nymph  we  want,  all  warmth  and 

light, 

To  crown  the  rich  temptations  of  to-night , 
Such  the  refined  enchantress  that  must  be 
This  hero's  vanquisher, — and  thou  art  she!" 

With  her  hands  clasp'd,  her  lips  apart  and 
pale, 

The  maid  had  stood,  gazing  upon  the  veil 

From  which  these  words,  like  south-winds 
through  a  fence 

Of  Kerzrah  flowers,  came  rill'd  with  pesti- 
lence :' 

So  boldly  utter'd  too  !  as  if  all  d,read 

Of  frowns  from  her,  of  virtuous  frowns, 
were  fled, 

And  the  wretch  felt  assured  that,  once 
plunged  in, 

Her  woman's  soul  would  know  no  pause  in 
sin ! 

At  first,  though  mute  she  listen'd,  like  * 

dream 
Seem'd   all   he   said  ;    nor  could  her  mind, 

whose  beam 

As  yet  was  weak,  penetrate  half  his  scheme. 
But  when,  at  length,  he  utter'd,  "Thou  art 

she !" 

All  flash'd  at  once,  and  shrieking  piteously, 
"Oh,  not   for  worlds!"   she   cried — "Great 

God !  to  whom 

I  once  knelt  innocent,  is  this  my  doom  ? 
Are  all  ray  dreams,  my  hopes  of  heavenly 

bliss, 
My  purity,  my  pride,  then  come  to  this, — 


1  "  It  is  commonly  said  in  Ppr»l».  th.it  If  •  rain  broatto  la 
tin-  hot  Bonth  wind,  which  In  .Tune  or  -Talr  p**«e«t  ov*  .  U. 
flower,  (the  Kerzrirh.i  It  will  kill  him." 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


To  live  the  wanton  of  a  fiend  !  to  be 
The  pander  of  his  guilt — oh,  infamy  ! 
And,  sunk  myself  as  low  as  hell  can  steep 
In  its  hot  flood,  drag  others  down  as  deep ! 
Others  ? — ha  !    yes: — that  youth  who   came 

to  day — 

Not  him  I  loved — not  him — oh  !  do  but  say, 
But  swear  to  me  this  moment  'tis  not  he, 
And  I  will  serve,  dark  fiend ! — will  worship, 

even  thee !" 

"  Beware,  young  raving  thing ! — in  time, 

beware, 

Nor  utter  what  I  cannot,  must  nor  bear 
Even  from  thy  lips.     Go — try  thy  lute,  thy 

voice, 

The  boy  must  feel  their  magic — I  rejoice 
To  see  those  fires,  no  matter  whence  they 

rise, 

Once  more  illuming  my  fair  Priestess'  eyes  ; 
And   should    the   youth,  whom  soon   those 

eyes  shall  warm, 

Indeed  resemble  thy  dead  lover's  form, 
So   much   the   happier   wilt   thou   find   thy 

doom, 

As  one  warm  lover,  full  of  life  and  bloom, 
Excels  ten  thousand  cold  ones  in  the  tomb. 
Nay,  nay,  no  frowning,  sweet ! — those  eyes 

were  made 
For  love,  not  anger — I  must  be  obey'd." 

"  Obey'd  ! — 'tis   well — yes,  I    deserve    it 

all— 

On  me,  on  me  Heaven's  vengeance  cannot  fall 
Too  heavily — but  Azim,  brave  and  true 
And  beautiful — must  tie  be  ruin'd  too  ? 
Must  he  too,  glorious  as  he  is,  be  driven 
A  renegade  like  me  from  love  and  heaven  ? 
Like  me  ? — weak  wretch,  I  wrono;  him — not 

o 

like  me  ; 

No — he's  all  truth  and  strength  and  purity ! 
Fill  up    your   maddening    hell-cup    to    the 

brim, 
Its  witchery,  fiend,  will  have  no  charm  for 

him. 
Let  loose  your  glowing  wantons  from  their 

bowers, 
He   loves,   he    loves,   and    can    defy   their 

powers ! 

Wretch  as  I  am,  in  his  heart  still  I  reign 
Puie  as  when  first  we  met,  without  a  stain  ! 


Though    ruin'd — lost — my  memory,   like   » 

charm 
Left  by  the  dead,  still  keeps  his  soul  from 

harm. 

Oh !  never  let  him  know  how  deep  the  brow 
He  kiss'd  at  parting  is  dishonor'd  now — 
Ne'er  tell  him  how  debased,  how  sunk  is  she 
Whom   once   he    loved — once! — still    lovea 

dotingly ! 
Thou    laughst,    tormentor, — what! — thou'lt 

brand  my  name  ? 
Do,    do — in    vain — he'll    not    believe     ray 

shame — 
He   thinks   me  true,  that    naught   beneath 

God's  sky 
Could   tempt   or  change   me,  and   so  once 

thought  I. 
But  this  is  past — though  worse  than  death 

my  lot, 

Than  hell — 'tis  nothing,  while  he  knows  it  not 
Far  off  to  some  benighted  land  I'll  fly, 
Where  sunbeam  ne'er  shall  enter  till  I  die ; 
Where  none  will  ask  the  lost  one  whence  shfr 

came, 

But  I  may  fade  and  fall  without  a  name  ! 
And  thou — curst  man  or  fiend,  whate'er  thou 

art, 
Who  foundst  this  burning  plague-sput  in  my 

heart, 
And   spreadst   it — oh,    so   quick  ! — through 

soul  and  frame 

With  more  than  demon's  art,  till  I  became 
A     loathsome     thing,     all     pestilence,     aD 

flame ! — 
If,  when  I'm  gone " 

"Hold,  fearless  maniac,  holl, 
Nor  tempt  my  rage — by  Heaven  not  half  so 

bold 

The  puny  bird  that  dares  with  teasing  hum 
Within    the    crocodile's   stretch'd   jaws   to 

come!1 
And  so  thou'lt  fly,  forsooth  ? — what ! — give 

up  all 
Thy  chaste  dominion  in  the  Haram  hall, 


i  "The  ancient  story  concerning  the  Trochilus,  or  hum 
ming-bird,  entering  with  impunity  into  the  mouth  of  the  cro- 
codile, is  firmly  believed  at  Java." 

The  humming-bird  is  said  to  run  this  risk  for  the  purpose  of 
picking  the  crocodile's  teeth.  The  same  rircnmetance  is  r«- 
lated  of  the  lapwing,  as  a  fact  to  which  he  was  witness,  by 
Paul  Lucas,  (Voyage faite  en  1714.) 


- 


"  He   raised    his   veil — the    Maid    turn'd 

slowly  round, 

Look'd   at   him — shriek'd — and    sunk    upoii 
the  ground ! 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOOK!.. 


83 


Where,  now  to  love  and  now  to  Alia  given, 
Half  mistress  and  half  saint,  thou  hangst  as 

even 
As   doth    Medina's   tomb,   'twixt  hell   and 

heaven ! 

Thou'lt  fly  ? — as  easily  may  reptiles  run 
The  gaunt   snake  once  hath  fix'd  his  eyes 

upon ; 

As  easily,  when  caught,  the  prey  may  be 
I'luck'd  from  his  loving  folds,  as  thou  from 

me. 

No,  no,  'tis  fix'd — let  good  or  ill  betide, 
Thou'rt  mine  till  death — till  death  Mokan- 

na's  bride ! 
Hast  thou  forgot  thy  oath  ?"— 

At  this  dread  word, 
The  maid — whose  spirit  his  rude  taunts  had 

stirr'd 
Through  all  its  depths,  and  roused  an- anger 

there 
That  burst  and  lighten'd  even  through  her 

despair — 
Shrunk   back,  as  il   a   blight   were   in   the 

breath 
That  spoke  that  word,  and  stagger'd,  pale  as 

death. 

"  Yes,  my  sworn  Bride,  let  others  seek  in 

bowers 
Their  bridal   place — the   charnel  vault  was 

GUI'S  ! 

Instead  of  scents  and  balms,  for  thee  and  me 
1  lose  the  rich  steams  of  sweet  mortality ; — 
Gay,  flickering  death-lights  shone  while  we 

were  wed, 

And,  for  our  guests,  a  row  of  goodly  dead 
(Immortal  spirits  in  their  time  no  doubt) 
From  rooking  shrouds  upon  the  rite  look'd 

out! 
That  oath  thou  heardst  more  lips  than  thine 

repeat — 
That    cup — thou    shudderest    lady — was   it 

sweet  ? 
That  cup  we  pledged,  the  enamel's  choicest 

wine, 
Hath  bound   thee — ay — body  and   soul   all 

mine ; 
Bound  thee  by  chains  that,  whether  blest  or 

curst 
K«)  matter  now,  not  hell  itself  shall  burst! 


Honce,  woman,  to  the  Haram,  and  look  gay, 
Look   wild,   look — anything    but   sad;    yet 

stay — 
One   moment  more — from  what  this   night 

hath  pass'd, 

I  see  thou  knowst  me,  knowst  me  well  at  last. 
Ha !  ha !  and  so,  fond  thing,  thou  thoughtst 

all  true, 

And  that  I  love  mankind  ! — I  do,  I  do — 
As  victims,  love  them ;  as  the  sea-dog  doats 
Upon  the  small,  sweet  fry  that  round  him 

floats ; 
Or   as  the   Nile-bird   loves   the   slime   that 

gives 
That  rank  and  venomous  food  on  which  she 

lives  ! — 

"And   now  thou   seest  my  sou?*  angelic 

hue, 
'Tis  time   these  features  were   uncurtain'd 

too; — 
This   brow,  whose   light — oh,  rare  celestial 

light ! 
Hath   been   reserved   to   bless    thy   favorM 

sight ; 
These  dazzling  eyes,  before  whose  shrouded 

might 
Thou'st  seen  immortal  man  kneel  down  and 

quake — 
Would  that  they  were  Heaven's  lightnings 

for  his  sake ! 
But   turn    and  look — then  wonder,  if  thou 

wilt, 
That  I  should  hate,  should  take  revenge,  by 

guilt, 
Upon   the   hand    whose   mischief  or  whose 

mirth 
Sent  me  thus  maim'd  and  monstrous  upon 

earth ; 
And   on    that  race  who,  though  more  vile 

they  be 

Than  mowing  apes,  are  demigods  to  me ! 
I  lore — judge   if  hell,  with  all  its  power  to 

damn, 
Can   add  one  curse  to    the    foul    thing    1 

am  !"— 

"  He   raised    his   veil — the    Maid    tnrn'J 

slowly  round, 

Look'd   at   him — shriek'd — and   sunk   upon 
the  ground  I 


84 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOOKE. 


On  their  arrival,  next  night,  at  the  place 
of  encampment,  they  were  surprised  and  de- 
lighted to  find  the  proves  all  round  illumi- 

O  O 

nated;  some  artists  of  Yamtcheou  having 
been  sent  on  previously  for  the  purpose.1 
eacli  side  of  the  green  alley,  which  led 
to  the  Royal  Pavilion,  artificial  sceneries  of 
bamboo-work  were  erected,  representing 
arches,  minarets,  and  towers,  from  which 
hung  thousands  oi  silken  lanterns,  painted 
by  the  most  delicate  pencils  of  Canton. 
Nothing  could  be  more  beautiful  than  the 
leaves  of  the  mango-trees  and  acacias,  shin- 
ing in  the  light  of  the  bamboo  scenery, 
which  shed  a  lustre  round  as  soft  as  that  of 
the  nights  of  Peristun. 

Lalla  Rookh,  however,  who  was  too  much 
occupied  by  the  sad  story  of  Zelica  and  her 
lover,  to  give  a  thought  to  anything  else, 
except,  perhaps,  to  him  who  related  it, 
hurried  on  through  this  scene  of  splendor  to 
her  pavilion, — greatly  to  the  mortification 
of  the  poor  artists  of  Yamtcheou, — and  was 
followed  with  equal  rapidity  by  the  Great 
Chamberlain,  cursing,  as  he  went,  that 
ancient  Mandarin,  whose  parental  anxiety 
in  lighting  up  the  shores  of  the  lake,  where 
his  beloved  daughter  had  wandered  and 
been  lost,  was  the  origin  of  these  fantastic 
Chinese  illuminations.2 

Without  a  moment's  delay  young 
Feramorz  was  introduced,  and  Fadladeen, 
who  could  never  make  up  his  mind  as  to  the 
merits  of  a  poet,  till  he  knew  the  religious 
sect  to  which  he  belonged,  was  about  to  ask 
him  whether  he  was  a  Shia  or  a  Sooni,  when 
Lalla  Rookh  impatiently  clapped  her  hands 
for  silence,  and  the  youth,  being  seated  upon 
the  musnud  near  her,  proceeded : — 

Prepare  tny  soul,  joung  Azim. ! — thou  hast 
braved 


1  "  The  Feasi  of  Lanterns  is  celebrated  at  Yamtchetm  wiih 
more  magnificence  than  anywhere  else." — Present  State  qf 
China,  p.  150. 

2  "  The  vulgar  ascribe  it  to  an  accident  that  happened  in 
the  family  of  a  fiimous  mandarin,  whose  daughter  walking 
one  evening  upon   the    shore   of  a    lake,   fell   in  and  was 
drowned ;    the  afllicted  father,  with  his  family,  ran  thither, 
»nd,  tha  better  to  tindber,  caused  a  great  company  of  lanterns 
to  be  lighted.    All  the  inhabitants  of  the  pl-.tee  thronged  after 
him  with  torches.    The  year  ensuing  they  made  fires  upon 
the  shores  the  same  clay  ;   they  continued  the  ceremony  every 
>--ar.  every  one  lighted   his  lantern,  and  by  degrees  it  com- 
nenoed  into  a  custom." — Present  State  qf  China. 


The  bands  of  Greece,  still  mighty  though 

enslaved ; 
Hast  faced  her  phalanx,  arm'd  with  all  its 

•  fame, 

Her  Macedonian  pikes  and  globes  of  flame ; 
All   this   hast  fronted  with  firm  heart  and 

brow, 

But  a  more  perilous  trial  waits  thee  now, — 
Woman's  bright   eyes,  a  dazzling   host  of 

eyes 
From  every  land   where  woman   smiles   or 

sighs ; 

Of  every  hue,  as  Love  may  chance  to  raise 
His  black  or  azure  v*nner  in  their  blaze  ; 
And  each  sweet  mode  of  warfare,  from  the 

flash 
That  lightens  boldly  through  the  shadowy 

lash, 

To  the  sly,  stealing  splendors,  almost  hid, 
Like    swords     half-sheathed,    beneath     the 

downcast  lid. 

Such,  Azim,  is  the  lovely,  luminous  host 
Now  led  against  thee;    and  let  conquerors 

boast 

Their  fields  of  fame,  he  who  in  virtue  arms 
A    young,    warm    spirit    against    beauty's 

charms, 
Who   feels   her  brightness,   yet   defies   her 

thrall, 
Is  the  best,  bravest  conqueror  of  them  all. 

Now,  through  the  Haram  chambers  mov- 
ing lights 
And    busy    shapes    proclaim    the    toilet's 

rites ; — 
From  room  to  room  the  ready  handmaids 

hie, 

Some  skill'd  to  wreathe  the  turban  tastefully, 
Or  hang  the  veil,  in  negligence  of  shade, 
O'er  the  warm  blushes  of  the  youthful  maid, 
Who,  if  between  the  folds  but  one  eye  shone 
Like   Seba's   Queen,    c^ald   vanquish  witt 

that  one  :' — 

While  some  bring  leaves  of  henna,  to  imbue 
The  fingers'  ends  with  a  bright  roseate  hue,4 
So  bright,  that  in  the  mirror's  depth  they 

seem 
Like  tips  of  coral  branches  in  the  stream  ; 


•  "Thou  hast  ravished  my  heart  with  one  of  thine  eyes."— 
Sol.  Song. 

4  "  They  tinged  the  ends  of  her  finger*  scarlet  with  hennt, 
so  that  they  resembled  branches  of  coral." 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


And  others  mix  the  kohol's  jetty  dye,1 

To  give-  that  long  dark  languish  to  the  eye,* 

Which  makes   the   maicls,  whom  kings  are 

proud  to  cull 
From  fair  Circassia's  vales,  so  beautiful ! 

All  is  in  motion  ;    rings  and  plumes  and 

pearls 
Are   shining    everywhere: — some    younger 

girls 

Are  gone  by  moonlight  to  the  garden  beds, 
To    gather    fresh,  cool    chaplets  for   their 

heads ; 
Gay  creatures  !  sweet,  though  mournful,  'tis 

to  see 

How  each  prefers  a  garland  from  that  tree 
Which    brings    to    mind    her    childhood's 

innocent  day, 

And  the  dear  fields  and  friendships  far  away. 
The  maid  of  India,  blest  again  to  hold 
In  her  full  lap  the  champac's  leaves  of  gold,1 
Thinks  of  the   time  when   by  the  Ganges' 

flood, 

Her  little  playmates  scatter'd  many  a  bud 
Upon  her  long  black  hair,  with  glossy  gleam 
Just  dripping  from  the  consecrated  stream ; 
While  the  young  Arab,  haunted  by  the  smell 
Of  her  own  mountain  flowers,  as  by  a  spell — 
The  sweet  elcaya,4  and  that  courteous  tree 
Which  bows  to  all  who  seek  its  canopy* — 
Sees,  call'd   up   round  her  by  these   magic 

scents, 

The  well,  the  camels,  and  her  father's  tents  -f 
Sighs  for  the  home  she  left  with  little  pain, 
And  wishes  even  its  sorrows  back  again  ! 


1  "None  of  these  ladies,"  Kays  Shaw,  "  taku  themselves  to 
be  completely  dressed,  till  they  have  tinged  the  hair  and 
edges  of  their  eyelids  with  the  powder  of  lead-ore.  Now, 
as  this  operation  is  performed  by  dipping  first  into  the 
powder  a  small  wooden  bodkin  of  the  thickuess  of  a  quill, 
and  then  drawing  it  afterward  through  the  eyelids  over  the 
ball  of  tlie  eye,  we  shall  have  a  lively  image  of  what  the 
Prophet  (Jer.  iv.  80)  may  be  supposed  to  mean  by  renting 
the  eya  with,  painting.  This  practice  is  no  doubt  of  great 
antiquity;  for  besides  the  instance  already  taken  notice  of, 
we  find  that  where  Jezebel  is  said  (2  Kings  ix.  80)  to  have 
painted  her /ace,  the  original  words  are.  the  adjusted  her  eytt 
wi'h  the  powder  of  lead-ore."— Shaw't  Travelt. 

J  "The  women  blacken  the  Inside  of  their  eyelids  with  a 
powder  named  the  black  kohol." 

1  "  The  appearance  of  the  blossoms  of  the  gold-colored  cam- 
pac  in  the  black  hair  of  the  Indian  women  has  supplied  the 
Sanscrit  poets  with  many  elegant  allusions." 

«  "  A  tree  famous  fur  its  perfume,  and  common  on  the  bills 
ofTemen." 

•  "  Of  the  genus  mimosa,  which  droops  its  branches  when- 
•Tt-r  any  person  approaches  it,  seeming  as  if  it  saJated  tho*e 
who  retire  under  its  shade." 


Meanwhile,  through  vast  illuminated  halls, 
Silent  and  bright,  where  nothing  but  the  falls 
Of  fragrant  waters,  gushing  with  cool  sound 
From  many  ajasper  fount,  is  heard  around, 
Young   Azim    roams   bewilder'd, — nor  can 

guess 

What  means  this  maze  of  light  and  loneli- 
ness. 

Here  the  way  leads  o'er  tessellated  floors 
Or  mats  of  Cairo,  through  lono-  corridors, 

*  o  o 

Where,  ranged  in  cassolets  and  silver  urns, 
Sweet  wood  of  aloe  or  of  sandal  burns ; 
And  spicy  rods,  such  as  illume  at  night 
The  bowers  of  Tibet,*  send  forth  odorous  light, 
Like   Peris'  wands,  when  pointing  out  the 

road 

For  some  pure  spirit  to  its  blest  abode ! — 
And  here,  at  once,  the  glittering  saloon 
Bursts  on  his  sight,  boundless  and  bright  as 

noon ; 

Where,  in  the  midst,  reflecting  back  the  ray» 
In  broken  rainbows,  a  fresh  fountain  play> 
High  as  the  enamell'd  cupola,  which  towers 
All  rich  with  Arabesques  of  gold  and  flo  ver*  • 
And  the  mosaic  floor  beneath  shines  through 
The  sprinkling  of  that  fountain's  silvery  dew, 
Like  the  wet,  glistening  shells  of  every  dye 
That  on  the  margin  of  the  Red  Sea  lie. 

Here  too  he  traces  the  kind  visitings 
Of  woman's  love,  in  those  fair,  living  things 
Of  land  and  wave,  whose  fate — in  bondage 

thrown 

For  their  weak  loveliness — is  like  her  own  ! 
On  one  side  gleaming  with  a  sudden  graoe 
Through  water,  brilliant  as  the  crystal  vase 
In  which  it  undulates,  small  fishes  shine, 
Like  golden  ingots  from  a  fairy  mine, — 
While  on  the  other,  latticed  lightly  in 
With  odoriferous  woods  of  Comorin,' 
Each   brilliant   bird   that  wings  the  air   11 

seen ; — 
Gay,    sparkling     loories,     such     as     gleam 

between 

The  crimson  blossoms  of  the  coral  tree 
In  the  warm  isles  of  India's  sunny  sea; 


•  "  Cloves  are  a  principal  ingredient  in  the  competition  of 
the  perfumed  rods  which  men  of  rank  keep  constantly  burn'&i 
In  their  presence." 

1  "  C'est  d'ou  rient  le  bols  d'aloe*.  qne  le»  Arabef  appellenl 
Oud  Comari,  et  celul  da    sandal,  qui  s'y  trupve  en 
qnanlitl. 


86 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


Mecca's  blue  sacred  pigeon,1  and  the  thrush 
Of  Hindostan,"  whose  holy  warblings  gush 
At  evening  from  the  tall  pagoda's  top  ; — 
Those  golden  birds  that,  in  the  spice-time, 

drop 
About  the  gardens,  drunk  with  that  sweet 

food' 

Whose  scent  hath  lured  them  o'er  the  sum- 
mer flood,* 

And  those  that  under  Araby's  soft  sun 
Build    their    high    nests    of   budding   cin- 
namon ; — 

In  short,  all  rare  and  beauteous  things  that  fly 
Through  the  pure  element  here  calmly  lie 
Sleeping  in  light,  like  the  green  birds*  that 

dwell 
In  Eden's  radiant  fields  of  asphodel ! 

So  on,  through  scenes  past  all  imagining — 
More  like  the  luxuries  of  that  impious  king,* 
Whom  Death's  dark  Angel,  with  his  light- 
ning torch, 
Struck  down  and  blasted  even  in  Pleasure's 

porch, 

Than  the  pure  dwelling  of  a  Prophet  sent 
Arm'd  with  Heaven's   sword  for  man's  en- 
franchisement— 
Young    Azim    wander'd,    looking     sternly 

round, 
His   simple   garb   and   war-boots'   clanking 

sound 

But  ill  according  with  the  pomp  and  grace 
And  silent  lull  of  that  voluptuous  place ! 

"Is   this   then,"  thought  the  youth,   "is 

this  the  way 

To  free  man's  spirit  from  the  deadening  sway 
Of  worldly  sloth ; — to  teach  him,  while  he 
lives. 


>  "In  Mecca  theie  are  quantities  of  blue  pigeons,  which 
none  will  affright  or  abuse,  much  less  kill." 

•  "The  pagoda  thrush  is  esteemed  among  the  first  choristers 
of  India.    It  sits  perched  on  the  sacred  pagodas,  and  from 
thence  delivers  its  melodious  song." 

s  Tavcrnier  adds,  that  while  the  Birds  of  Paradise  lie  in 
this  intoxicated  state,  the  emmets  come  and  eat  off  their 
legs  :  and  that  hence  it  is  they  are  said  to  have  no  feet. 

4  Birds  of  Paradise,  which  at  the  nutmeg  season,  come  in 
flights  from  the  southern  isles  to  India,  and  "  the  strength 
of  the  nutmeg  so  intoxicates  them  that  tney  fall  dead  drunk 
to  the  earth." 

•  "  The  spirits  of  the  martyrs  will  be  lodged  in  the  crops 
uf  green  birds." — Gibbon,  vol.  ix.,  p.  421. 

•  Shedad.  who  made  the   delicious   gardens  of  Irim,  in 
imitation  of  Paradise,  and  was  destroyed  by  lightning  the  first 
AUIP  he  attempted  to  enter  them. 


To  know  no  bliss  but  that  which  virtue  gives 
And  when  he  dies,  to  leave  his  lofty  name 
A  light,  a  landmark  on  the  cliffs  of  fame  ? 
It  was  not  so,  land  of  the  generous  thought 
And  daring  deed  !  thy  godlike  sages  taught 
It  was  not  thus,  in  bowers  of  wanton  ease, 
Thy  freedom  nursed  her  sacred  energies  ; 
Oh !  not  beneath  the  enfeebling,  withering 

glow 

Of  such  dull  luxury  did  those  myrtles  grow 
With  which  she  wreathed  her  sword,  when 

she  would  dare 

Immortal  deeds ;  but  in  the  bracing  air 
Of  toil, — of  temperance, — of  that  high,  rare, 
Ethereal  virtue,  which  alone  can  breathe 
Life,    health,    and    lustre    into    Freedom's 

wreath ! 
Who,  that  surveys   this  span   of  earth  we 

press, 

This  speck  of  life  in  time's  great  wilderness, 
This  narrow  isthmus   'twixt  two  boundless 

seas, 

The  past,  the  future,  two  eternities, 
Would  sully  the  bright  spot  or  leave  it  bare, 
When  he  might  build  him  a  proud  temple 

there, 

A  name  that  long  shall  hallow  all  its  space, 
And  be  each  purer  soul's  high  resting-place  ! 
But  no — it  cannot  be  that  one  whom  God 
Has  sent  to  break  the  wizard   Falsehood's 

rod, — 

A  Prophet  of  the  Truth,  whose  mission  draws 
Its  rights  from  Heaven,  should  thus  profane 

his  cause 
With  the  world's  vulgar  pomp ; — no,  no — I 

see — 

He  thinks  me  weak — this  glare  of  luxury 
Is  but  to  tempt,  to  try  the  eaglet  gaze 
Of  my  young  soul : — shine  on,  'twill  stand 

the  blaze !" 

So  thought  the  youth ; — but   even  while 

he  defied 
This   witching   scene,  he   felt  its   witchery 

glide 

Through  every  sense.     The  perfume,  breath- 
ing round 

Like  a  pervading  spirit ; — the  still  sound 
Of  falling  waters,  lulling  as  the  song 
Of  Indian  bees  at  sunset,  when  they  throng 
Around  the  fragrant  nilica,  and  deer* 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


87 


In  its  blue  blossoms  hum  themselves  to  sleep !' 
And  music  too — dear  music  !  that  can  touch 
Beyond  all  else  the  soul  that  loves  it  much  - 
Now  heard  far  off,  so  far  as  but  to  seem 
Like  the  faint,  exquisite  music  of  a  dream  ; — 
All  was  too  much  for  him,  too  full  of  bliss, 
The  heart  could  nothing  feel  that   felt  not 

this ; 

Soften'd  he  sunk  upon  a  couch,  and  gave 
His  soul  up  to  sweet  thoughts,  like  wave  on 

wave 
Succeeding  in  smooth  seas,  when  storms  are 

laid  ;— 

He  thought  of  Zeliea,  his  own  dear  maid, 
And  of  the  time  when,  full  of  blissful  sighs, 
They  sat  and  look'd  into  each  other's  eyes, 
Silent  and  happy — as  if  God  had  given 
Naught  else  worth  looking  at  on  this  side 

heaven ! 

"  Oh,  my  loved  mistress  !   whose  enchant- 
ments still 
Are  with   me,  round    me,  wander  where  I 

will- 
It  is  for  thee,  for  thee  alone  I  seek 
The  paths  of  glory — to  light  up  thy  cheek 
With  warm  approval — in  that  gentle  look 
To  read  my  praise  as  in  an  angel's  book, 
And  think  all  toils  rewarded,  when  from  thee 
I  gain  a  smile,  worth  immortality ! 
How  shall  I  bear  the  moment  when  restored 
To  that  young  heart  where  I  alone  am  lord, 
Though  of  such  bliss  unworthy, — since  the 

best 

Alone  deserve  to  be  the  happiest ! — 
When  from  those  lips,  unbreathed  upon  for 

years, 

I  shall  again  kiss  off  the  soul-felt  tears, 
And  find  those  tears  warm  as  when  last  they 

started, 

Those  sacred  kisses  pure  as  when  we  parted  ! 
Oh,  my  own  life  ! — why  should  a  single  day 
A  moment  keep  me  from  those  anus  away  ?" 

While  thus  he  thinks,  still  nearer  on  tin- 

breeze 

Come  those  delicious,  dream-like  harmonies, 
Each  note  of  which  but  adds  new,  downy  links  j 

1   "My  pumlit<  a«*ure  me  thai  lh«-  plum   tiefore  u*  (the  nili- 
c*    i»  their  eeptmlica.  »luii«  named  Iterance  the  brep  are  cup    | 
9*K-'  to  ileep  on  iu  blowoms."  —  Sir  W.  Jontt. 


To  the  soft  chain  in  which  his  spirit  sink>. 
He   turns  him  toward  the   sound,  and,  fat 

away 

Through  a  long  vista,  sparkling  with  the  play 
Of  countless  lamps, — like  the  rich  track 

which  day 

Leaves  on  the  waters,  when  he  sinks  from  us  ; 
So  long  the  path,  its  light  so  tremulous: 
He  sees  a  group  of  female  forms  advance, 
Some  chain'd  together  in  the  mazy  dance 
By  fetters,  forged  in  the  green  sunny  bowers, 
As   they    were  captives    to    the    King    of 

Flowers  ;* — 
And  some    disporting    round,  unlink'd  and 

free, 

Who  sccm'd  to  mock  their  sisters'  slavery, 
And  round  and  round  them  still,  in  wheeling 

flight 

Went,  like  gay  moths  about  a  lamp  at  night  ; 
While  others  walk'd,  as  gracefully  along 
Their  feet  kept  time,  the  very  soul  of  song 
From  psaltery,  pipe,  and  lutes  of  heavenly 

thrill, 

Or  their  own  youthful  voices,  heavenlier  still ! 
And  now  they  come,  now  pass  before  his  eye, 
Forms  such  as  Nature  moulds  when  she 

would  vie 

With  Fancy's  pencil,  and  give  birth  to  things 
Lovely  beyond  its  fairest  picturings ! 
A  while  they  dance  before  him,  then  divide, 
Breaking,  like  rosy  clouds  at  eventide 
Around  the  rich  pavilion  of  the  sun, — 
Till  silently  dispersing,  one  by  one, 
Through  many  a  path  that  from  the  chamber 

leads 

To  gardens,  terraces,  and  moonlight  meads, 
Their  distant  laughter  comes  upon  the  wind. 
And  but  one  trembling  nymph  remain* 

behind, — 
Beck'ning  them  back  in  vain,  for  they  are 

gone, 

And  she  is  left  in  all  that  light  alone; 
No  veil  to  curtain  o'er  her  beauteous  brow, 
In  itsyouni;  bashi'ulness  more  beauteous  now; 
15  ut  a  light,  golden  chain-work  round  her  hair,' 


'  "They  (Iffrrrcil  it  till  the  King  of  Flower-  -hould  aaoond 
hi*  iliruue  of  enamelled  foliage."— BaharUoimth. 

*  "On«  of  the  head-drew*  of  the  Persian  women  It  com- 
poped  of  a  lijjht  gulden  chain-work.*?!  with  f  mall  pearl*.  wiU 
a  thin  K"1<1  I''-'"1'  pendant,  about  the  bi:;net«  "fa  crowc  : 
on  which  Is  Impressed  an  Arabian  prayer,  and  whlcb 
•jpon  the  rheek  ttel.nv  '.!.c  >i      '     /Ai'itrav  I  7' 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


Such  as  the  maids  of  Yezd1  and  Shirazwear, 
From  which,  on  either  side,  gracefully  hung 
A  golden  ajnulet,  in  the  Arab  tongue, 
Engraven  o'er  with  some  immortal  line 
From  holy  writ,  or  bard  scarce  less  divine ; 
While  her  left  hand,  as  shrinkingly  she  stood, 
Held  a  small  lute  of  gold  and  sandal-wood, 
Which,   once    or  twice,   she   touch'd    with 

hurried  strain, 

Then  took  her  trembling  fingers  off  again. 
But  when  at  length  a  timid  glance  she  stole 
At  Azim,  the  sweet  gravity  of  soul 
She  saw  through  all  his  features  calm'd  her 

fear, 

And,  like  a  half-tamed  antelope,  more  near, 
Though  shrinking  still,  she  came ; — then  sat 

her  down 

Upon  a  musnudV  edge,  and,  bolder  grown, 
In  the  pathetic  mode  of  Isfahan,3 
Touch'd  a  preluding  strain,  and  thus  began : — 

"  There's  a  bower  of  roses  by  BendemeerV 

stream, 
And  the  nightingale  sings  round  it  all  the 

day  long, 
la  the  time  of  my  childhood  'twas  like  a 

sweet  dream, 

To  sit  in  the  roses  and  hear  the  birds'  song. 
That  bower  and  its  music  I  never  forget, 
But  oft  when  alone,  in  the  bloom  of  the 

year, 

I  think — Is  the  nightingale  singing  there  yet  ? 
Are  the  roses   still  bright  by  the   calm 
Bendemeer  ? 

"  No,  the  roses  soon  wither' d  that  hung  o'er 

the  wave, 
But  some  blossoms  were  gather'd,  while 

freshly  they  shone, 
And   a  dew  was  distill'd  from  the  flowers 

that  gave 

All  the  fragrance  of  summer  when  summer 
was 


1  "  Certainly  the  women  of  Yezd  are  the  handsomest  women 
in.  Persia.  The  proverb  is,  that  to  live  happy,  a  man  must 
&»7e  a  wife  of  Yezd,  eat  the  bread  of  Ycx.decas,  and  drink  the 
wli.e  of  Shiraz." — Tavernier. 

*  Mu^muls  are  cushioned  scats  reserved  for  persons  of  dis- 
tinction. 

51  The  Persians,  '.ike  the  ancient  Greeks,  call  their  musical 
shades  or  Perdas  by  the  names  of  different  countries  or  cities, 
w  the  mode  of  Isfahan,  the  mode  of  Irak,  etc. 

•  A  river  which  flowc  near  the  ruins  of  Chilniinar. 


Thus  memorv  draws  from  delight,  ere  it  dies, 

•f 

An  essence  that  breathes  of  it  many  a  year ; 
Thus  bright  to  my  soul,  as  'twas  then  to  my 

eyes, 

Is  that  bower  on  the  banks  of  the  calm- 
Bendemeer  ?" 

"  Poor  maiden  !"  thought  the  youth,  "  if 

thou  wert  sent, 

Wi-th  thy  soft  lute  and  beauty's  blandish- 
ment, 

To  wake  unholy  wishes  in  this  heart, 
Or  tempt  its  truth,  thou  little  knowst  the  art. 
For  though  thy  lip  should  sweetly  counsel 

wrong, 

Those  vestal  eyes  would  disavow  its  song. 
But  thou  hast  breathed  such  purity,  thy  lay 
Returns  so  fondly  to  youth's  virtuous  day, 
And   leads    thy   soul— if   e'er   it   wander'd 

thence — 

So  gently  back  to  its  first  innocence, 
That  I  would  sooner  stop  the  unchain'd  dove,. 
When  swift  returning  to  its  home  of  love, 
And  round  its  snowy  wing  new  fetters  twina, 
Than  turn  from  virtue  one  pure  wish  of  thine  !" 

Scarce    had    this    feeling    pass'd,    when, 

sparkling  thi-ough 

The  gently-open'd  curtains  of  light  blue 
That  veil'd  the  breezy  casement,  countless 

eyes, 
Peeping  like  stars  through  the  blue  eveirng 

skies, 

Look'd  laughing  in,  as  if  to  mock  the  pair 
That  sat  so  still  and  melancholy  there — 
And  now  the  curtains  fly  apart,  and  in 
From  the  cool  air, 'mid  showers  of  jessamine 
Which  those  without  fling  after  them  in  play, 
Two  lightsome  maidens  spring,  lightsome  a8 

they 

Who  live  in  the  air  on  odors,  and  around 
The  bright  saloon,  scarce  conscious  of  the 

ground, 

Chase  one  another,  in  a  varying  dance 
Of  mirth  and  languor,  coyness  and  advance, 
Too  eloquently  like  love's  warm  pursuit : — 
While  she,  who  sung  so  gently  to  the  lute 
Her  dream  of  home,  steals  timidly  away, 
Shrinking  as  violets  do  in  summer's  ray, — 
But  takes  with  her  from  Azim's  ..eart  ihfci 

sigh 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOOKK. 


We  sometimes  give  to  forms  that  pass  us  by 
In  the  world's  crowd,  too  lovely  to  remain, 
Creatures  of  light  we  never  see  again  ! 

Around  the  white  necks  of  the  nymphs 

who  danced 

Hung  carcanets  of  orient  gems,  that  glanced 
More  brilliant  than  the  sea-glass  glittering 

o'er 

The  hills  of  crystal  on  the  Caspian  shore;1 
While  from  their  long  dark  tresses,  in  a  fall 
Of  curls  descending,  bells  as  musical 
As  those  that  on  the  golden-shafted  trees 
Of  Eden  shake  in  the  Eternal  Breeze,1 
Rung   round    their   steps,    at   every    bound 

more  sweet, 

As  'twere  the  ecstatic  language  of  their  feet ! 
At  length  the  chase  was  o'er,  and  they  stood 

wreathed 
Within  each  other's  arms ;    while  soft  there 

breathed 
Through   the  cool  casement,  mingled  with 

the  sighs 
Of  moonlight  flowers,  music  that  seem'd  to 

rise 

From  some  still  lake,  so  liquidly  it  rose ; 
And,  as  it  swell'd  again  at  each  faint  close, 
The  ear  could  track  through  all  that  maze 

o 

of  chords 

And  young  sweet  voices,  these  impassion'd 
words : — 

"A  Spirit  there  is,  whose  fragrant  sigh 
Is  burning  now  through  earth  and  air; 

Where  cheeks  are  blushing,  the  Spirit  is  nigh, 
"Where  lips  are  meeting,  the  Spirit  is  there  ! 

a  Hie  breath  is  the  soul  of  flowers  like  these  ; 

And  his  floating  eyes — oh  !  they  resemble 
Blue  water-lilies,*  when  the  breeze 

Is  making  the  stream  around  them  tremble ! 

"  Hail  to  thee,  hail  to  thee,  kindling  power  ! 
Spirit  of  Love,  Spirit  of  Bliss  ! 


"To  the  north  wan  a  mountain  which  cpiirkled  like  <lia- 
s,  arjMn:.'  from  the  cra-glantf  and  crystal.*  with  which  it 
abonndi"." — Journey  of  the  Ruffian  AmbtufaUor  to  ]'?r*ia,  17  Hi. 
»  "To  which  will  he  added,  the  round  of  the  hells  hanging 
oil  the  trci«,  which  will  be  put  in  motion  by  the  wind  pro- 
ceeding from  the  throne  of  God,  as  often  as  the  hlct>»ed  wish 
tot  music."—  Safe. 

'  The  blue  lotos,  which  grows  in  Cashmere  and  in  Persia. 
Whose  wanton  eyes  resemble  blue  water-llbcf  agitated  by 
c."-  JayaJtva. 


Thy  holiest  time  is  the  moonlight  Lour, 
And  there  never  was  moonlight  no  *we«t 

as  this." 

"  By  the  fair  and  brave, 

Who  blushing  unite, 
Like  the  sun  and  wave 

When  they  meet  at  night  ! 

"  By  the  tear  that  shows 

When  passion  is  nigh, 
As  the  rain-drop  flows 

From  the  heat  of  the  *k  y  ! 

"  By  the  first  love-beat 

Of  the  youthful  heart, 
By  the  bliss  to  meet, 

And  the  pain  to  part  ! 

"  By  all  that  thou  hast 

To  mortals  given, 
Which  —  oh  !  could  it  last, 

This  earth  were  heaven  ! 

"We  call  thee  hither,  entrancing  Power! 

Spirit  of  Love  !  Spirit  of  Bliss  ! 
Thy  holiest  time  is  the  moonlight  hour, 

And  there  never  was  moonlight  so  sweet 
as  this." 

Impatient  of  a  scene,  whose  luxuries  stolo, 
Spke  of  himself,  too  deep  into  his  soul, 
And  where,  midst  all  that  the  young  heart 

loves  most, 

Flowers,  music,  smiles,  to  yield  was  to  be  lost, 
The  youth  had  started  up,  and  turn'd  away 
From  the  light  nymphs  and  their  luxurious 

lay, 
To    muse    upon    the    pictures     that    hung 

round,4  — 

Bright  images,  that  spoke  without  a  sound, 
And  views,  like  vistas  into  fairy  ground 
But   here   again   new  spells  came  o'er  hit 


All  that  the  pencil's  mute  omnipotence 
Could  call  up  into  life,  of  soft  and  fair, 


4  It  has  been  j.'rnrraliy  «np|HM>cd  th»l  the  Mohammedan* 
prohibit  all  picture*  of  animal*;  bat  Todenni  -how*  thai. 
though  the  practice  Is  forbidden  by  the  Koran,  they  are  not 
more  averse  to  painted  figures  and  Images  than  other  people. 
Prom  Mr.  Murphy's  work.  too.  we  find  that  the  Aral*  of  Sp*i> 
had  no  objection  to  the  Introduction  of  fltfuror  iiitc  painting 


90 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


Of  fond  and  passionate,  was  glowing  there; 
Nor  yet  too  warm,  but   touch'd  with  that 

fine  art 

Which  paints  of  pleasure  but  the  purer  part ; 
Which  knows  even  Beauty  when  half-veil'd 

is  best, 

Like  her  own  radiant  planet  of  the  west, 
Whose  orb  when  half-retired  looks  loveliest  J1 
There  hung  the  history  of  the  Genii-King,* 
Traced  through  each  gay,  voluptuous  wan- 
dering 
With   her   from  Saba's   bowers,'  in   whose 

bright  eyes 

He  read  that  to  be  blest  is  to  be  wise ; — 
Here  fond  Zuleika*  woos  with  open  arms 
The  Hebrew  boy,  who  flies  from  her  young 

charms, 

Yet,  flying,  turns  to  gaze,  and,  half  undone. 
Wishes  that  heaven  and  she  could  both  be 

won  ! 

And  here  Mohammed,  born  for  love  and  guile, 
Forgets  the  Koran  in  his  Mary's  smile  ; 
Then  beckons  some  kind  ano-el  from  above 

O 

With  a  new  text  to  consecrate  their  love  ! 

With  rapid  step,  yet  pleased  and  lingering 

eye, 

Did  the  youth  pass  these  pictured  stories  by, 
And  hasten'd  to  a  casement,  where  the  lisrht 

'  ~ 

Of  the  calm  moon  came  in,  and  freshly  bright 
The  fields  without  were  seen,  sleeping  as  still 
As  if  no  life  remain'd  in  breeze  or  rill. 
Here  paused  he,  while  the  music,  now  less 

near, 

Breathed  with  a  holier  language  on  his  ear, 
As  though  the  distance,  and  that  heavenly 

ray 
Through  which  the   sounds  came  floating, 

took  away 

All  that  had  been  too  earthly  in  the  lay. 
Oh !  could  he  listen  to  such  sounds  unmoved, 
And  by  that  light — nor  dream   of  her  he 

loved  ? 
Dream  on,  unconscious  boy !  while  yet  thou 

mayst ; 


1  This  is  not  quite  astronomically  true.  "  Dr.  Halley."  says 
&eL,  "has  shown  that  Venus  is  brightest  when  she  is  about 
forty  degrees  removed  from  the  sun  ;  and  that  then  but  only  a 
fourth  part  of  her  lucid  disk  is  to  be  seen  from  the  earth." 

*  King  Solomon,  who  was  supposed  to  preside  over  the- 
•hole  race  of  genii. 

1  The  (^nc-en  of  Sheba  or  Sab/i 

*  The  wile  of  J'otipuar,  thuu  uaai-.-d  by  the  Oriental* 


'Tis  the  last  bliss  thy  soul  shall  ever  taste. 
Clasp  yet  a  while  her  image  to  thy  heart, 
Ere  all  the  light  that  made  it  dear  depart. 
Think  of  her  smiles  as  when  thou  sawst  them 

last, 

Clear,  beautiful,  by  naught  of  earth  o'ercaat ; 
Recall  her  tears  to  thee  at  parting  given. 
Pure  as  they  weep,  if  angels  weep  in  heaven  ! 
Think  in  her  own  still  bower  she  waits  thee 

now, 
With  the  same  glow  of  heart  and  bloom  of 

brow, 

Yet  shrined  in  solitude — thine  all,  thine  only, 
Like  the  one  star  above  thee,  bright  and 

lonely  ! 

Oh,  that  a  dream  so  sweet,  so  long  enjov'd, 
Should  be  so  sadly,  cruelly  destroy'd  ! 

The  song  is  hush'd,  the  laughing  nymph* 

are  flown, 

And  he  is  left,  musing  of  bliss,  alone; — 
Alone  ? — no,  not  alone — that  heavy  sigh, 
That  sob  of  grief,  which  broke  from  some 

one  nigh — 

Whose  could  it  be  ? — alas !  is  misery  found 
Here,  even  here,  on  this  enchanted  ground  ? 
He  turns,  and  sees  a  female  form,  close  veil'd, 
Leaning,  as  if  both  heart  and  strength  had 

fail'd, 

Against  a  pillar  near; — not  glittering  o'er 
With  gems  and  wreaths,  such  as  the  others 

wore, 

But  in  that  deep-blue,  melancholy  dress* 
Bokhara's  maidens  wear  in  mindfulni-ss 
Of  friends  or  kindred,  dead  or  far  away  j — 
And  such  as  Zelica  had  on  that  day 
He  left   her, — when,  with   heart  too   full   to 

speak, 
He  took  away  her  last  warm  tears  upon  hi* 

cheek. 

A  strange  emotion  stirs  within  him, — more 
Than  mere  compassion  ever  waked  before ; — 
Unconsciously  he  opes  his  arms,  while  she 
Springs  forward,  as  with  life's  last  energy, 
But,  swooning  in  that  one  convulsive  bound, 
Sinks    ere    she   reach   his   arms,   upon    the 

ground  ; — 
Her  veil  falls  off — her  faint  hands  clasp  hi« 

knees — 


•  "  Deep  blue  is  their  mourning  color.' 


1'OK.MS  OF  THOMAS  MOOliE. 


91 


Tis  she  herself! — 'tis  Zelica  he  sees! 
But,  ah,  so  pale,  so  changed — none  but  a  lover 
Could  in  that  wreck  of  beauty's  shrine  dis- 
cover 

The  once-adored  divinity!  even  he 
Stood  for  some  moments  mute,  and  doubt- 

ingly 

1  i.t  back  the  ringlets  from  her  brow,  and 

gazed 
Upon   those   lids,  where   once   such   lustre 

blazed, 

Ere  he  could  think  she  was  indeed  his  own, 
Own  darling  maid,  whom  he  so  long  had 

known 

In  joy  and  sorrow,  beautiful  in  botli ; 
Who,  even  when  grief  was  heaviest — when 

loth 

He  left  her  for  the  wars — in  that  worst  hour 
Sat  in  her  sorrow  like  the  sweet  night-flower,1 
When  darkness  brings  its  weeping  glories  out, 
And  spreads  its  sighs  like  frankincense  about ! 

"  Look  up,  my  Zelica — one  moment  show 
Those  gentle  eyes  to  me,  that  I  may  know 
Thy  life,  th}  loveliness  is  not  all  gone, 
But  iJtere,  at  least,  shines  as  it  ever  shonp 
Come,  look  upon  thy  Azim — one  dear  glance, 
Like  those  of  old,  were  heaven  ! — whatever 

chance 
Hath  brought  thee  here,  oh !  'twas  a  blessed 

one  ! 
There — my    sweet    lids — they    move — that 

kiss  hath  run 

Like  the  first  shoot  of  life  through  every  vein. 
And  now  I  clasp  her,  mine,  all  mine  again  ! 
Oh,  the  delight — now,  in  this  very  hour 
When,  had  the  whole  rich  world  been  in  my 

power, 

I  should  have  singled  out  thee,  only  thee, 
From  the  whole  world's  collected  treasury — 
To  have  thee  here — to  hang  thus  fondly  o'er 
My  own  best,  purest  Zulica  once  more !" 

It  was  indeed  the  touch  of  those  loved  lips 
Upon  her  eyes  that  chased  their  short  eclipse, 
And,  gradual  as  the  snow  at  heaven's  breath 
Melts  off,  and  shows  the  azure  flowers  beneath, 
Her  lids  unclosed;  and  the  bright  eyes  were 
seen 

The  Borrowtal  nycUnthe*.  which  begins  to  <-pre»d  Its  rich 
•rtcr  after  sunset 


Gazing  on  his, — not  as  they  late  had  been, 
Quick,  restless,  wild,  but  mournfully  serene ; 
As  if  to  lie,  even  for  that  tranced  minute, 
So  near  his  heart,  had  consolation  in  it; 
And  thus  to  wake  in  his  beloved  caress 
Took  from  her  soul  one  half  its  wretched- 
ness, 
But,  when  she  heard  him  call  her  good  and 

pure. 

Oh,  'twas  too  much — too  dreadful  to  endure ! 
Shuddering   she   broke  away  from  his  em- 
brace, 

And,  hiding  with  both  hands  her  guilty  face, 
Said,  in  a  tone  whose  anguish  would  have 

riven 
A  heart  of  very  marble, "  Pure ! — 0  Heaven !" 

That  tone — those  looks  so  changed — the 
withering  blight 

o  o 

That  sin   and   sorrow  leave  where'er  they 

light— 

The  dead  despondency  of  those  sunk  eyes, 
Where  once,  had  he  thus  met  her  by  sur- 
prise, 

He  would  have  seen  himself,  too  happy  boy4 
Iteflected  in  a  thousand  lights  of  joy ; 
And  then  the  place,  that  bright  unholy  place, 
Where  vice  lay  hid  beneath  such  winning 

grace 

And  charm  of  luxury,  as  the  viper  weaves 
Its  wily  covering  of  sweet  balsam  leaves; 
All  struck  upon  his  heart,  sudden  and  cold 
As  death  itself; — it  needs  not  to  be  told — 
No,  no — he  sees  it  all,  plain  as  the  brand 
Of  burning  shame  can  mark — whate'er  th* 

O 

hand, 
That   could   from    Heaven   and    him   such 

brightness  sever, 

'Tis  done — to  Heaven  and  him  she's  lost  for- 
ever ! 

It  was  a  dreadful  moment;  not  the  tears, 
The  lingering,  lasting  misery  of  years 
Could  match  that  minute's  anguish — all  the 

wont 

Of  sorrow's  elements  in  that  dark  burst 
Broke  o'er  his  soul,  and,  with  one  crash  of 

fate, 
Laid  the  whole  hopes  of  his  life  desolate  ! 

"  Oh  !  curse  me  not,"  she  criel,  a*  wild  he 

tOSs'.l 


92 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


His  desperate  hand  toward  heaven  —  "  though 

I  am  lost, 
Think  not  that  guilt,  that  falsehood  made 

me  fall  ; 
No,  no  —  'twas  grief,  'twas  madness  did  it 

all! 
Nay,  doubt  me  not—  though  all  thy  love  hath 

ceased  — 

I  know  it  hath  —  yet,  yet  believe,  at  least, 
That  every  spark  of  reason's  light  must  be 
Quench'd  in  this  brain,   ere   I   could  stray 

from  thee  ! 
They  told  me  thou  wert  dead  —  why,  Azim, 

why 

Did  we  not,  both  of  us,  that  instant  die 
When  we  were  parted  ?  —  oh  !  couldst  thou 

but  know 

With  what  a  deep  devotedness  of  woe 
I  wept  thy  absence  —  o'er  and  o'er  again 
Thinking   of  thee,   still   thee,    till   thought 

grew  pain, 
And  memory,  like  a  drop  that,   night  and 


Falls    cold    and    ceaseless,  wore    my  heart 

away  ! 

Didst  thou  but  know  how  pale  I  sat  at  home, 
My  eyes  still  turn'd  the  way   thou  wert  to 

come, 
And  all  the  long,  long  night  of  hope  and 

fear, 

Thy  voice  and  step  still  founding  in  my  ear  — 
O  God  !  thou  wouldst  not  wonder  that,  at 

last, 

When  every  hope  was  all  at  once  o'ercasfe, 
When  I  heard  frightful  voices  round  me  say, 
Azim  is  dead!  —  this  wretched  brain  gave 

way, 

And  1  became  a  wreck,  at  random  driven, 
Without  one  glimpse  of  reason  or  of  heaven  — 
All  wild  —  and   even    this    quenchless   love 

within 

Turn'd  to  foul  fires  to  light  me  into  sin  ! 
Thou  pitiest  me  !  —  I  knew  thou  wouldst  — 

that  sky 

Hath  naught  beneath  it  half  so  lorn  as  I. 
The  fiend  who  lured  me  hither  —  hist  !  come 

near, 

Or  thou  too,  thou  art  lost,  if  he  should  hear  — 
Told  me  -juch  things  —  oh  !  with  such  devil- 

ish art, 
As  wonld  have  ruin'd  even  a  holier  heart  — 


Of  thee,  and  of  that  ever-radiant  sphere, 
Where  blest  at  length,  if  I  but  served  him 

here, 

I  should  forever  live  in  thy  dear  sight, 
And  drink  from  those  pure  eyes  eternal  light  1 
Think,  think  how  lost,  how  madden'd  I  must 

be, 

To  hope  that  guilt  could  lead  to  God  or  thee ! 
Thou  weepst  for  me — do,  weep — oh !  that  1 

durst 
Kiss  off  that  tear!   but,  no — these  lips  are 

curst, 

They  must  not  touch  thee ; — one  divine  caress, 
One  blessed  moment  of  forgetfulness 
I've  had  within  those  arms,  and  that  shall  lie, 
Shrined  in  my  soul's  deep  memory  till  I  die  ! 
The  last  of  joy's  last  relics  here  below, 
The  one  sweet  drop  in  all  this  waste  of  woe, 
My   heart   has    treasured    from    affection's 

spring, 

To  soothe  and  cool  its  deadly  withering ! 
But  thou — yes,  thou  must  go — forever  go  ; 
This  place  is  not  for  thee — for  thee !  oh  no, 
Did  I  but  tell  thee  half,  thy  tortured  brain 
Would  burn  like  mine,  and  mine  go  wild 

again ! 
Enough,  that  g?r!'<  le.'g-.*  x.eie — tiiii.  l«arts^ 

once  good, 

Now  tainted,  chill'd,  and  broken,  are  his  food, 
Enough,  that  we  are  parted — that  there  rolls- 
A  flood  of  headlong  fate  between  our  souls, 
Whose  darkness  severs  me  as  wide  from  tbee 
As  hell  from  heaven,  to  all  eternity !" — 

1      "  Zelica !  Zelica !"  the  youth  exclaim'd, 
i  In  all  the  tortures  of  a  mind  inflamed 
Almost  to  madness — "by  that  sacred  heaven,. 
Where  yet,  if  prayers  can  move,  thou'lt  be 

forgiven, 
As   thou   art   here — here,  in   this    writhing 

heart, 

All  sinful,  wild,  and  ruin'd  as  thou  art ! 
By  the  remembrance  of  our  once  pure  love, 
Which,  like  a  church-yard  light,  still  burn* 

above 
The  grave  of  our  lost  souls — which  guilt  in 

thee 

Cannot  extinguish,  nor  despair  in  me  ! 
I  do  conjure,  implore  thee  to  fly  hence — 
If  thou  hast  yet  one  spark  of  innocence, 
Fly  with  rne  from  this  place " 


I'OK.M>  ol    THOMAS  MOORE. 


93 


"With  thee!  O  bliss, 

*Tis  worth  whole  years  of  torment  to  hear  this. 
What !  take  the  lost  one  with  thee? — let  her 

rove 

I5y  thy  deai  side,  as  ..i  tnose  days  of  love, 
When  we  were  both  so  happy,  both  60  pure — 
Too  heavenly  dream !  if  there's  on  earth  a  cure 
1 '  >r  the  sunk  heart,  'tis  this — day  after  day 
To  be  the  blest  companion  of  thy  way; — 
To  hear  thy  angel  eloquence — to  see 
Those  virtuous  eyes  forever  turn'd  on  me ; 
And  in  their  light  rechasten'd  silently, 
Like  the  stain'd  web  that  whitens  in  the  sun, 
Grow  pure  by  being  purely  shone  upon  ! 
And    thou  wilt  pray  for  me — I  know  tliou 

wilt — 
At  the  dim  vesper-hour,  when  thoughts  of 

guilt 
Come   heaviest   o'er   the   heart,  thou'lt   lift 

thine  eyes, 

Full  of  sweet  tears,  unto  the  darkening  skies, 
And  plead  forme  with  Heaven,  till  I  c:in  dare 
To  tix  iny  own  weak,  sinful  glances  there ; — 
Till  the  good  angels,  when  they  see  me  cling 
Forever  near  thee,  pale  and  sorrowing, 
Shall  for  thy  sake  pronounce  my  soul 

forgiven, 
And   bid   thee   take   thy  weeping   slave  to 

heaven  ! 
Oil  yes,  I'll  fly  with  thee " 

Scarce  had  she  said 
These  breathless  words,  when  a  voice  deep 

and  dread 

As  that  of  Monker  waking  up  the  dead 
From  their  first  sleep — so  startling  'twas  to 

both— 
I  Jung   through   the    casement    near,    "Thy 

oath  !  thy  oath  !" 
O   Heaven,  the  ghastliness  of  that   maid's 

look  !— 

"  'Tis  he,"  faintly  she  cried,  while  terror  shook 
Her  inmost  core,  nor  durst  she  lift  her  eyes, 
Though  through  the  casement  now  naught 

but  the  skies 
And    moonlight   fields   were   seen,  calm   as 

before — 

"  'Tis  he,  and  I  am  his — all,  all  is  o'ei — 
Go — fly  this  instant,  or  thou'rt  ruin'd  too — 
My  oath,  my  oath,  O  God  !  'tis  all  too  true, 
True  as  the  worm  in  this  cold  heart  it  is — 


I  am  Mokanna's  bride — his,  Azim,  his — 
Tin-  dead  stood  round  us  while  I  spoke  that 

vow, 

Their  blue  lips  echo'd  it — I  hear  them  now! 
Their  eyes  glared  on  me  while  I  pledged  iba 

bowl, 

'Twas  burning  blood — I  feel  it  in  my  soul ! 
And  the  Veil'd  Bridegroom — hist !  I've  seen 

to-night 

What  angels  know  not  of — so  foul  a  night, 
So  horrible — oh  !  never  mayst  thou  see 
What  there  lies  hid  from  all  but  hell  and  me ! 
But  I  must  hence — off,  off — I  am  not  thine, 
Nor  Heaven's,  nor  Love's,  nor  aught  that  is 

divine — 
Hold  me  not — ha ! — thinkst  thou  the  fiends 

that  sever 
Hearts  cannot  sunder  hands? — thus,  then — 

forever !" 

With   all   that   strength    which   madness 

lends  the  weak, 

She  flung  away  his  arm ;  and,  with  a  shriek, — 
Whose  sound,  though  he  should  linger  out 

more  years 
Than  wretch  e'er  told,  can  never  leave  his 

ears, —    • 

Flew  up  through  that  long  avenue  of  light, 
Fleetly  as  some  dark,  ominous  bird  of  night 
Across  the  sun,  and  soon  was  out  of  sight ! 

Lalla  Kookh  could  think  of  nothing  all  day 
but  the  misery  of  these  two  young  lovers. 
Her  gayety  was  gone,  and  she  looked  pen- 
sively even  upon  Fadladeen.  She  felt  too, 
without  knowing  why,  a  sort  of  uneasy 
pleasure  in  imagining  that  A/im  must  have 
been  just  such  a  youth  as  Feramor/. ;  just  a* 
worthy  to  enjoy  all  the  bleanugt,  without 
any  of  the  pangs,  of  that  illusive  passion, 
which  too  often,  like  the  sunny  apples  of 
Istkahar,1  is  all  sweetness  on  one  side,  And 
all  bitterness  on  the  other. 

As  they  passed  along  a  sequestered  river 
after  sunset,  they  saw  a  young  Hindoo  uirl 
upon  the  bank,  whose  employment  seemed  to 
them  so  strange,  that  they  stopped  their 
palankeens  to  observe  her.  Sin-  had  lighted 
a  small  lamp,  filled  with  oil  of  cocoa,  and 


*  ••  In  the  territory  <fT  Utakhmr  there  i*  i  kind  of  *pplv.  hall 
of  which  it  iwei-l  «ud  half  »our."— Kbn  ll<iu*al 


94 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


placing  it  in  an  earthen  dish,  adorned  with  a 
wreath  of  flowers,  had  committed  it  with  a 
trembling  hand  to  the  stream,  and  was  now 
anxiously  watching  its  progress  down  the 
current,  heedless  of  the  gay  cavalcade  which 
had  drawn  up  beside  her.  Lai  la  Rookh  was 
all  curiosity  ; — when  one  of  her  attendants, 
who  had  lived  upon  the  banks  of  the  Ganges, 
(where  this  ceremony  is  so  frequent,  that 
often,  in  the  dusk  of  the  evening,  the  river 
is  seen  glittering  all  over  with  lights,  like 
the  Oton-tala  or  Sea  of  Stars,)1  informed 
the  Princess  that  it  was  the  usual  way  in 
which  the  friends  of  those  who  had  gone  on 
dangerous  voyages  offered  up  vows  for  their 
safe  return.  If  the  lamp  sunk  immediately, 
the  omen  was  disastrous ;  but  if  it  went  shin- 
ing down  the  stream,  and  continued  to  burn 
till  entirely  out  of  sight,  the  return  of  the 
beloved  object  was  considered  as  certain. 

Lai  la  Rookh,  as  they  moved  on,  more  than 
once  looked  back  to  observe  how  the  young 
Hindoo's  lamp  proceeded ;  and  while  she  saw 
with  pleasure  that  it  was  still  unextinguished, 
she  could  not  help  fearing  that  all  the  hopes 
of  this  life  were  no  better  than  that  feeble 
light  upon  the  river.  The  remainder  of  the 
journey  was  passed  in  silence.  She  now,  for 
the  first  time,  felt  that  shade  of  melancholy 
which  comes  over  the  youthful  maiden's 
heart,  as  sweet  and  transient  as  her  own 
breath  upon  a  mirror ;  nor  was  it  till  she 
heard  the  lute  of  Feramorz  touched  lightly 
at  the  door  of  her  pavilion,  that  she  waked 
from  the  reverie  in  which  she  had  been  wan- 
dering. Instantly  her  eyes  were  lighted  up 
with  pleasure,  and,  after  a  few  unheard  re- 
marks from  Fadladeen  upon  the  indecorum 
of  a  poet  seating  himself  %  presence  of  a 
princess,  everything  was  arranged  as  on  the 
preceding  evening,  and  all  listened  with 
eagerness,  while  the  story  was  thus  con- 
tinued : — 

Whose  are  the  gilded  tents  that  crowd  the 

way, 
Where  all  was  waste  and  silent  yesterday? 


1  "  The  place  where  the  Whangho,  a  river  of  Tibet,  rises, 
and  where  there  are  more  than  a  hundred  springs,  which 
•parkle  like  stars  ;  whence  it  is  called  ^lotun-hor,  that  is,  the 
iva  of  Stars  '-  Description  of  Tibet  in  Pint"*  'n^. 


This  City  of  War  which,  in  a  few  short  hours 
Hath  sprung  up  here,  as  if  the  magic  powers 
Of  him  who,  in  the  twinkling  of  a  star, 
Built  the  high-pillar'd  halls  of  Chilminar,1 
Had  conjured  up,  far  as  the  eye  can  see, 
This  world   of  tents  and   domes   and   SUD- 

bright  armory ! — 

Princely  pavilions,  screen'd  by  many  a  fold 
Of  crimson  cloth,  and  topp'd  with  balls  of 

gold  ;— 

Steeds,  wich  their  housings  of  rich  silver  spun, 
Their  chains  and  poitrels  glittering  in  the  sun ; 
And  camels,  tufted  o'er  with  Yemen's  shells,1 
Shaking  in  every  breeze  their  light-toned 

bells ! 

But  yester-eve,  so  motionless  around, 
So  mute  was  this  wide   plain,  that  not  a 

sound 

But  the  far  torrent,  or  the  lo«ust-bird,4 
Hunting     among    the    thickets,    could    be 

heard ; — 

Yet  hark  !  what  discords  now  of  every  kind, 
Shouts,  laughs,  and  screams  are  revelling  in 

the  wind ! 

The  neigh  of  cavalry ; — the  tinkling  throngs 
Of  laden  camels  and  their  drivers'  songs  ;' — 
Ringing  of  arms,  and  flapping  in  the  breeze 
Of  streamers  from  ten  thousand  canopies  ;— 
War-music,  bursting  out  from  time  to  time 
With  gong  and  tymbalon's  tremendous 

chime ; — 
Or,  in  the  pause,  when  harsher  sounds  are 

mute, 

The  mellow  breathings  of  some  horn  or  flute. 
That  far  off,  broken  by  the  eagle  note 
Of  the  Abyssinian  trumpet,8  swell  and  float ! 


2  The  edifices  of  Chilminar  and  Baalbec  are  supposed  to 
have  been  built  by  the  genii,  acting  under  the  orders  of  Jan 
ben  Jan,  who  governed  the  world  long  before  the  time  of  Adam. 

s  "A  superb  camel,  ornamented  with  strings  and  tufts  of 
small  shells."— All  Bey. 

«  A  native  of  Khorassan,  and  allured  southward  by  moans 
of  the  water  of  a  fountain  between  Shiraz  and  Ispahan,  called 
the  Fountain  of  Birds,  of  which  it  is  BO  fond  that  it  will  follow 
wherever  that  water  is  carried. 

»  "  Some  of  the  camels  have  bells  about  their  necks,  and 
some  about  their  legs,  like  those  which  our  carriers  put  about 
their  fore-horses'  necks."— Pitt's  Account  of  the  Mafiam- 
medans. 

"The  camel-driver  follows  the  camel  singing,  and  some- 
times playing  upon  his  pipe;  the  louder  he  sings  and  pipe*, 
the  faster  the  camels  go.  Nay,  they  will  stand  still  when  h» 
gives  over  his  music."—  Tavernifr. 

*  "  This  trumpet  is  often  called  in  Abyssinia  Xwtr  /"<*»* 
which  signifies  the  Note  t  f  the  Eagle." 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


95 


Who  leads  this  mighty   army  ? — ask  ye 

"  who  ?" 

And  mark  ye  not  those  banners  of  dark  line, 
The  Night  and  Shadow,1  over  yonder  tent? — 
It  is  the  Caliph's  glorious  armament. 
Roused  in  his  palace  by  the  dread  alarms, 
That  hourly  came,  of  the  false  Prophet's  arms 
And  of  his  host  of  infidels,  who  hurl'd 
Defiance  fierce  at  Islam*  and  the  world ; — 
Thouerh    worn    with    Grecian    warfare,    and 

O  f 

behind 

The  veils  of  his  bright  palace  calm  reclined, 
Yet  brook'd  he  not  such  blasphemy  should 

stain, 

Thus  unrevenged  the  evening  of  his  reign, 
But,  having  sworn  upon  the  Holy  Grave* 
To  conquer  or  to  perish,  once  more  gave 
His  shadowy  banners  proudly  to  the  breeze, 
And  with  an  army  nursed  in  victories, 
Here  stands  to  crush  the  rebels  that  o'errun 
His  blest  and  beauteous  Province  of  the  Sim. 

Ne'er  did  the  march  of  Mahadi  display 
Such  pomp  before; — not  even  when  on  his 

way 

To  Mecca's  temple,  when  both  land  and  sea 
Were  spoil'd  to  feed  the  pilgrim's  luxury;4 
When  round  him,  'mid  the  burning  sands, 

he  saw 

Fruits  of  the  North  in  icy  freshness  thaw, 
And  cool'd  his  thirsty  lip,  beneath  the  glow 
Of  Mecca's  sun,  with  urns  of  Persian  snow: — 
Nor  e'er  did  armament  more  grand  than  that 
Pour  from  the  kingdoms  of  the  Caliphat. 
First  in  the  van,  the  People  of  the  Rock/ 
On  their  light  mountain  steeds  of  royal  stock  ;* 
Then  Chieftains  of  Damascus,  proud  to  see 
The  flashing  of  their  swords  rich  marque- 
try ;'— 


"  "  The  two  black  standards  borne  before  the  Caliphs  of  the 
House  of  Abbaa  were  called,  allegorical!/,  'The  Night  and 
The  Shadow.' " 

*  The  Mohammedan  religion. 

*  "  The  Persian*  swear  by  the  Tomb  of  Shah  Besade,  who 
>  buried  at  Casbin  ;  and  when  one  desires  another  to  assev- 
erate a  matter  he  will  ask  him  if  he  dare  swear  by  the  Holy 
Grave." 

*  Mahadi.  In  a  single  pilgrimage  to  Mecca,  expended  viz 
millions  of  dinars  of  gold. 

*  "  The  inhabitants  of  Ilejaz,  or  Arabia  Petrsea,  called  '  The 
People  of  the  Rock.'  " 

*  "  Those  horf  e*.  called  by  the  Arabians  Eochlanl,  of  whom 
t  written  genealogy  hat.  been  kept  for  8000  years.    They  are 
«aid  to  derive  their  origin  from  King  Solomon's  steedti." 

1  "  Many  of  the  figures  on  the  blade*  of  their  swords  ar« 
gold  or  silver,  or  in  mnrqtietry  with  small  gems." 


Men  from  the  regions  near  the  Volga's  mouth 
Mix'd  with  the  rude,  black  archers  of  the 

South  ; 

And  Indian  lancers,  in  white  turban'd  ranks 
From  the  far  Sinde,  or  Attock's  sacred  banks, 
With  dusky  legions  from  the  Land  of  Myrrh,' 
And  many  a  maee-arm'd  Moor  and  Mid-Sea 

Islander. 

Nor  less  in  number,  though  more  new  and 

rude 

In  warfare's  school,  was  the  vast  multitude 
That,  fired  by  zeal,  or  by  oppression  wrongM, 
Round  the  white  standard  of  the  Impostor 

throng'd. 

Beside  his  thousands  of  Believers, — blind, 
Burning,  and  headlong  as  th^  Satniel  wind, — 
Many  who  felt,  and  more  who  fear'd  to  feel 
The  bloody  Islamite's  converting  steel, 
Flock'd  to  his  banner : — Chiefs  of  the  Uzbek 

race, 
Waving    their    heron    crests    with    martial 

grace  ;* 

Turkomans,  countless  as  their  flocks,  led  forth 
From  the  aromatic  pastmvs  of  the  North  , 
Wild  warriors  of  the  turquoise  hills," — and 

those 

Who  dwell  beyond  the  everlasting  snows 
Of  Hindoo  Kosh,  in  stormy  freedom  bred, 
Their  fort  the  rock,  their  camp  the  torrent's 

bed. 

But  none,  of  all  who  own'd  the  chief's  com- 
mand 

Rush'd  to  that  battle-field  with  bolder  hand 
Or  sterner  hate  than  Iran's  outlaw'd  men, 
Her  Worshippers  of  Fire" — all  panting  then 
For  vengeance  on  the  accursed  Saracen ; 
Vengeance  at   last   for  their  dear  country 

spurn'd, 
Her  throne  usurp'd,  and  her  bright  shrines 

o'erturn'd. 
From  Yezd's1*  eternal  Mansion  of  the  Fire, 


•  Azab  or  Saba. 

•  "  The  chiefs  of  the  Uzbek  Tartars  wear  a  plume  of  white 
heron's  feathers  in  their  turbans." 

»  "  In  the  mountains  of  Mishapour  and  Tous  In  Khorassan 
they  find  turquoises." 

>:  The  Ghebers  or  Quebres,  those  original  natives  of  Persia 
who  adhered  to  their  ancient  faith,  the  religion  of  Zoroaster, 
and  who,  after  the  conquest  of  their  country  by  the  Arab*, 
were  either  persecuted  at  home  or  forced  to  become  wan- 
derer* abroad. 

>*  "  Ye/d.  the  chief  residence  of  those  ancirnt  native*  who 
I  worship  the  Sun  and  the  Fire,  which  latter  tat/  have  car* 


96 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


Where  aged  saints  in  dreams  of  heaven  expire ; 
From  Badku,  and  those  fountains  of  blue 

flame 

That  burn  into  the  Caspian,1  fierce  they  came, 
Careless  for  what  or  whom  the  blow  was  sped, 
So  vengeance  triumph'd  and  their  tyrants 

bled! 

Sucli  was  the  wild  and  miscellaneous  host 
That  high  in  air  their  motley  banners  toss'd 
Around  the  Prophet-Chief — all  eyes  still  bent 
Upon  that  glittering  veil,  where'er  it  went, 
That  beacon    through   the   battle's    stormy 

flood, 
That  rainbow  of  the   field,  whose  showers 

were  blood  ! 

Twice  hath  the  sun  upon  their  conflict  set, 
And  risen  again,  and  found  them  grappling 

yet; 
While  steams  of  carnage,  in  his  noon-tide 

blaze, 
Smoke  up  to  heaven — hot  as  that  crimson 

haze" 

By  which  the  prostrate  caravan  is  awed 
In  the  red  desert  when  the  wind's  abroad  ! 
"  On,  Swords  of  God  !"   the  panting  Caliph 

calls, — 
<:  Thrones   for  the  living — heaven   for  him 

who  falls  !"— 

"  On,  brave  avengers,  on,"  Mokanna  cries, 
"  And  Eblis  blast  the  recreant    slave   that 

flies !" 

Now  comes  the  brunt,  the  crisis  of  the  day — 
They  clash — they  strive — the  Caliph's  troops 

give  way ! 

Mokanna's  self  plucks  the  black  banner  down, 
And  now  the  orient  world's  imperial  crown 
Is  just  within  his  grasp — when,  hark,  that 

shout ! 
Some  hand  hath  check'd  the  flying  Moslems' 

rout, 


fully  kept  lighted,  without  being  once  extinguished  for  a 
moment,  above  3000  years,  on  a  mountain  near  Yezd,  called 
/Vter  Quedah,  signifying  the  House  or  Mansion  of  the  Fire, 
lie  is  reckoned  very  unfortunate  who  dies  oft'  that  mountain." 

1  "When  the  weather  is  hazy,  the  springs  of  naphtha  (on  an 
Island  near  Baku)  boil  up  the  higher,  and  the  naphtha  often 
takes  fire  on  the  surface  of  the  earth,  and  runs  in  a  name  into 
the  tff.  to  a  distance  almost  incredible." 

2  Savary  says — "Torrents  of  burning  sand  roll  before  it.  the 
flrma:nent  is  enveloped  in  a  thick  veil,  and  the  sun  appears 
of  the  colo.'  of  blood.    Sometimes  whole  caravans  are  buriod 
in  H." 


And  now  they  turn — they  rally — at  their  head 
A  warrior  (like  those  angel  youths,  who  led, 
In  glorious  panoply  of  heaven's  own  mail, 
The  Champions  of  the  Faith  through  Beder's 

vale,)' 

Bold  as  if  gii'ted  with  ten  thousand  lives, 
Turns    on   the  fierce    pursuers'  blades,  and 

d  fives 

At  once  the  multitudinous  torrent  back, 
While  hope  and  courage  kindle  in  his  track, 
And,  at  each  step,  his  bloody  falchion  makes 
Terrible  vistas  through  which  victory  breaks ! 
In  vain  Mokanna,  'midst  the  general  flight, 
Stands  like  the  red  moon,  on  some  stormy 

night 

Among  the  fugitive  clouds  that,  hurrying  by, 
Leave  only  her  unshaken  in  the  sky  !  — 
In  vain  he  yells  his  desperate  curses  out, 
Deals  death  promiscuously  to  all  about, 
To  foes  that  charge  and  coward  friends  thai 

fly, 

And  seems  of  all  the  great  arch-enemy  ! 
The  panic  spreads— "A  miracle  !"  throughout 
The  Moslem  ranks,"  A  miracle  !"  they  shout, 
All,  gazing  on  that  youth,  whose    coming 

seems 

A  light,  a  glory,  such  as  breaks  in  dreams  ; 
And  every  sword,  true  as  o'er  billows  dim 
The  needle  tracks  the  load-star,  following 

him ! 

Right  toward  Mokanna  now  he  cleaves  his 

path, 
Impatient  cleaves,  as   though   the   bolt  of 

wrath- 
He  bears   from  Heaven  withheld  its  awful 

burst 
From  weaker  heads,  and  souls  but  half-way 

curst, 
To  break  o'er  him,  the  mightiest  and   the 

worst ! 
But  vain  his  speed — though,  in  that  hour  of 

blood, 

Had  all  God's  seraphs  round  Mokanna  stood, 
With  swords  of  fire,  ready  like  fate  to  fall, 
Mokanna's  soul  would  have  defied  them  all ; — 
Yet  now,  the  rush  of  fugitives,  too  strong 
For  human  force,  hurries  even  him  along ; 


'  "In  the  great  victory  gained  by  Mohamm.su  at  Beder,  h« 
was  assisted  by  tlm-c  thousand  angels,  led  by  Gabriel  mounted 
on  his  horse  Iliaziira." 


OF  THOMAS   .MOOKK. 


97 


In  vain  lit-  st  rubles  'mid  tin-  \vdired  array 
Of  flying  thousands, — he  is  home  away; 
And  the  sole  joy  his  baffled  spirit  knows 
Iu   this    forced    flight   is — murdering,  us   he 

goes! 

AB  a  grim  tiger,  whom  the  torrent's  might 
Surprises  in  some  parch'd  ravine  at  night, 
Turns,  even  in  drowning,  on  the  wretched 

flocks 
Swept  with  him  in  that  snow-flood  from  the 

rocks, 

And,  to  the  last,  devouring  on  his  way, 
Bloodies  the  stream  he  hath  not  power  to 

stay ! 

u  Alia  il  Alia !" — the  glad  shout  renew — 
«  Alia  Akbar  I"1— the  Caliph's  in  Merou. 
Hang  out  your  gilded  tapestry  in  the  streets, 
And  light  your  shrines  and  chant  your  zira- 

leets  ;* 
The  Sword  of  God  hath  triumph'd — on  his 

throne 
Your  Caliph  sits,  and  the  Veil'd  Chief  hath 

flown. 

Who  does  not  envy  that  young  warrior  now, 
To  whom  the  Lord  of  Islam  bends  his  brow, 
In  all  the  graceful  gratitude  of  power, 
For  his  throne's  safety  in  that  perilous  hour  ! 
Who   doth  not  wonder,  when,  amidst  the 

acclaim 

Of  thousands,  heralding  to  heaven  his  name — 
'Mid  all  those  holier  harmonies  of  fame 
Which   sound    along   the  path  of  virtuous 

souls, 

Like  music  round  a  planet  as  it  rolls  ! — 
He  turns  away,  coldly,  as  if  some  gloom 
Hung   o'er  his   heart  no   triumphs   can  il- 
lume ; — 

Some  sightless  grief,  upon  whose  blasted  gaze 
Though  glory's  light  may  play,  in  vain  it 

plays ! 

Yes,  wretched  Azim  !  thine  is  such  a  grief, 
1 Jeyond  all  hope,  all  terror,  all  relxjf ; 
A  dark,  cold  calm,  which  nothing  now  can 

break, 
Or  warm,  or  brighten, — like  that  Syrian  Lake* 


1  The  Tecbir,  or  cry  of  the  Arabs.  "Alia  Acbarl"  sayc 
Ockley,  "  mean*  (4od  i»  most  mighty." 

1  "  The  ziraleet  Is  a  kind  of  chorus  which  the  women  of  the 
Cast  sing  npon  joy  fill  occasions." 

'  The  Dead  Sea,  which  contains  neither  animal  nor  regeta- 
Mu  life. 


Upon  whose  surface  iimni  and  Mimtner  shed 
Their   smiles    in    vain,    for   all    beneath    is 

dead ! — 
Hearts  there  have  been  o'er  which  this  w«igltt 

of  woe 
Came  by  lonf  use  of  suffering,  tame   arid 

slow , 
But  thine,  lost  youth !    was  sudden — over 

thee 

It  broke  at  once,  when  all  seem'd  ecstasy ; 
When  Hope  look'd  up,  and  saw  the  gloomy 

past 

Melt  into  splendor,  and  bliss  dawn  at  last — 
'Twas  then,  even  then,  o'er  joys  so  frebhly 

blown, 

This  mortal  blight  of  misery  came  down; 
Even  then,  the  full,  warm  gushings  of  thy 

heart 
Were  check'd — like  fount-drops,  frozen    as 

they  start ! 
'And  there,  like  them,  cold,  sunless    relics 

hang, 
Each  fix'd  and  chill'd  into  a  lasting  pang ! 

One  sole  desire,  one  passion  now  remains, 
To  keep  life's  fever  still  within  his  veins, 
Vengeance  ! — dire  vengeance  on  the  wretch 

who  cast 

O'er  him  and  all  he  loved  that  ruinous  blast. 
For  this,  when  rumors   reach'd  him  in  his. 

flight 

Far,  far  away,  after  that  fatal  night, — 
Rumors  of  armies,  thronging  to  the  attack 
Of  the  Veil'd  Chief, — lor  this  he  wing'd  him 

back, 

Fleet  as  the  vulture  speeds  to  flags  unfurl'd, 
And  eaine  when  all   seemM  lost,  and  wildly 

hurl'd 

Himself  into  the  scale,  and  saved  a  world  ! 
For  this  he  still  lives  on,  careless  of  all 
The  wreaths  that  glory  on  his  path  lets  fall ; 
For  this  alone  exists — like  lightning-tire 
To  speed  one  bolt  of  vengeance,  and  expire! 

But  safe  as  yet  that  spirit  of  evil  li\ 
With  a  small  band  of  desperate  fugitives. 
The  last  sole  stubborn  fragment,  left  unriven, 
Of  the  proud  host  that  late  stood  fronting 

Heaven, 
He  gain'd  Merou — breathed  a  short  cnr*e  of 

blood 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


O'er  his  lost  throne — then  pass'd  the  Jihon's 
flood,1 

And  gathering  all  whose  madness  of  belief 

Still  saw  a  savioui  in  their  down-fallen 
Chief, 

Raised  the  white  banner  within  Neksheb's 
gates,1 

And  there,  untamed,  the  approaching  con- 
queror waits. 

Of  all  his  Haram,  all  that  busy  hive, 
With  music  and  with  sweets  sparkling  alive, 
He  took  but  one,  the  partner  of  his  flight, 
One,   not   for    love — not   for    her    beauty's 

light — 

For  Zelica  stood  withering  midst  the  gay, 
Wan  as  the  blossom  that  fell  yesterday 
From  the  Alma-tree  and  dies,  while  overhead 
To-day's  young  itower  is  springing   in   its 

stead  !" 

No,  not  for  love — the  deepest  damn'd  must  be 
Touch'd  with  heaven's  glory,  ere  such  fiends 

as  he 

Can  feel  one  glimpse  of  love's  divinity  ! 
But  no,  she  is  his  victim  : — there  lie  all 
Her  charms  for  him — charms  that  can  never 

pall, 

As  long  as  hell  within  his  heart  can  stir, 
Or  one  faint  trace  of  heaven  is  left  in  her. 
To  work  an  angel's  ruin, — to  behold 
As  white  a  page  as  Virtue  e'er  unroll'd 
Blacken,  beneath  his  touch,  into  a  scroll 
Of  damning  sins,  seal'd  with  a  burning  soul — 
This  is  his  triumph  ;  this  the  joy  accurst, 
That  ranks  him  among  demons  all  but  first ! 
This  gives  the  victim  that  before  him  lies 
Blighted  and  lost,  a  glory  in  his  eyes, 
A  light  like  that  with  which  hell-fire  illumes 
The  ghastly,  writhing  wretch  whom  it  con- 
sumes ! 

But  other  tasks  now  wait  him — tasks  that 

need 

All  the  deep  daringness  of  thought  and  deed 
With  which  the  Dives*  have  gifted  him — for 
mark. 


Over  yon  plains,  which  night  had  else  mad« 

dark, 

Those  lanterns,  countless  as  the  winged  lights 
That    spangle    India's    fields    on    showery 

nights,* 

Far  as  their  formidable  gleams  they  shed, 
The  mighty  tents  of  the  beleaguerer  spread, 
Glimmering  along  the  horizon's  dusky  line, 
And  thence  in  nearer  circles,  till  they  shine 
Among  the  founts  and  groves,  o'er  which 

the  town 

In  all  its  arm'd  magnificence  looks  down. 
Yet,  fearless,  from  his  lofty  battlements 
Mokanna  views  that  multitude  of  tents ; 
Nay.  smiles  to  think  that,  though  entoilrdr 

beset, 
Not   less   than  myriads    dare  to  front  him 

yet  ;— 
That  friendless,  throneless,  he  thus  stands  at 

bay, 

Even  thus  a  match  for  myriads  such  as  they ! 
"  Oh  for  a  sweep  of  that  dark  angel's  wing, 
Who  brush'd  the  thousands  of  the  Assyrian 

king* 

To  darkness  in  a  moment,  that  I  might 
People  hell's  chambers  with   yon    host   to 

night ! 
But  come  what  may,  let  who  will  grasp  the 

throne, 

Caliph  or  Prophet,  man  alike  shall  groan ; 
Let  who  will  torture  him,  Priest — Caliph — 

King- 
Alike  this  loathsome  world  of  his  shall  ring 
With  victims'  shrieks  and  bowlings  of  the 

slave, — 
Sounds  that  shall  glad  me  even  within  my 

grave  !" 

Thus  to  himself — but  to  the  scanty  train 
Still  left  around  him,  a  far  different  strain  :  — 
"  Glorious  defenders  of  the  sacred  Crown 
I  bear  from  heaven,  whose  light  nor  blood 

shall  drown 
Nor  shadow  of  earth  eclipse ;  before  whose 

gems 

The  paly  pomp  of  this  world's  diadems, 
The  crown  of  Gerashid,  the  pillard  throne7 


>  The  ancient  Oxns. 

1  A  city  of  Transoxiania. 

1  "  Yon  never  can  cast  your  eyes  on  this  tree  but  you  meet 
Ihere  either  blossoms  or  fruit;  and  as  the  blossoms  drop 
tnderneath  on  the  ground,  others  come  forth  in  their  stead.1' 

4  The  demons  of  the  Persian  mythology. 


•  Carreri  mentions  the  fire-flies  in  India  during  the  rainy 
season. 

•  "  Sennacherib,  called  by  the  orientals  King  of  Moussal." 
T  There  were  said  to  be  under  this  throne  or  palace  of  Khos- 

rou  Parviz  a  hundred  vaults  filled  with  "  treasures  so  immense, 
thai  some  Mohammedan  writers  tell  us,  their  Prophet,  to  en 


99 


Of  Parviz,1  and  the  heron  crest  that  shone,* 
Magnificent,  o'er  All's  beauteous  eyes,* 
Fade  like  the  stars  when  morn  is  in  the  skies  : 
Warriors,  rejoice  —  the  port,  to  which  we've 

pass'd 

O'er  destiny's  dark  wave,  beams  out  at  last  ! 
Victory's  our  own  —  'tis  written  in  that  Book 
Upon  whose  leaves  none  but  the  angels  look, 
That  Islam's  sceptre  shall  beneath  the  power 
Of  her  great  foe  fall  broken  in  that  hour 
When  the  moon's  mighty  orb,  before  all  eyes, 
From  Neksheb's  Holy  Well  portentously 

shall  rise  ! 
Now  turn  and  see  !"  - 

They  turn'd,  and,  as  he  spoke, 
A  sudden  splendor  all  around  them  broke, 
And  they  beheld  an  orb,  ample  and  bright,4 
Rise  from  the  Holy  Well,  and  cast  its  light 
Round  the  rich  city  and  the  plain  for  miles,*  — 
Flinging  such  radiance  o'er  the  gilded  tiles 
Of  many  a  dome  and  fair-roof  'd  imaret, 
As  autumn  suns  shed  round  them  when  they 

set! 

Instant  from  all  who  saw  the  illusive  sign 
A  murmur  broke  —  "  Miraculous  !  divine  !" 
The  Gheber  bow'd,  thinking  his  idol  Star 
Had  waked,  and    burst  impatient  through 

the  bar 

Of  midnight,  to  inflame  him  to  the  war  ! 
While  he  of  Moussa's  creed  saw  in  that  ray 
The  glorious  Light  which,  in  his  freedom's 


Had  rested  on  the  Ark,"  and  now  again 
Shone  out  to  bless  the  breaking  of  his  chain  ! 


courage  his  disciples,  carried  them  to  a  rock,  which  at  hie 
command  opened,  and  gave  them  a  prospect  through  it  of  the 
treasure*  of  Khosrou." — Universal  History. 

1  Chosroes. 

1  "The crown  of  Qerashid  Is  cloudy  and  tarnished  before 
the  heron  tuft  of  thy  turban."— From  one  of  the  elegies  or 
•ongs  in  praise  of  Ali,  written  in  characters  of  gold  round  the 
gallery  of  Abbas's  tomb. 

'  "  The  beauty  of  All's  eyes  was  so  remarkable  that,  when- 
ever the  Persians  would  describe  anything  •«  va*v  InvoJv 
they  say  it  is  Ayn  Hali,  or  the  ey*»  c*  '  1L'' 

*  We  are  not  told  more  of  u»u»  HICK  of  toe  Impostor,  man 
tnat  it  was  "nne  machine  qu'il  disoit  Cfre  la  Inne."    Accord- 
ing to  Richardson,  the  miracle  is  perpetuated  in  Nekscheb— 
'•  Nukabab,  the  name  of  a  city  in  Transoxiania,  where  they 

re  is  a  well  in  which  the  appearance  of  the  moon  is  to 
ii  night  and  day.11 

•  "  11  aniusa  pendant  deux  moil  le  penple  de  la  vllle  de  Nekh- 
ichcb  en  faisant  sortir  toutes  les  nuits  da  fonds  d'un  puits  un 

liimineux  semblable  a  la  lime,  qni  portoit  sa  lumiere 
)u«qu'a  la  distance  de  pluslcnrs  milles." — D'Herbtlot.    Hence 
he  was  called  Sazendfih  Mah,  or  the  Moon-maker. 
'  The  Shechiuah,  called  Saklnat  in  the  Koran  ;  vide  Sale. 


"To  victory  !"  is  at  once  the  cry  of  all — 
Nor  stands  Mokanna  loitering  at  that  call ; 
But  instant  the  huge  gates  are  flung  aside, 
And  forth,  like  a  diminutive  mountain-tide 
Into  the  boundless  sea,  they  speed  their  course 
Right  on  into  the  Moslems'  mighty  force, 
The  watchmen  of  the  camp,- — who,  in  their 

rounds, 
Had  paused,  and  even  forgot  the  punctual 

sounds 
Of  the  small  drum  with  which  they  count 

the  night/ 

To  gaze  upon  that  supernatural  light, — 
Now  sink  beneath  an  unexpected  arm, 
And  in  a  death-groan  give  their  last  alarm. 
"  On   for  the   lamps    that  light  yon  lofty 

screen,8 
Nor  blunt   your   blades   with    massacre   sc 

mean  ; 
There  rests  the   Caliph — speed — one  lucky 

lance 

May  now  achieve  mankind's  deliverance  !" 
Desperate  the  die — such  as  they  only  cast 
Who  ventui-e  for  a  world,  and  stake  their  last 
But  Fate's  no  longer  with  him — blade  for 

blade 

Springs  up  to  meet  them  through  the  glim- 
mering shade, 

And  as  the  clash  is  heard,  new  legions  soon 
Pour  to  the  spot,  like  bees  of  Kauzeroon,* 
To   the    shrill   timbrel's   summons,   till,    at 

length, 
The  mighty   camp   swarms  out   in  all   its 

strength, 
And  back  to  Neksheb's  gates,  covering  the 

plain 

With  random  slaughter,  drives  the  adven- 
turous train ; 

Among  the  last  of  whom,  the  Silver  Veil 
Is  seen,  glittering  at  times,  like  the  white  sa. 
Of  some  toss'd  vessel,  on  a  stormy  night, 
Catching  the  tempest's  momentary  light ! 


»  "The  parts  of  the  night  are  made  known  as  well  by  in- 
strnmcnts  of  music  as  by  the  rounds  of  the  watchmen  with 
cries  and  small  drams." 

•  "  The  Serraparda,  high  screens  of  red  cloth  stiffened  witk 
cane,  used  to  enclose  a  considerable  space  round  the  rojraJ 
tents." 

The  tents  of  princes  were  generally  Illuminated.  Norrien 
tells  u*  that  the  tent  of  the  Bey  of  Glrge  was  dlstinjniiched 
from  the  other  tents  by  forty  lanterns  being  suspended  bcfort 
it.  Vldt "  Banner's  Obsenrations  on  Job." 

•  "  Prom  the  groves  of  orang«-trees  at  Kauzeroon  the  DMS 
cull  a  celebrated  honey." 


100 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOOKE. 


And  hath  not  this  brought  the  proud  spirit 

low? 
Nor  dash'd  his  brow,  nor  check'd  his  daring  ? 

No, 
Though  half  the  wretches  whom  at  night  he 

led 
To  thrones   and  victory  lie    disgraced   and 

dead, 
Yet  morning  hears   him,  with  unshrinking 

crest, 
Still   vaunt   of  thrones  and  victory  to  the 

rest ; — 

And  they  believe  him  ! — oh,  the  lover  may 
Distrust  that  look  which  steals  his  soul  away ! 
The  babe  may  cease  to  think  that  it  can  play 
With   heaven's   rainbow;    alchymists   may 

doubt 

The  shining  gold  their  crucible  gives  out, 
But  Faith,  fanatic  Faith,  once  wedded  fast 
To  some  dear  falsehood,  hugs  it  to  the  last. 

And  well  the  Impostor  knew  all  lures  and 

arts 

That  Lucifer  e'er  taught  to  tangle  hearts  ; 
Nor,  'mid  these  last  bold  workings  of  his  plot 
Against  men's  souls,  is  Zelica  forgot. 
Ill-fated  Zelica  !  had  reason  been 
Awake  through  half  the  horrors  thou  hast 

seen, 
Thou  never  couldst  have   borne  it — Death 

had  come 

At  once  and  taken  thy  wrung  spirit  home. 
But  'twas  not  so — a  torpor,  a  suspense 
Of  thought,  almost  of  life,  came  o'er   the 

intense 

And  passionate  struggles  of  that  fearful  night, 
When  her  last  hope  of  peace  and  heaven 

took  flight : 
And   though,  at   times,  a  gleam  of  frenzy 

broke, 

As  through  some  dull  volcano's  veil  of  smoke 
Ominous  flashings  now  and  then  will  start, 
Which  show  the  fire's  still  busy  at  its  heart ; 
Yet    was    she    mostly   wrapp'd    in    sullen 

gloom, — 

Not  such  as  Azim's,  brooding  o'er  its  doom, 
And  calm  without,  as  is  the  brow  of  death, 
While    busy    worms     are    gnawing   under- 
neath ! — 

But  in  a  blank  and  pulseless  torpor%  free 
From  thought  or  pain,  a  seal'd-up  apathy, 


Which  left  her  oft,  with  scarce  one  living 

thrill, 
The  cold,  pale  victim  of  her  torturer's  will 

Again,  as  in  Merou,  he  had  her  deck'd 
Gorgeously  out,  the  Priestess  of  the  sect ; 
And  led  her  glittering  forth  before  the  eyes 
Of  his  rude  train,  as  to  a  sacrifice ; 
Pallid  as  she,  the  young,  devoted  Bride 
Of  the  fierce  Nile,  when,  deck'd  in  all  the  pride 
Of  nuptial  pomp,  she  sinks  into  his  tide  !l 
And  while  the  wretched  maid  hung  down 

her  head, 

And  stood,  as  one  just  risen  from  the  dead, 
Amid  that  gazing  crowd,  the  fiend  would  tell 
His  credulous  slaves  it  was  some  charm  or 

spell 
Possess'd  her  now, — and  from  that  darken'd 

trance 

Should  dawn  ere  long  their  Faith's  deliver- 
ance. 

Or  if,  at  times,  goaded  by  guilty  shame, 
Her  soul  was  roused,  and  words  of  wildness 

came, 

Instant  the  bold  blasphemer  would  translate 
Her  ravings  into  oracles  of  fate, 
Would  hail  Heaven's  signals  in  her  flashing 

eyes, 
And  call  her  shrieks  the  language  of  the  skies ! 

But  vain  at  length  his  arts — despair  is  seen 
Gathering  around ;  and  famine  comes  to  glean 
All  that  the  sword  had  left  unreap'd ; — in  vain 
At  morn  and  eve  across  the  northern  plain 
He  looks  impatient  for  the  promised  spears 
Of  the  wild  hordes  and  Tartar  mountaineers ; 
They  come  not — while  his  fierce  beleaguerers 

pour 
Engines  of  havoc  in,  unknown  before,2 

O  7  * 


1  "  A  custom,  still  subsisting  at  this  day,  seems  to  me  lo 
prove  that  the  Egyptians  formerly  sacrificed  a  young  virgin 
to  the  god  of  the  Nile  ;  for  they  now  make  a  statue  o-f  earth  in 
shape  of  a  girl,  to  which  they  give  the  name  of  the  Betrothed 
Bride,  and  throw  it  into  the  river." — Savary. 

a  That  they  knew  the  secret  of  the  Greek  fire  among  the 
Mussulmans  early  in  the  eleventh  century,  appears  from  Dow's 
Account  of  Mamood  I. :— "  When  he  had  launched  this  fleet, 
he  ordered  twenty  archers  into  each  boat,  and  five  others  •with 
fire-balls,  to  burn  the  craft  of  the  Jits,  and  naphtha  to  set  the 
whole  river  on  fire." 

The  Agnee  aster,  too,  in  Indian  poems,  the  Instrument  of 
Fire,  whose  flame  cannot  be  extinguished,  is  supposed  to 
signify  the  Greek  Fire.  Vide  "  Wilks's  South  of  India,"  vol. 
i.,  p.  471. 

The  mention  of  gunpowder  as  in  une  among  the  Arabians, 
long  before  its  supposed  discovery  in  Europe,  is  introd  iced 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


101 


And  horrible  as  new;1 — javelins,  that  fly 
Enwrcath'd  with   smoky  flames  through  the 

dark  sky, 
And  red-hot  globes  that,  opening  as  they 

mount, 

Discharge,  as  from  a  kindled  naphtha  fount,1 
Showers  of  consuming  fire  o'er  all  below; 
Looking,    as   through   the   illumined   night 

they  go, 
Like  those  wild  birds*  that  by  the  Magians 

oft, 

At  festivals  of  fire,  were  sent  aloft 
Into  the  air,  with  blazing  fagots  tied 
To  their  huge  wings,  scattering  combustion 

wide  ! 
All  night,  the  groans  of  wretches  who  ex- 

O          '  O 

pir«i 

In  agony  beneath  these  darts  of  fire 
King  tli rough   the  city — while,  descending 

o'er 

Its  shrines  and  domes  and  streets  of  syca- 
more ; — 
Its  lone  bazaars,  with  their  bright  cloth  of 

gold, 

Since  the  last  peaceful  pageant  left  unroll'd ; — 
Its  beauteous  marble  baths,  whose  idle  jets 
Now  gush  with  blood ; — and  its  tall  minarets, 
That  late  have  stood  up  in  the  evening  glare 
Of  the  red  sun,  unhallow'd  by  a  prayer ; — 
O'er  each  in  turn  the  terrible  flame-bolts  fall, 
And  dcatli  and  conflagration  throughout  all 
The  desolate  -jity  hold  high  festival ! 


by  Ebn  Fadhl,  the  Egyptian  geographer  who  lived  in  the 
thirteenth  century.  "  Bodies,"  he  says,  "  in  the  form  of  scor- 
pions, bound  round  and  filled  with  nitrous  powder,  glide  along, 
making  a  gentle  noise ;  then,  exploding,  they  lighten  as  it 
were,  and  burn.  But  there  are  others,  which,  cast  into  the 
air,  stretch. along  like  a  cloud,  roaring  horribly, as  thunder 
roars,  and  on  all  sides  vomiting  out  flames,  burst,  burn,  and 
reduce  to  cinders  whatever  come*  in  their  way."  The  his- 
torian Ben  Abdalla,  in  speaking  of  Abulualid  in  the  year  of 
Hegira  712.  says,  "  a  fiery  giobe,  by  means  of  combustible 
matter,  with  a  mighty  noise  suddenly  emitted,  strikes  with 
the  force  of  lightning,  and  shakes  the  citadel."  Vide  the 
extract*  from  "Casiri's  Biblioth.  Arab.  Hispan.,"  in  the 
Appendix  to  "  Berrington's  Literary  History  of  the  Middle 
Aget." 

:  The  Greek  fire,  which  was  occasionally  lent  by  the  Em- 
l/fror*  to  their  allies 

•  'M'e  Hanway's  "  Account  of  the  Spring*  of  Naphtha  at 
Haku"  (which  is  called  by  Lieutenant  I'otiiiigiT.  .Icmla  Mook- 
hee,  or  the  Flaming  Mouth),  taking  fin-,  mul  running  into  the 
•W. 

•  •  At  the  great  festival  of  fire,  called  the  Sheb  Seze.  thi-y 
used  to  set  fire  to  large  bunches  of  dry  combustibles,  fasten. •<'• 
round  wild  beasts  and  birds,  which  being  then  let  loose,  the 
air  and  earth  appeared  one  great  illumination ;  and  as  these 
terrified  creatures  naturally  fled  t<>  tin-  wood  for  shelter,  it  i» 
«n*v  to  conceive  the  conflagrations  they  produced." 


Mokanna  sees  the  world  is  his  no  more  ;— 
One  sting  at  parting,  and  his  grasp  is  o'er. 
"What!    drooping  now?" — thus,  with   un- 
blushing cheek? 

He  hails  the  few  who  yec  C^h  If/car  him  >i 
Of  all  those  famish'd  slave's  arouhd'him'lyiliir, 
And  by  the  light  ox'blazin£  tc  n\ 
"What!    drooping    hoV?— now;"  win:;    ui 

length  we  press 

Home  o'er  the  very  threshold  of  success; 
When  Alia  from  our  ranks  hath  thinn'd  away 
Those  grosser  branches,  that  kept  out  his  ray 
Of  favor  from  us,  and  we  stand  at  length 
Heirs  of  his  light  and  children  of  his  strength, 
The  chosen  few  who  shall  survive  the  fall 
Of  kings  and  thrones,  triumphant  over  all ! 
Have  you  then  lost,  weak  murmurers  us  you 

are, 
All  faith  in  him  who  was  your  light,  your 

star  ? 

Have  you  forgot  the  eye  of  glory,  hid 
Beneath  this  veil,  the  flashing  of  whose  lid 
Could,  like  a  sun-stroke  of  the  desert,  wither 
Millions  of  such  as  yonder  chief  brings  hither  * 
Long  have  its  lightnings  slept — too  long — 

but  now 

All  earth  shall  feel  the  unveiling  of  this  bro*  ' 
To-night — yes,  sainted  men  '  this  very  night, 
I  bid  you  all  to  a  fair  festal  nte, 
Where, — having  deep  refresh'd  each  weary 

limb 

With  viands  such  as  feast  heaven's  cherubim, 
And  kindled  up  your  souls,  now  sunk  and  dim, 
With  that  pure  wine  the  dark-eyed  maids 

above 
Keep,  seal'd  with  precious  musk,  for  those 

they  love,4 — 

I  will  myself  uncurtain  in  your  sight 
The  wonders  of  this  brow's  ineffable  light; 
Then  lead  you  forth,  and  with  a  wink  disperse 
Yon  myriads, howling  through  the  universe!" 

Eager  they  listen — while  each  accent  darts 
New    life   into   their   chill'd   and   hope-sick 

hearts  ; — 
Such    treacherous  life   as  the  cool   draught 

supplies 
To  mm  upon  the  stake,  who  drinks  and  dies  ! 


«  "The  righteous  shall  be  given  to  drink  of  pare  win* 
scaled;  the  seal  whereof  shall  br  mask."— A'oran.  cb»j» 
IxxxilL 


102 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


Wildly  they  point  their  lances  to  the  light 
Of  the    fast-sinking   sun,  and   shout,    "To- 
night !"— 

"  To-night,"  their  chief  re-echoes  in  a  voice 
Of  fiend-like  mocke)'y  t&at  bids  hell  rejoice  ! 
Deluded  victims — never  hath  this  earth 
Seen   m/ourning  -haif  ~so   mournful  as  their 

mirth  ! 

Here,  to  the  few  whose  iron  frames  had  stood 
This  racking  waste  of  famine  and  of  blood, 
Faint,  dying  wretches  clung,  from  whom  the 

shout 

Of  triumph  like  a  maniac's  laugh  broke  out ; — 
There,  others,  lighted  by  the  smouldering  fire, 
Danced,  like  wan  ghosts  about  a  funeral  pyre, 
Among  the  dead  and  dying  strew'd  around  ;— 
While  some  pale  wretch  look'd  on,  and  from 

his  wound 

Plucking  the  fiery  dart  by  which  he  bled, 
In  ghastly  transport  waved  it  o'er  his  head ! 

'Twas  more  than  midnight  now — a  fear- 
ful pause 

Had  follow'd  the  long  shouts,  the  wild  ap- 
plause, 

That  lately  from  those  royal  gardens  burst, 
Where  the  veil'd  demon  held  his  feast  accurst, 
When  Zelica — alas,  poor  ruin'd  heart, 
In  every  horror  doom'd  to  bear  its  part ! — 
Was  bidden  to  the  banquet  by  a  slave, 
Who,  while  his  quivering  lip  the  summons 

gave, 
Grew  black,  as  though  the  shadows  of  the 

grave 

Compass'd  him  round,  and  ere  he  could  repeat 
His  message  through,  fell  lifeless  at  her  feet ! 
Shuddering  she  went — a  soul-felt  pang  of  fear, 
A  presage  that  her  own  dark  doom  was  near, 
Roused  every  feeling,  and  brought  reason 

back 

Once  more,  to  writhe  her  last  upon  the  rack. 
All  round  seem'd  tranquil — even  the  foe  had 

ceased, 

As  if  aware  of  that  demoniac  feast, 
His  fiery  bolts ;    and    though   the   heavens 

look'd  red, 

'Twas  but  some  distant  conflagration's  spread. 
But  hark  ! — she   stops — she   listens — dread- 
ful tone  ! 

'Tisher  tormentor's  laugh — and  now,  a  groan, 
A  long  death-groan  comes  with  it — can  this  be 


-The  place  of  mirth,  the  bower  of  revelry  ? 

She  enters — Holy  Alia,  what  a  sight 

Was  there  before  her !   By  the  glimmering 

light 
Of  the  pale  dawn,  mix'd  with  the  flare  of 

brands 

That  round  lay  burning,  dropp'd  from  life- 
less hands, 
She   saw  the   board,   in  splendid   mockery 

spread, 

Rich     censers     breathing — garlands     over- 
head,— 
The  urns,  the   cups,  from  which   they  late 

had  quaff'd, 
All  gold  and  gems,  but — what  had  been  the 

draught? 
Oh !    who  need   ask,  that    saw  those   livid 

guests, 
With  their  swoln  heads  sunk  blackening  on 

their  breasts, 

Or  looking  pale  to  heaven  with  glassy  glare, 
As  if  they  sought  but  saw  no  mercy  there ; 
As  if  they  felt,  though  poison  rack'd  them 

through, 

Remorse  the  deadlier  torment  of  the  two  ? 
While  some,  the  bravest,  hardiest  in  the  train 
Of  their  false  Chief,  who  on  the  battle-plain 
Would  have  met  death  with  transport  by 

his  side, 
Here   mute   and  helpless   gasp'd ; — but    aa 

they  died, 
Look'd  horrible  vengeance  with  their  eyes' 

last  strain 
And  clench'd  the  slackening  hand  at  him  in 

vain. 

Dreadful  it  was  to  see  the  ghastly  stare 
The  stony  look  of  horror  and  despair 
Which  some  of  these  expiring  victims  cast 
Upon  their  souls'  tormentor  to  the  last; — 
Upon  that  mocking  fiend,  whose  veil,  now 

raised, 

Show'd  them,  as  in  death's  agony  they  sjazed, 
Not  the  long-promised  light,  the  brow  whose 

beaming 

Was    to    come    forth,    all-conquering,   all- 
redeeming, 

But  features  horribler  than  hell  e'er  traced 
On  its  own  brood ; — no  Demon  of  the  Waste/ 


1  "The  Afghauns  believe  each  of  the  numerous  solitndei 
and  deserts  of  their  country  to  be  inhabited  by  a  lonely  demoi 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


103 


No  churchyard  ghole,  caught    lingering  in 

the  light 

Of  the  blest  sun,  e'er  blasted  human  sight 
rWith  lineaments  so  foul,  so  fierce  as  those 
The  Impostor  now,  in  grinning  mockery, 

shows — 
v  There,  ye  wise  saints,  behold  your  Light, 

your  Star — 

Ye  would  be  dupes  and  victims,  and  ye  are. 
Is  it  enough  ?  or  must  I,  while  a  thrill 
Lives  in  your  sapient  bosoms,  cheat  you  still  ? 
Swear  that  the  burning  death  ye  feel  within 
Is  but  the  trance  with  which  heaven's  joys 

begin ; 

That  this  foul  visage,  foul  as  e'er  disgraced 
Even  monstrous  man,  is — after  God's   own 

taste ; 

And  that — but  see  ! — ere  I  have  half-way  said 
My  greetings  through,  the  unconrteous  souls 

are  fled. 

Farewell,  sweet  spirits  !  not  in  vain  ye  die, 
If  Eblis  loves  you  half  so  well  as  I. — 
Ha,  my  young  bride! — 'tis  well — take  thou 

thy  seat ; 
Nay,    come — no     shuddering — didst     thou 

never  meet 

Tbe   dead   before? — they  graced   our  wed- 
ding, sweet; 
And  these,  my  guests  to-night,  have  brimm'd 

so  true 
Their  parting  cups,  that  thou  shalt  pledge 

one  too. 

But — how  is  this  ? — all  empty  ?  all  drunk  up  ? 
Hot  lips  have  been  before  thee  in  the  cup, 
Young  bride:    yet  stay — one  precious  drop 

remains, 

Enough  to  warm  a  gentle  Priestess'  veins ; 

Here,  drink — and  should  thy  lover's  conquer- 
ing arms 

Speed  hither,  ere  thy  lip  lose  all  its  charms, 
Give  him  but  half  this  venom  in  thy  kiss, 
And  I'll  forgive  my  haughty  rival's  bliss ! 

"For  me — I  too   must  die — but  not  like 

these 

Vile,  rankling  things,  to  fester  in  the  breeze ; 
To  have  this  brow  in  ruffian  triumph  shown, 
Whh  all  death's  grimm-ss  added  to  it  own, 


whom  they  call  the  Choice  Becabau,  or  Spirit  of  the  Waste. 
They  often  illustrate  the  wildness  or  any  sequestered  tribe, 
»y  saying  they  are  wild  as  the  Demon  of  the  Waste." 


And  rot  to  dust  beneath  the  taunting  eyes 
Of  slaves,  exclaiming,  'There   his  godship 

lies  !'— 
No,  curse'd  race,  since   first  my  love  drew 

breath, 
They've  been  my  dupes,  and  shall  be,  even 

in  death. 
Thou  seest  yon  cistern  in  the  shade, — 'tia 

filled 
With  burning  drugs,  for  this  last  hour  dis- 

till'd  ;'— 

There  will  I  plunge  me,  in  that  liquid  flame — 
Fit  bath  to  lave  a  dying  Prophet's  frame ! — 
There  perish,  all — ere  pulse  of  thine  shall 

fail— 

Nor  leave  one  limb  to  tell  mankind  the  tale. 
So  shall  my  votaries,  wheresoe'er  they  rave, 
Proclaim  that  Heaven  took  back  the  Saint 

it  gave  ;— 

But  I've  but  vanish'd  from  this  earth  awhile, 
To  come  again,  with  bright,  unshrouded 

smile ! 

So  shall  they  build  me  altars  in  their  zeal, 
Where  knaves  chall  rninistei,  ar.I  fooio  shaL 

kneel ; 
Where  Faith  may  mutter  o'er   her  mystic 

spell, 

Written  in  blood — and  Bigotry  may  swell 
The  sail  he  spreads  for  heaven  with  blusts 

for  hell  !— 

So  shall  my  banner  through  long  ages  be 
The  rallving  sign  of  fraud  and  anarchy; — 
Kings  yet  unborn  shall  rue  Mokanna's  name, 
.And,  though  I  die,  my  spirit,  still  the  same, 
Shall  walk  abroad  in  all  the  stormy  strife, 
And  o-uilt,  and  blood,  that  were  its  bliss  in 

O  t  • 

life! 
But,  hark!  their  battering  engine  shakes  the 

wall — 

Why,  let  it  shake — thus  I  can  brave  them  all. 
No  trace  of  me  shall  greet  them  when  they 

come, 
And  I  can  trust  thy  faith,  for — thou'lt  be 

dumb. 

Now  mark  how  readily  a  wretch  like  me 
In  one  bold  plunge  commences  Deity!" — 


'  "  II  donna  da  poison  dans  le  vin  a  tons  ses  gent,  et  se  jetti 
liii-r.u-ine  cnsnltc  dans  tine  cnvo  pleine  de  drogues  brulante* 
et  consumantes,  afln  qn'll  no  restAt  rien  Ac  tou*  les  membra* 
du  son  corps,  et  quo  cenx  qni  restolent  de  sa  secte  pnlsseni 
croire  qu'll  Itoit  mont6  au  cit  \  ce  qnl  ne  manqna  pas  d  ar 
river."— D'Uertxlot. 


104 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


He  sprung,  and   sunk  as  the  last  words 

were  said — 

Quick  closed  the  burning  waters  o'er  his  head, 
And  Zelica  was  left — within  the  ring 
Of  those  wide  walls  the  only  living  thing ; 
The   only  wretched   one,  still   cursed  with 

breath, 

In  all  that  frightful  wilderness  of  death ! 
More  like  some  bloodless  ghost, — such  as, 

they  tell, 

In  the  lone  Cities  of  the  Silent1  dwell, 
And  there,  unseen  of  all  but  Alia,  sit 
Each  by  its  own  pale  carcase,  watching  it. 

But  morn  is  up,  and  a  fresh  warfare  stirs 
Throughout  the  camp  of  the  beieaguerers. 
Their  globes  of  fire  (the  dread  artillery  lent 
By  Greece  to  conquering  Mahadi)  are  spent ; 
And  now  the  scorpion's  shaft,  the  quarry  sent 
From  high  balistas,  and  the  shielded  throng 
Of  soldiers  swinging  the  huge  ram  along, — 
All  speak  the  impatient  Islamite's  intent 
To  try,  at  length,  if  tower  and  battlement 
And  bastion'd  wall  be  not  less  hard  to  win, 
Less  tough  to  break  down  than  the  hearts 

within. 

First  in  impatience  and  in  toil  is  he, 
The  burning  Azim — oh  !  could  he  but  see 
That  monster  once  alive  within  his  grasp. 
Not  the  gaunt  lion's  hug,  nor  boa's  clasp, 
Could  match  that  gripe   of  vengeance,  or 

keep  pace 
With  the  fell  heartiness  of  hate's  embrace  ! 

Loud  rings  the  ponderous  ram  against  the 

walls ; 
Now  shake    the   ramparts,  now  a   buttress 

falls, 
But    still    no    breach — "  Once    more,    one 

mighty  swing 

Of  all  your  beams,  together  thundering!" 
There — the  wall  shakes — the  shouting  troops 

exult — 
"  Quick,    quick    discharge    your    weightiest 

catapult 
Right  on    that  spot,    and    Neksheb  is  our 

own!"— 


1  ''They  have  all  a  great  reverence  for  burial-grounds, 
which  they  sometimes  call  by  the  poetical  name  of  Cities  of 
the  Silent,  and  which  they  people  with  the  ghosts  of  the 
departed,  who  tif.  each  at  the  bead  of  his  own  grave,  invisible 
In  mortal  eyes." 


'Tis  done — the  battlements  come  crashing 

down, 
And  the  huge  wall,  by  that  stroke  riven  in 

two, 

Yawning  like  some  old  crater  rent  anew, 
Shows     the    dim,    desolate     city    smoking 

through  ! 
But  strange!  no  signs  of  life — naught  living 

seen 

Above,  below — what  can  this  stillness  mean? 
A  minute's   pause  suspends  all   hearts  and 

eyes — 
"In  through  the  breach,"  impetuous  Azim 

cries ; 

But  the  cool  Caliph,  fearful  of  some  wile 
In  this  blank  stillness,  checks  the  troops  a 

while. — 

Just  then,  a  figure,  with  slow  step,  advanced 
Forth  from  the  ruin'd  walls ;  and,  as  there 

glanced 

A  sunbeam  over  it,  all  eyes  could  see 
The  well-known  Silver  Veil !— "  'Tis  he,  'tis 

he, 

Mokanna,  and  alone  !"  they  shout  around  j 
Young  Azim  from  hut  sreed  springs  to  the 

ground — 
"Mine,  Holy  Caliph  !   mine,"  he  cries,  "the 

task 

To  crush  yon  daring  wretch — 'tis  all  I  ask.  * 
Eager  he  darts  to  meet  the  demon  foe, 
Who  still  across  wide  heaps  of  ruin  slow 
And  falteringly  comes,  till  they  are  near ; 
Then,  with  a  bound,  rushes  on  Azim's  spear,. 
And,  casting  off  the  veil  in  falling,  shows — 
Oh  !  'tis  his  Zelica's  life-blood  that  flows  ! 

"  I  meant  not,  Azim,"  soothingly  she  said,. 
As  on  his  trembling  arm  she  lean'd  her  head, 
And,  looking  in  his  face,  saw  anguish  there 
Beyond  all  wounds  the  quivering  flesh  can 

bear — 
"  I  meant  not  thou  shouldst  have  the  pain  of 

this  ; — 

Though  death  with  thee  thus  tasted  is  a  bliss 
Thou  wouldst  not  rob  me  of,  didst  thou  but 

know 

How  oft  I've  pray'd  to  God  I  might  die  so ! 
But  the  fiend's  venom  was  too  scant   and 

slow  ; — 

To  linger  on  were  maddening — and  I  thought 
If  once  that  veil — nay,  look  not  on  it — caught 


FOEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


1U5 


The  eyes  of  your  fierce  soldiery,  I  should  be 
Struck  by  a  thousand  death-darts  instantly. 
But  this  is  sweeter — oh  !  believe  me,  yes — 
1  would  not  change  this  sad,  but  dear  caress, 
This  death  within  thy  arms  I  would  not  gi\v 
For  the  most  smiling  life  the  happiest  live ! 
All  that  stood  dark  and  drear  before  the  eye 
Of  my  stray'd  soul  is  passing  swiftly  by; 
A  light  comes  o'er  rae  from  those  looks  of 

love, 

Like  the  first  dawn  of  mercy  from  above ; 
And  if  thy  lips  but  tell  me  I'm  forgiven, 
Angels  will  echo  the  blest  words  in  heaven  ! 

O 

But  live,  my  Azim ; — oh!  to  call  thee  mine 
Thus  once  again  !  my  Azim — dream  divine  ! 
Live,  if  thou  ever  lovedst  me,  if  to  meet 
Thy  Zelica  hereafter  would  be  sweet, 
Oh,  live  to  pray  for  her — to  bend  the  knee 
Morning  and  night  before  that  Deity 
To  whom  pure  lips  and  hearts,  without  a  stain, 
As  thine  are,  Azim,  never  breathed  in  vain, — 
And  pray  that  he  may  pardon  her, — may  take 
Compassion  on  h*»r  soul  for  thy  dear  sake, 
And    naught  i  ^^embering  but  her  love  to 

thee, 

Make  her  all  thine,  all  His,  eternally  ! 
Go  to  those  happy  fields  where  first  we  twined 
Our  youthful  hearts  together — every  wind 
That  meets  thee  there,  fresh  from  the  well- 
known  flowers, 
Will  bring  the  sweetness  of  those  innocent 

hours 

Back  to  thy  soul,  and  thou  mayst  feel  again 
For  thy  poor  Zelica  as  thou  didst  then. 
So  shall  thy  orisons,  like  dew  that  flies 
To  heaven  upon  the  morning's  sunshine,  rise 
With  all  love's  earliest  ardor  to  the  skies ! 
And  should  they — but,  alas !  my  senses  fail — 
Oh    foV   one   minute  ! — should   thy  prayers 

prevail — 
If  pardon'd  souls  may  from  that  world  of 

bliss 

lie  veal  their  joy  to  those  they  love  in  this, — 
I'll  come  to  thee — in  some  sweet  dream — 

and  tell — 
O    Heaven  ! — I   die — Dear  love  !    farewell, 

farewell !" 

Time  fleeted— years  on  years  had  pass'd 

away, 
And  few  of  those  who,  on  that  mournful  day, 


Had  stood,  with  pity  in  their  eyes,  to  see 
The  maiden's  death,  and  the  youth's  agony, 
Were  living  still — when,  by  a  rustic  grave 
Beside  the  swift  A  moo's  transparent  wave, 
An  aged  man,  who  had  grown  aged  there 
By  that  lone  grave,  morning  and  night  in 

prayer, 
For  the  last  time  knelt  down — and,  th 

*  O 

the  shade 
Of  death  hung  darkening  over  him,  there 

j.lay'd 

A  gleam  of  rapture  on  his  eye  and  cheek 
That  brighten'd  even  death — like   the   last 

streak 

Of  intense  glory  on  the  horizon's  brim, 
When  night  o'er  all  the  rest  hangs  chill  and 

O  O 

dim, — 

His  soul  had  seen  a  vision  while  he  slept ; 
She  for  whose  spirit  he  had  pray'd  and  wept 
So  many  years,  had  come  to  him,  all  drest 
In  angel  smiles,  and  told  him  she  was  blest  i 
For  this  the  old  man  breathed  his  thanks, 

and  died. — 

And  there,  upon  the  banks  of  that  loved  tide, 
He  and  his  Zelica  sleep  side  by  side. 


The  story  of  the  Veiled  Prophet  of  Kho- 
rassan  being  ended,  they  were  now  doomed 
to  hear  Fadladeen's  criticisms  upon  it.  A 
series  of  disappointments  and  accidents  had 
occurred  to  this  learned  ehamberlain  during 
the  journey.  In  the  tirst  place,  those  cou- 
riers stationed,  as  in  the  reign  of  Shah  Jehan, 
between  Delhi  and  the  western  coast  of 
India,  to  secure  a  constant  supply  of  mangoes 
for  the  royal  table,  had,  by  some  cruel  irreg- 
ularity, failed  in  their  duty;  and  to  eat  any 
mangoes  but  those  of  Mazagong  was,  of 
course,  impossible.1  In  the  next  place,  the 
elephant,  laden  with  his  fine  antique  porce- 
lain,3 had,  in  an  unusual  fit  of  liveliness,  shat- 


1  "The  celebrity  of  Ma/.aiiong  i*  owing  to  Its  mangoea, 
which  are  certainly  the  beet  fruit  I  ever  tasted.  The  parent 
tree,  from  which  ail  thnxc  of  thix  specie*  have  been  grafted, 
is  honored  during  the  fruit  reason  by  a  guard  of  xepoys ;  and 
in  the  reign  of  Shah  Jehan.  couriers  were  stationed  between 
Delhi  and  the  Mahratta  coast,  to  secure  an  abundant  and  ftvsb 
supply  of  mangoes  for  the  royal  table."— J/r*.  GnAan't 
Journal  of  a  Residence  in  India. 

*  This  old  porcelain  is  found  in  digging,  and  "if  it  is  «*• 
teemed,  it  i«  not  because  it  has  acquired  any  new  degree  •</ 
beauty  in  the  earth,  but  because  it  has  retained  it*  anctaut 
beauty;  and  thli  alone  is  of  great  importance  in  China,  whort 


106 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


terect  the  whole  set  to  pieces — an  irreparable 
loss,  as  many  of  the  vessels  were  so  exqin- 
«>itely  old'  as  to  have  been  used  under  the 
Emperors  Yan  and  Chun,  who  reigned  many 
ages  before  the  dynasty  of  Tang.  His 
Koran,  too,  supposed  to  be  the  identical 
':opy  between  the  leaves  of  which  Moham- 
med's favorite  pigeon  used  to  nestle,  had 
been  mislaid  by  his  Koran-bearer  three 
whole  days ;  not  without  much  spiritual 
alarm  to  Fadladeen,  who,  though  professing 
to  hold,  with  nther  loyal  and  orthodox  Mus- 
sulmans, that  salvation  could  only  be  found 
in  the  Kor?r;?  was  strongly  suspected  of  be- 
lieving, in  tos  heart,  that  it  could  only  be 
found  in  his  own  particular  copy  of  it. 
When  to  all  these  grievances  is  added  the 
obstinacy  of  the  cooks,  in  putting  the  pepper 
of  Canara  into  his  dishes  instead  of  the 
cinnamon  of  Serendib,  we  may  easily  suppose 
that  he  came  to  the  task  of  criticism  with  at 
le?"t  a  sufficient  degree  of  irritability  for 
"  V  e  purpose. 

"  In  order,"  said  he,  importantly  swinging 
about  his  chaplet  of  pearls,  "  to  convey  with 
clearness  my  opinion  of  the  story  this  young 
man  has  related,  it  is  necessary  to  take  a  re- 
view of  all  the  stories  that  have  ever 


"  My  good  Fadladeen  !"  exclaimed  the  Prin- 
cess, interrupting  him,  "we  really  do  not 
deserve  that  you  should  give  yourself  so 
much  trouble.  Your  opinion  of  the  poem 
we  have  just  heard  will,  T  have  no  doubt,  be 
abundantly  edifying,  without  any  furiluT 
waste  of  your  valuable  erudition. "  "  If  that 
be  all,"  replied  the  critic, — evidently  morti- 
fied at  not  being  allowed  to  show  how  much 
he  knew  about  everything  but  the  subject 
immediately  before  him, — "  if  that  be  all  that 
is  required,  the  matter  is  easily  despatched." 
He  then  proceeded  to  analyze  the  poem,  in 
that  strain  (so  well  known  to  the  unfortunate 
bards  of  Delhi)  whose  censures  were  an  in- 
fliction from  which  few  recovered,  and  Avhose 
very  praises  were  like  the  honey  extracted 
from  the  bitter  flowers  of  the  aloe.  The  chief 


tlrey  give  large  sums  for  the  smallest  vessels  which  were  used 
onder  the  Emperors  Yan  and  Chun,  who  reigned  many  ages 
before  the  dynasty  of  Tang,  at  which  time  porcelain  began  to 
t»e  used  by  the  Enip«j.oFs,"  (about  the  year  442.)— Dunn's 
fJoUeetioit  Oj  Curious  Observations,  &c., — a  bad  translation  of 
•ome  parts  of  the  "  Lettrea  Edifiantes  et  Curieuses"  of  the 
HiBBionary  Jesuits. 


personages  of  the  story  were,  if  he  right!  x 
understood  them,  an  ill-favored  gentleina"., 
with  a  veil  over  his  face  ; — a  young  lady, 
whose  reason  went  and  came  according  as  it 
suited  the  poet's  convenience  to  be  sensible 
or  otherwise ; — and  a  youth,  in  one  of  those 
hideous  Bucharian  bonnets,  who  took  the 
aforesaid  gentleman  in  a  veil  for  a  Divinity. 
"  From  such  materials,"  said  he,  "  what  can 
be  expected  ? — after  rivalling  each  other  in 
long  speeches  and  absurdities,  through  some 
thousands  of  lines  as  indigestible  as  the  fil- 
berds  of  Berdan,  our  friend  in  the  veil  jumps 
into  a  tub  of  aquafortis  ;  the  young  lady  dies 
in  a  set  speech,  whose  only  recommendation 
is,  that  it  is  her  last ;  and  the  lover  lives  on 
to  a  good  old  age,  for  the  laudable  purpose 
of  seeing  her  ghost,  which  he  at  last  happily 
accomplishes  and  expires.  This,  you  will 
allow,  is  a  fair  summary  of  the  story;  and 
if  Nasser,  the  Arabian  merchant,  told  no 
better,  our  Holy  Prophet  (to  whom  be  all 
honor  and  glory  !)  had  no  need  to  be  jealous 
of  his  abilities  for  story-telling."1 

With  respect  to  the  style,  it  was  worthy 
of  the  matter:  it  had  not  even  those  politic 
contrivances  of  structure  which  make  up  for 
the  commonness  of  the  thoughts  by  the  pe- 
culiarity of  the  manner,  nor  that  stately 
poetical  phraseology  by  which  sentiments 
mean  in  themselves,  like  the  blacksmith's 
apron'  converted  into  a  banner,  are  so  easily 
gilt  and  embroidered  into  consequence.  Then 
as  to  the  versification,  it  was,  to  say  no 
worse  of  it,  execrable  ;  it  had  neither  the 
copious  flow  of  Ferdosi,  the  sweetness  of 
Hafiz,  nor  the  sententious  march  of  Sadi; 
but  appeared  to  him,  in  the  uneasy  heaviness 
of  its  movements,  to  have  been  modelled 
upon  the  gait  of  a  very  tired  dromedary. 
The  licences,  too,  in  which  it  indulged  were 
unpardonable  ; — for  instance,  this  line,  and 
the  poem  abounded  with  such — 

"  Like  the  faint,  exquisite  music  of  a  dream." 


1  "  La  lecture  de  ces  fables  plaisoit  si  fort  aux  Arabes,  que, 
quand  Mohammed  les  entretenoit  de  THistoire  de  1'Anciep 
Testament,  ils  les  meprisoient,  lui  disant  que  celles  qne  Nas- 
ser leur  racontoient  etoient  beaucoup  plus  belles."  Cette 
preference  attira  a  Nasser  la  malediction  de  Mohammed  et  de 
tons  ses  disciples. 

*  The  blacksmith  Gao,  who  successfully  resisted  the  tyrant 
7ohak,  and  whose  apron  became  the  rova]  standard  of  Persia. 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOOIiK. 


107 


*'  Wliat  critic  that  can  count,"  said  Fadla- 
deen, "  and  has  his  full  complement  of  fingers 
to  count  withal,  would  tolerate  for  an  instant 
such  syllabic  superfluities  ?"  He  here  looked 
round,  and  discovered  that  most  of  his  audi- 
ence were  asleep ;  while  the  glimmering 
lamps  seemed  inclined  to  follow  their  exam- 
ple. It  became  necessary,  therefore,  how- 
ever painful  to  himself,  to  put  an  end  to  his 
valuable  animadversions  for  the  present,  and 
he  accordingly  concluded,  with  an  air  of 
dignified  candor,  thus: — "Notwithstanding 
the  observations  which  I  have  thought  it  my 
duty  to  make,  it  is  by  no  means  my  wish  to 
discourage  the  young  man  ; — so  far  from  it, 
indeed,  that  if  he  will  but  totally  alter  his 
style  of  writing  and  thinking,  I  have  very 
little  doubt  that  I  shall  be  vastly  pleased 
with  him." 

Some  days  elapsed,  after  this  harangue  of 
the  Great  Chamberlain,  before  Lalla  Rookh 
could  venture  to  ask  for  another  story.  The 
youth  was  still  a  welcome  guest  in  the  pavil- 
ion,— to  one  heart,  perhaps,  too  dangerously 
welcome ;  but  all  mention  of  poetry  was,  as 
if  by  common  consent,  avoided.  Though 
none  of  the  party  had  much  respect  for  Fad- 
ladeen, yet  his  censures,  thus  magisterially 
delivered,  evidently  made  an  impression  on 
them  all.  The  Poet  himself,  to  whom  criti- 
cism was  quite  a  new  operation,  (being 
wholly  unknown  in  that  Paradise  of  the 
Indies — Cashmere,)  felt  the  shock  as  it  is 
generally  felt  at  first,  till  use  has  made  it 
more  tolerable  to  the  patient;  the  ladies  be- 
gan to  suspect  that  they  ought  not  to  be 
pleased,  and  seemed  to  conclude  that  there 
must  have  been  much  good  sense  in  what 
Fadladeen  said,  from  its  having  set  them  all 
so  soundly  to  sleep;  while  the  self-complacent 
chamberlain  was  left  to  triumph  in  the  idea 
of  having,  for  the  hundred  and  fiftieth  time 
in  his  life,  extinguished  a  poet.  Lalla  liookh 
alone — and  Love  knew  why — persisted  in 
bfing  delighted  with  all  she  had  heard,  and 
in  resolving  to  hear  more  as  speedily  as  pos- 
sible. Her  manner,  however,  of  first  return- 
ing to  the  subject  was  unlucky.  It  wa> 
while  they  rested  during  the  heat  of  noon 
near  a  fountain,  on  which  some  hand  h:ul 
nidely  traced  those  well-known  words  from 


the  Garden  of  Sadi, — "Many,  like  me,  havo 
viewed  this  fountain,  but  they  are  gone,  and 
their  eyes  are  closed  forever  !" — that  she 
took  occasion,  from  the  melancholy  beauty 
of  this  passage,  to  dwell  upon  the  charms  of 
poetry  in  general.  "It  is  true,"  she  said 
"  few  poets  can  imitate  that  sublime  bird 
which  flies  always  in  the  air,  and  never 
touches  the  earth  ; — it  is  only  once  in  many 
ages  a  genius  appears,  whose  words,  like 
those  on  the  Written  Mountain,'  last  for- 
ever;— but  still  there  are  some,  as  delightful 
perhaps,  though  not  so  wonderful,  who,  if 
not  stars  over  our  head,  are  at  least  flowers 
along  our  path,  and  whose  sweetness  of  the 
moment  we  ought  gratefully  to  inhale,  with- 
out calling  upon  them  for  a  brightness  and 
a  durability  beyond  their  nature.  In  short," 
continued  she,  blushing,  as  if  conscious  of 
being  caught  in  an  oration,  "  it  is  quite  cruel 
that  a  poet  cannot  wander  through  his  re- 
gions of  enchantment,  without  having  a  critic 
forever,  like  the  Old  Man  of  the  Sea,  (Sinbad,) 
upon  his  back  !"  Fadladeen,  it  was  plain, 
took  this  last  luckless  allusion  to  himself, 
and  would  treasure  it  up  in  his  mind  as  a 
whetstone  for  his  next  criticism.  A  sudden 
silence  ensued ;  and  the  Princess,  glancing  a 
look  at  Feramorz,  saw  plainly  she  must  wait 
for  a  more  courageous  moment. 

But  the  glories  of  Nature,  and  her  wild, 
fragrant  airs,  playing  freshly  over  the  cur- 
rent of  youthful  spirits,  will  soon  heal  even 


'  The  huma.  a  bird  peculiur  to  the  East.  It  Is  supposed  to 
fly  constauily  in  the  air,  and  never  touch  the  ground.  It  it 
looked  upon  as  a  bird  of 'happy  omen  ;  and  that  every  bead  it 
overbade*  will  in  time  wear  a  crown.— Richardson.  In  tfci 
terms  of  alliance  made  by  Fuzzel  Oola  Khan  with  Hyder  in 
1760,  one  of  the  stipulations  was,  "that  he  should  have  the 
distinction  of  two  honorary  attendants  standing  Deride  him, 
holding  fans  composed  of  ihe  feathers  of  the  huma.  according 
to  the  practice  of  his  family."—  WiUa't  South  qf  India.  He 
adds  in  a  note :— "  The  hnma  is  a  ftibnlons  bird.  The  head 
over  which  its  shadow  once  passes  will  assuredly  be  circled 
with  a  crown.  The  splendid  little  bird  suspended  orer  the 
throne  of  Tippoo  Sultann,  found  at  Seringapatam  in  17W,  wa» 
intended  to  represent  this  poetical  fancy.1' 

*  To  the  pilgrims  to  Mount  Sinai  we  must  attribute  the  in- 
scriptions, figures,  Ac.,  on  those  rocks,  which  hare  from 
thence  acquired  the  name  of  the  Written  Mountain."—  Fotoy. 
M.  Oebclin  and  others  have  been  at  much  pains  to  attach  »om« 
mysterious  and  Important  meaning  to  these  Inscriptions ;  but 
Nicbuhr,  a»  well  as  Volney,  think*  that  they  must  hare  been 
executed  at  idle  hours  by  the  travellers  to  Mount  Sinai,  "  who 
Hi-Hod  \vith  cutting  the  unpolished  rock  with  any 
pointed  instrument;  adding  to  their  names,  and  the  date  of 
their  journeys,  some  rude  figure*,  which  Wespeak  the  band  o/ 
a  people  but  little  skilled  In  *he  arts."— Xltbvhr. 


108 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


deeper  wounds  than  the  dull  Fadladeens  of 
this  world  can  inflict.  In  an  evening  or  two 
after,  they  came  to  the  small  Valley  of  Gar- 
dens, which  had  been  planted  by  order  of 
the  Emperor  for  his  favorite  sister  Rochinara, 
during  their  progress  to  Cashmere,  some 
years  before ;  and  never  was  there  a  more 
sparkling  assemblage  of  sweets,  since  the 
Gulzar-e-Irem,  or  Rose-bower  of  Irem. 
Every  precious  flower  was  there  to  be  found 
that  poetry,  or  love,  or  religion  has  ever 
consecrated — from  the  dark  hyacinth,  to 
which  Hafi  compares  his  mistress's  hair,  to 
the  Cdmaldta^  by  whose  rosy  blossoms  the 
heaven  of  Indra  is  scented.1  As  they  sat  in 
the  cool  fragrance  of  this  delicious  spot,  and 
Lalla  Rookh  remarked  that  she  could  fancy 
it  the  abode  of  that  flower-loving  nymph 
whom  they  worship  in  the  temples  of  Kathay, 
or  of  one  of  those  Peris, — those  beautiful 
creatures  of  the  air,  who  live  upon  perfumes, 
and  to  whom  a  place  like  this  might  make 
some  amends  for  the  Paradise  they  have 
lost, — the  young  Poet,  in  whose  eyes  she 
appeared,  while  she  spoke,  to  be  one  of  the 
bright  spiritual  creatures  she  was  describing, 
said,  hesitatingly,  that  he  remembered  a 
story  of  a  Peri,  which,  if  the  princess  had  no 
Dbjection,  he  would  ventui-e  to  relate.  "  It 
is,"  said  he,  with  an  appealing  look  to  Fad- 
ladeen,  "  in  a  lighter  and  humbler  strain  than 
the  other ;"  then,  striking  a  few  careless  but 
melancholy  chords  on  his  kitar,  he  thus 


PARADISE  AND  THE  PERI. 

ONE  morn  a  Peri  at  the  gate 
Of  Eden  stood  disconsolate  ; 
And  as  she  listen'd  to  the  springs 

Of  life  within,  like  music  flowing, 
And  caught  the  light  upon  her  wings 

Through  the  half-open  portal  glowing, 


•  "  The  Camalata  (called  by  Linnaeus,  Ipomcea)  is  the  most 
beautiful  of  its  order,  both  in  the  color  and  form  of  its  leaves 
and  flDwers ;  its  elegant  blossoms  are  'celestial  rosy  red, 
love's  proper  hue,'  and  have  justly  procured  it  the  name  of 
Cumalata.  or  Love's  Creeper." — Sir  W.  Jones., 

"Camalata  may  also  mcau  a  mythological  plant,  by  which 
all  desires  are  granted  to  euch  as  inhabit  the  heaven  of  Indra ; 
and  if  ever  flower  was  worthy  of  Paradise,  it  is  our  charming 
Ipnmnpa." — ff>. 


She  wept  to  think  her  1'ecreant  race 
Should  e'er  have  lost  that  glorious  place ! 

"How  happy,"  exclaim'd  this  child  of  air, 
"  Are  the  holy  spirits  who  wander  there, 

'Mid  flowers  that  never  shall  fade  or  fall; 
Though  mine  are  the  gardens  of  earth  and 

sea, 
And  the  stars  themselves  have  flowers  for  me. 

One  blossom  of  heaven  out-blooms  them  all ! 

Though  sunny  the  lake  of  cool  Cashmere, 
With  its  plane-tree  Isle  reflected  clear,3 

And  sweetly  the  founts  of  that  valley  fall ; 
Though  bright  are  the  waters  of  Sing-su-hay, 
And  the  golden  floods  that  thitherward  stray,' 
Yet — oh,  'tis  only  the  blest  can  say 

How  the  waters  of  heaven  outshine  them 
all! 

Go,  wing  thy  flight  from  star  to  star, 
From  world  to  luminous  world,  as  far 

As  the  universe  spreads  its  flaming  wall ; 
Take  all  the  pleasures  of  all  the  spheres, 
And  multiply  each  through  endless  years, 

One  minute  of  heaven  is  worth  them  all  !* 

The  glorious  Angel,  who  was  keeping 
The  Gates  of  Light,  beheld  her  weeping ; 
And,  as  he  nearer  drew  and  listen'd 
To  her  sad  song,  a  tear-drop  glisten'd 
Within  his  eyelids,  like  the  spray 

From  Eden's  fountain,  when  it  lies 
On  the  blue  flower,  which — Brahmins  sa« 

Blooms  nowhere  but  in  Paradise  !4 
"  Nymph  of  a  fair  but  erring  line  !" 
Gently  he  said — "  One  hope  is  thine. 
'Tis  written  in  the  Book  of  Fate, 

The  Peri  yet  may  be  forgiven 
Who  brings  to  this  eternal  gate 

The  gift  that  is  most  dear  to  Heave    t 
Go,  seek  it,  and  redeem  thy  sin ; — 
'Tis  sweet  to  let  the  pardon'd  in  1** 

Rapidly  as  comets  run 

To  the  embraces  of  the  sun : — 


*ke  of  Cait 


i  "  Numerous  small  islands  emerge  from  th 
mere." 

»  "  The  Allan  Kol  or  Golden  River  of  Tibf      as  abundance 
of  gold  in  its  sands."—  Pinkerton. 

*  "  The  Brahmins  of  this  province  insist  '  n»t  the  blue  Canv 
par,  flowers  only  in  Paradise."—  Sir  W.  Jot    i. 


1'OKMS  OF  THOMAS  MOOKK. 


109 


Fleeter  than  the  starry  brands 
Finns*  at  night  from  angel-hands' 
At  those  dark  and  daring  sprites, 
Who  would  climb  the  empyreal  heights, 
Down  the  blue  vault  the  Peri  Hies, 

And,  lighted  earthward  by  a  glance 
Tli at  just  then  broke  from  morning's  eyes, 

Hung  hovering  o'er  our  world's  expanse. 

Hut  whither  *hall  the  spirit  go 

To  find  this  gift  for  Heaven? — "I  know 

The  wealth,"  she  cries,  "  of  every  urn, 

In  which  unnumber'd  rubies  burn, 

Beneath  the  pillars  of  Chilminar  ;J 

I  know  where  the  Isles  of  Perfume  arc* 

Many  a  fathom  down  in  the  sea, 

To  the  south  of  sun-bright  Araby  ;4 — 

I  know,  too,  where  the  Genii  hid 

Thejewell'd  cup  of  their  king  Jamshid,' 

With  life's  elixir  sparkling  high — 

But  gifts  like  these  are  not  for  the  sky. 

Where  was  there  ever  a  gem  that  shone 

Like  the  steps  of  Alla's  wonderful  throne  ? 

And  the  drops  of  life — oh  !  what  would  they  be 

In  the  boundless  deep  of  eternity  ?" 

While  thus  she  mused,  her  pinions  fann'd 
Tht  air  of  that  sweet  Indian  land, 
"Whose  air  is  balm  ;  whose  ocean  spreads 
O'er  coral  banks  and  amber  beds  ;6 
Whose  mountains,  pregnant  by  the  beam 
Of  the  warm  sun,  with  diamonds  teem  ; 
Whose  rivulets  are  like  rich  brides, 
Lovely,  with  gold  beneath  their  tides  ; 


1  "The  Mohammedan*  s-uppose  that  Tailing  stars  arc  the 
firebrands  wherewith  the  good  angels*  drive  away  the  bad 
when  they  approach  too  near  the  empyreum  or  verge  of  the 
heavens." 

>  "The  Forty  Pillars— so  the  Persians  call  the  ruins  of  Per- 
si'polis.  It  is  imagined  by  them  that  this  palace,  and  the 
edifices  at  Baalbec,  were  built  by  Genii,  for  the  purpose  of 
biding  in  their  subterraneous  caverns  immense  treasures, 
which  still  remain  there." 

1  Diodorns  mentions  the  Isle  of  Panchaia,  to  the  south  of 
Arabia  Felix,  where  there  was  a  temple  to  Jupiter.  This  it- 
laud,  or  rather  cluster  of  isles,  has  disappeared—"  sunk  (says 
Grandorfi)  in  the  abyss  made  by  the  fire  beneath  their  foun- 
dations."— Voyage  to  the  Indian.  Ocean. 

4  The  Isles  of  Panchaia. 

*  "The  cup  of  Jamshid,  discovered,  they  say,  when  digging 
for  the  foundations  of  Persepolis." 

•  "  Like  the  Sea  of  India,  whose  bottom  is  rich  with  pearls 
and  ambergris,  whose  mountains  on  the  coast  are  stored  with 
gold  and  precious  stones,  whose  gulfs  breed  creatures  that 
yield  ivory,  and  among  the  plants  of  whose  shores  are  ebony, 
red  wood,  and  the  wood  of  Hainan,  aloes,  camphor,  cloves, 
•nodal-wood,  and  all  other  spices  and  aromatics;  where  par- 
rots and  peacocks  are  birds  of  the  forest,  and  musk  and  civet 
U«  '•'•Uectrd  upon  the  lands."—  T^arflf  of  f  IPO  Mnhnrninnlnn*. 


Whose  sandal-irroves  and  bowers  of  sp'.ce 
Might  be  a  Peri's  Paradi-e  ! 
But  crimson  now  her  rivers  ran 

With  human  blood — the  smell  of  death 
Came  reeking  from  those  spicy  bowers, 
And  man,  the  sacrifice  of  man, 

Mingled  his  taint  with  every  breath 
Upwafted  from  the  innocent  flowers  ! 
Land  of  the  Sun  !  what  foot  invades 
Thy  pagodsand  thy  pillar'd  shades7 — 
Thy  cavern  shrines  and  idol  stones, 
Thy  monarchs  and  their  thousand  thrones  F 
'Tis  he  of  Gazna' — fierce  in  wrath 

He  comes,  and  India's  diadems 
Lie  scatter'd  in  his  ruinous  path. — 

His  bloodhounds  he  adorns  with  gems, 
Torn  from  the  violated  necks 

Of  many  a  young  and  loved  Sultana;1* 

Maidens  within  their  pure  Zenana, 

Priests  in  the  very  fane,  he  slaugh 
And  chokes  up  with  the  glittering  wrecks 

Of  golden  shrines  the  sacred  waters! 

Downward  the  Peri  turns  her  gaze, 
And  through  the  war-field's  bloody  haze. 
Beholds  a  youthful  warrior  stand, 

Alone,  beside  his  native  river, — 
The  red  blade  broken  in  his  hand 

And  the  last  arrow  in  his  quivei. 
"  Live,"  said  the  Conqueror,  "  live  to  share 
The  trophies  and  the  crowns  I  bear !" 
Silent  that  youthful  warrior  stood — 
Silent  he  pointed  to  the  flood 
All  crimson  with  his  country's  blood, 
Then  sent  his  last  remaining  dart, 
For  answer,  to  the  invader's  heart. 
False  flew  the  shaft,  though  pointed  well ; 
The  tyrant  lived,  the  here  fell ! — 
Yet  rnark'd  the  Peri  where  he  lay, 

And  when  the  rush  of  war  was  past, 
Swiftly  descending  on  a  ray 

Of  morning  light,  she  caught  the  last 


'  ••  The  bended  twigs  take  root,  and  daughters  grow, 
About  the  mother-tree,  a  pUlar'd  thad«."—3IUton. 

•  "  With    this   immense   treasure   Mamood    returned    to 
Ohizni,  and  in  the  year  400  prepared  a  magnificent  festival, 
where  he  displayed  to  the  people  his  wealth  in  golden  throaet 
and  other  ornaments,  in  a  great  plain  without  the  city  of 
Ohizni."— Ferithta. 

•  "Mahmoud  of  Gazna,  or  Glii/ni.  who  conquered  India  in 
the  beginning  of  the  eleventh  centiny." 

»•  "It  Is  reported  that  the  huntini;  equipage  of  the  SnlUB 
Mahmoud  was  so  magnificent,  that  he  kopt  Tour  hundred  _-r- » 
hounds  and  bloodhounds,  each  of  which  \\  ore  a  colfcr  set  \\  uk 
jewels,  and  a  covering  edged  with  go'd  and  pear*/ 


110 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


Last  glorious  drop  his  heart  had  shed, 
Before  its  free-born  spirit  fled ! 

"  Be  this,"  she  cried,  as  she  wing'd  her  flight, 
"  My  welcome  gift  at  the  Gates  of  Light. 
Though  foul  are  the  drops  that  oft  distil 

On  the  field  of  warfare,  blood  like  this, 

For  Liberty  shed,  so  holy  is,1 
It  would  not  stain  the  purest  rill 

That  sparkles  among  the  bowers  of  bliss ! 
Oh  !  if  there  be,  on  this  earthly  sphere, 
A  boon,  an  offering  Heaven  holds  dear, 
'Tis  the  last  libation  Liberty  draws 
From  the  heart  that  bleeds  and  breaks  in 
her  cause. 

"  Sweet,"  said  the  Angel,  as  she  gave 

The  gift  into  his  radiant  hand, 
"  Sweet  is  our  welcome  of  the  brave 

Who  die  thus  for  their  native  land. — 
But  see — alas  ! — the  crystal  bar 
Of  Eden  moves  not — holier  far 
Than  even  this  drop  the  boon  must  be 
That  opes  the  gates  of  heaven  for  thee !" 

Her  first  fond  hope  of  Eden  blighted, 

Now  among  Afric's  Lunar  Mountains,9 
Far  to  the  south,  the  Peri  lighted ; 

And  sleek'd  her  plumage  at  the  fountains 
Of  that  Egyptian  tide,  whose  birth 
Is  hidden  from  the  sons  of  earth, 
Deep  in  those  solitary  woods, 
Where  oft  the  Genii  of  the  Floods 
Dance  round  the  cradle  of  their  Nile, 
And  hail  the  new-born  Giant's  smile  !s 
Thence,  over  Egypt's  palmy  groves, 
Her  grots,  and  sepulchres  of  kings,4 


1  Objections  may  be  made  to  my  use  of  the  word  liberty,  in 
this,  and  more  especially  in  the  story  that  follows  it,  as  totally 
inapplicable  to  any  state  of  things  that  has  ever  existed  in  the 
Eaet ;  but  though  I  cannot,  of  course,  mean  to  employ  it  in 
that  enlarged  and  noble  sense  which  is  so  well  understood  at 
the  present  day,  and,  I  grieve  to  say,  so  little  acted  upon,  yet 
it  is  no  disparagement  to  the  word  to  apply  it  to  that  national 
independence,  that  freedom  from  the  interference  and  dicta- 
tion of  foreigners,  without  which,  indeed,  no  VB»erty  of  any 
kind  can  exist,  and  for  which  both  Hindoos  and  Persians 
fought  against  their  Mussulman  invaders  with,  in  many  cases, 
a  bravery  that  deserved  much  better  success. 

*  "  The  Mountains  of  the  Moon,  or  the  Monies  Lunce  of  an- 
tiquity, at  the  foot  of  which  the  Nile  is  supposed  to  arise." 

"  Sometimes  called,"  says  Jackson,  "  Jibbel  Kumrie,  or  the 
White  or  Lunar-colored  Mountains ;  so  a  white  horse  is  called 
by  the  Arabians  a  moon-colored  horse." 

1  "The  Nile,  which  the  Abyssinians  know  by  the  name  of 
Abey  and  Alawy,  or  the  Giant." 

4  Vide  Perry's  "  \  iew  of  the  Levant,"  for  an  account  of  the 


The  exiled  Spirit  sighing  roves ; 
And  now  hangs  listening  to  the  doves 
In  warm  Rosetta's  vale' — now  loves 

To  watch  the  moonlight  on  the  wings 
Of  the  white  pelicans  that  break 
The  azure  calm  of  Mceris  Lake.* 
'Twas  a  fair  scene — a  land  more  bright 

Never  did  mortal  eye  behold  ! 
Who  could  have  thought,  that  saw  this  night 

Those  valleys  and  their  fruits  of  gold 
Basking  in  heaven's  serenest  light ; — 
Those  groups  of  lovely  date-trees  bending 

Languidly  their  leaf-crown'd  heads, 
Like  youthful  maids,  when  sleep  descending 

Warns  them  to  their  silken  beds  ;T — 
Those  virgin  lilies,  all  the  night 

Bathing  their  beauties  in  the  lake, 
That  they  may  rise  more  fresh  and  bright 

When  their  beloved  Sun's  awake ; — 
Those  ruin'd  shrines  and  towers  that  seem 
The  relics  of  a  splendid  dream; 

Amid  whose  fairy  loneliness 
Naught  but  the  lapwing's  cry  is  heard, 
Naught  seen  but  (when  the  shadows,  flitting 
Fast  from  the  moon,  unsheath  its  gleam) 
Some  purple- wing'd  Sultana*  sitting 

Upon  a  column,  motionless 
And  glittering,  like  an  idol-bird  ! — 
Who  could  have  thought,  that  there,  even 

there, 

Amid  those  scenes  so  still  and  fair, 
The  Demon  of  the  Plague  hath  cast 
From  his  hot  wing  a  deadlier  blast, 
More  mortal  far  than  ever  came 
From  the  red  desert's  sands  of  flame ! 
So  quick,  that  every  living  thing 
Of  human  shape,  touch'd  by  his  wing, 
Like  plants  where  the  simoom  hath  pass'd> 
At  once  falls  back  and  withering ! 
The  sun  went  down  on  many  a  brow, 

Which,  full  of  bloom  and  freshness  then, 
Is  rankling  in  the  pesthouse  now, 

And  ne'er  will  feel  that  sun  again  ! 


sepulchres  in  Upper  Thebes,  and  the  numberless  grots,  cov- 
ered all  over  with  hieroglyphics,  in  the  mountains  of  Tipper 
Egypt. 

•  "  The  orchards  of  Rosetta  are  filled  with  turtle-deves." 

•  Savary  mentions  the  pelicans  upon  Lake  Mceris. 

7  "The  superb  date-tree,  whose  head  languidly  recline? 
like  that  of  a  handsome  woman  overcome  with  sleep." 

8  "  That  beautiful  bird,  which,  from  the  stateliness  of  '*s 
port,  as  well  as  the  brilliancy  of  ita  colors,  has  obtained  th« 
title  of  Sultana." 


POEMS  OF  Tlln.MAS   MCM>|;I:. 


Ill 


And  oh !  to  see  the  unburied  heaps 
On  which  the  lonely  moonlight  sleeps — 
rhe  very  vultures  turn  away, 
And  sicken  at  so  foul  a  prey  ! 
Only  the  fierce  hysena  stalks1 
Throughout  the  city's  desolate  walks 
At  midnight,  and  his  carnage  plies — 

Woe  to  the  half-dead  wretch,  who  meets 
The  glaring  of  those  large  blue  eyes 

Amid  the  dai'kness  of  the  streets  ! 

"  Poor  race  of  men  !"  said  the  pitying  spirit, 
"  Dearly  ye  pay  for  your  primal  fall — 

Some  flowerets  of  Eden  ye  still  inherit, 
But  the  trail  of  the  serpent  is  over  them 
all !" 

She  wept — the  air  grew  pure  and  clear 
Around  her,  as  the  bright  drops  ran ; 

For  there's  a  magic  in  each  tear 

o 

Such  kindly  spirits  weep  for  man  ! 

Just  then,  beneath  some  orange-trees, 
Whose  fruit  and  blossoms  in  the  breeze 
Were  wantoning  together,  free, 
Like  age  at  play  with  infancy — 
Beneath  that  fresh  and  springing  bower, 

Close  by  the  lake,  she  heard  the  moan 
Of  one  who,  at  this  silent  hour, 

Had  thither  stolen  to  die  alone. 
One  who  in  life,  where'er  he  moved, 

Drew  after  him  the  hearts  of  many ; 
Yet  now,  as  though  he  ne'er  were  loved, 

Dies  here,  unseen,  unwept  by  any  ! 
None  to  watch  near  him — none  to  slake 

The  fire  that  in  his  bosom  lies, 
With  even  a  sprinkle  from  that  lake 

Which  shines  so  cool  before  his  eyes. 
No  voice,  well  known  through  many  a  day, 

To  speak  the  last,  the  parting  word, 
'Which,  when  all  other  sounds  decay, 

Is  still  like  distant  music  heard ; — 
That  tender  farewell  on  the  shore 
<  )f  this  rude  world,  when  all  is  o'er, 


1  Jackson,  speaking  of  thu  plague  that  occurred  In  West 
Barbary  wtien  he  was  there.  »ay*.  "  The  bird?  of  the  air  fled 
away  from  the  abodes  of  men.  The  hyaenas,  on  the  contrary, 
visited  the  cemeteries,'  •  &c. 

"  Gondar  was  full  of  hya-ims  from  the  time  it  turned  dark  till 
the  dawn  of  day,  seeking  the  different  pieces  of  slaughtered 
carcasses,  which  this  cruel  and  unclean  people  expose  In  the 
streets  without  burial,  and  who  firmly  believe  that  these  ani- 
mals are  Falashta  from  the  neighboring  mountains,  trann- 
formed  by  magic,  and  come  down  to  eat  human  flesh  in  the 
dark  is  safety."  -Hruc*. 


Which  cheers  the  spirit,  ere  its  bark 
Puts  off  into  the  unknown  dark. 

Deserted  youth  !  one  thought  alone 

Shed  joy  around  his  soul  in  death — 
That  she,  whom  he  for  years  had  known, 
And  loved,  and  might  have  call'd  his  own. 
Was    safe     from     this     foul     midnight'* 

breath ; — 

Safe  in  her  father's  princely  halls, 
Where  the  cool  air  from  fountains  falls, 
Freshly  perfumed  by  many  a  brand 
Of  the  sweet  wood  from  India's  land, 
Were  pure  as  she  whose  brow  they  fann'd. 

But  see,  who  yonder  comes  by  stealth, 

This  melancholy  bower  to  seek, 
Like  a  young  envoy  sent  by  Health, 

With  rosy  gifts  upon  her  cheek  ? 
'Tis  she — far  off,  through  moonlight  dim, 

He  knew  his  own  betrothed  bride, 
She  who  would  rather  die  with  him 

Than  live  to  gain  the  world  beside! — 
Her  arms  are  round  her  lover  now, 
His  livid  cheek  to  hers  she  presses, 
And  dips,  to  bind  his  burning  brow, 

In  the  cool  lake,  her  loosen'd  tresses. 
Ah  !  once,  how  little  did  he  think 
An  hour  would  come  when  he  should  shrink 
With  horror  from  that  dear  embrace, 

Those  gentle  arms,  that  were  to  him 
Holy  as  is  the  cradling  place 

Of  Eden's  infant  cherubim  ! 
And  now  he  yields — now  turns  away, 
Shuddering  as  if  the  venom  lay 
All  in  those  proffer'd  lips  alone — 
Those  lips  that,  then  so  fearless  grown, 
Never  until  that  instant  came 
Near  his  unask'd,  or  without  shame. 
"  Oh  !  let  me  only  breathe  the  air, 

The  blessed  air  that's  breathed  by  thee, 
And,  whether  on  its  wings  it  bear 

Iloaling  or  death,  'tis  sweet  to  me ! 
There, — drink  my  tears,  while  yrt  thry  fall,— 

Would  that  my  bosom's  blood  wen-  liaim, 
And,  well  thou  knowst,  I'd  shed  it  all, 

To  give  thy  brow  one  mimitr's  calm. 
N"ay,  turn  not  from  me  that  dear  faoo — 

Am  I  not  thine — thy  own  loved  bride — 
The  one,  the  chosen  one,  whose  place 
In  life  or  death  is  by  thy  side  ? 


llli 


POEMS  O*'  THOMAS  MOO11E. 


Thinkst  thou  that  she,  whose  only  light 

In  this  dim  world  from  thee  hath  shone, 
Could  bear  the  long,  the  cheerless  night 

That  must  be  hers  when  thou  art  gone  ? 
That  I  can  live,  and  let  thee  go, 
Who  art  my  life  itself? — No,  no — 
When  the  stem  dies,  the  leaf  that  grew 
Out  of  its  heart  must  perish  too  ! 
Then  turn  to  me,  my  own  love,  turn, 
Before  like  thee  I  fade  and  burn  ; 
Cling  to  these  yet  cool  lips,  and  share 
The  last  pure  life  that  lingers  there !" 
She  fails — she  sinks — as  dies  the  lamp 
In  charnel-airs  or  cavern-damp, 
So  quickly  do  his  baleful  sighs 
Quench  all  the  sweet  light  of  her  eyes  ! 
One  struggle — and  his  pain  is  past — 

Her  lover  is  no  longer  living  ! 
One  kiss  the  maiden  gives,  one  last, 

Long  kiss,  which  she  expires  in  giving ! 

"  Sleep,"  said  the  Peri,  as  softly  she  stole 
The  farewell  sigh  of  that  vanishing  soul, 
As  true  as  e'er  warm'd  a  woman's  breast — 
"  Sleep  on — in  visions  of  odor  rest, 
In  balmier  airs  than  ever  yet  stirr'd 
The  enchanted  pile  of  that  holy  bird 
Who  sings  at  the  last  his  own  death  lay,1 
And  in  music  and  perfume  dies  away !" 

Thus  saying,  from  her  lips  she  spread 

Unearthly  breathings  through  the  place, 
And  shook  her  spai-kling  wreath,  and  shed 

Such  lustre  o'er  each  paly  face, 
That  like  two  lovely  saints  they  seem'd 

Upon  the  eve  of  doomsday  taken 
From  their  dim  graves,  in  odor  sleeping  ; — 

While  that  benevolent  Peri  beam'd 
Like  their  good  angel,  calmly  keeping 

WTatch    o'er   them   till  their  souls  would 
waken ! 

But  morn  is  blushing  in  the  sky ; 

Again  the  Peri  soars  above, 
Bearing  to  Heaven  that  precious  sigh 

Of  pure,  self-sacrificing  love. 


High  throbb'd  her  heart,  with  hope  elate, 

The  Elysian  palm  she  soon  shall  win, 
For  the  bright  spirit  at  the  gate 

Smiled  as  she  gave  that  offering  in  ; 
And  she  already  hears  the  trees 

Of  Eden,  with  their  crystal  bells 
Ringing  in  that  ambrosial  breeze 

That  from  the  throne  of  Alia  ewells : 
And  she  can  see  the  starry  bowls 

That  lie  around  that  lucid  lake. 
Upon  whose  banks  admitted  souls 

Their  first  sweet  draught  of  glory  take  !" 

But  ah  !  even  Peris'  hopes  are  vain — 

Again  the  Fates  forbade,  again 

The  immortal  barrier  closed — "  Not  yet," 

The  Angel  said,  as,  with  regret, 

He  shut  from  her  that  glimpse  of  glory — 

"  True  was  the  maiden,  and  her  story, 

Written  in  light  o'er  Alia's  head, 

By  seraph  eyes  shall  long  be  read. 

But,  Peri,  see — the  crystal  bar 

Of  Eden  moves  not — holier  far 

Than  even  this  sigh  the  boon  must  be 

That  opes  the  Gates  of  Heaven  for  th-ee." 

Now,  upon  Syria's  land  of  roses' 
Softly  the  light  of  Eve  reposes, 
And,  like  a  glory,  the  broad  sun 
Haners  over  sainted  Lebanon  : 

O  7 

Whose  head  in  wintry  grandeur  towers, 
And  whitens  with  eternal  sleet, 

While  summer,  in  a  vale  of  flowers, 
Is  sleeping  rosy  at  his  feet. 

To  one  who  look'd  from  upper  air 
O'er  all  the  enchanted  regions  there, 
How  beauteous  must  have  been  the  giow, 
The  life,  the  sparkling  fro-m  below  ! 
Fair  gardens,  shining  streams,  with  ranks 
Of  golden  melons  on  their  banks, 

O  f 

More  golden  where  the  sun-light  falls  j — 
Gay  lizards,  glittering  on  the  walls* 
Of  ruin'd  shrines,  busy  and  bright 


1  "In  the  East  they  suppose  the  Phoenix  to  have  fifty  orifi- 
ces it  his  bill,  which  are  continued  to  his  tail ;  and  that,  after 
living  one  thousand  years,  he  builds  himself  a  funeral  pile, 
*ings  a  melodious  air  of  different  harmonies  through  his  fifty 
organ  pipes,  flaps  his  winjjs  with  a  velocity  which  sets  tire  to 
tie  wood,  and  consumes  hiinse-if." 


a  On  the  shores  of  a  quadrangular  lake  stand  a  thousand 
goblets,  made  of  stars,  out  of  which  souls  predestined  to  enjoy 
felicity  drink  the  crystal  wave.— From  Chateaubriand's  "Mo- 
hammedan Paradise,"  in  his  Beauties  of  Christianity. 

8  Richardson  thinks  that  Syria  had  its  name  from  Suri,  a 
beautiful  and  delicate  species  of  rose  for  which  that  country- 
has  been  always  famous  ;— hence,  Suristan,  the  Land  of  Hose*. 

4  "  The  number  of  lizards  I  saw  one  day  in  the  great  court 
of  the  Temple  of  the  Sun  at  Baalbec  amounted  ir  many  tboo 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOO1JF, 


113 


As  they  were  all  alive  with  light; 

And,  yet  more  splendid,  numerous  flocks   • 

Of  pigeons,  settling  on  the  rocks, 

With  their  rich  restless  wings,  that  gleam 

Variously  in  the  crimson  beam 

Of  the  warm  west, — as  if  inlaid 

With  brilliants  from  the  mine,  or  made 

Of  tearless  rainbows,  such  as  span 

The  unclouded  skies  of  Peristan  ! 

And  then,  the  mingling  sounds  that  come, 

Of  shepherd's  ancient  reed,1  with  hum 

Of  the  wild  bees  of  Palestine, 

Banqueting  through  the  flowery  vales  ; — 
And,  Jordan,  those  sweet  banks  of  thine, 

And  woods,  so  full  of  nightingales  !a 

But  naught  can  charm  the  luckless  Peri ; 
Her  soul  is  sad — her  wings  are  weary — 
Joyless  she  sees  the  sun  look  down 
On  that  great  temple,  once  his  own,' 
Whose  lonely  columns  stand  sublime, 

Flinging  their  shadows  from  on  high, 
Like  dials,  which  the  wizard,  Time, 

Had  raised  to  count  his  ages  by  ! 

Yet  haply  there  may  lie  conceal'd 
Beneath  those  chambers  of  the  Sun, 

Seine  amulet  of  gems,  anneal'd 

In  upper  fires,  some  tablet  seal'd 
With  the  great  name  of  Solomon, 
Which,  spell'd  by  her  illumined  eyes, 

May  teach  her  where,  beneath  the  moon, 

[n  earth  or  ocean  lies  the  boon, 

Che  charm,  that  can  restore  so  soon 
An  erring  spirit  to  the  skies. 

Cheer'd  by  this  hope  she  bends  her  thither ; — 
Still  laughs  the  radiant  eye  of  heaven, 
Nor  have  the  golden  bowers  of  even 

(n  the  rich  west  begun  to  wither ; — 

When,  o'er  the  vale  of  Baalbec  winging 
Slowly,  she  sees  a  child  at  play, 

Among  the  rosy  wild-flowers  singing, 
As  rosy  and  as  wild  as  they ; 

Chasing,  with  eager  hands  and  eyes, 


winds  ;  the  ground,  the  walls,  and  stones  of  the  ruined  build- 
ing* were  covered  with  them." — Bruce. 

1  "  The  syrinx,  or  Pan's  pipe,  is  still  a  pastoral  instrument 
In  Syria  " 

J  "  The  river  Jordan  is  on  both  sides  beset  with  little,  thick, 
and  pleasant  woods,  ainonj'  which  thousands  of  nightingales 
warble  all  together."—  TTitomot. 

1  The  Temple  of  the  Sun  at  Baalbec. 


The  beautiful  blue  damsel-fl 
That  flutter'd  round  the  jasmine  stems, 
Like  wing6d  flowers  or  flying  gems  : — 
And,  near  the  boy,  who  tired  with  play, 
Now  nestling  'mid  the  roses  lay, 
She  saw  a  wearied  man  dismount 

From  his  hot  steed,  and  on  the  brink 
Of  a  small  imaret's  rustic  fount* 

Impatient  fling  him  down  to  drink. 
Then  swift  his  haggard  brow  he  turn'd 

To  the  fair  child,  who  fearless  sat, 
Though  never  yet  hath  day-beam  burn'd 

Upon  a  brow  more  fierce  than  that, — 
Sullenly  tierce — a  mixture  dire, 
Like  thunder-clouds,  of  gloom  and  fire  1 
In  which  the  Peri's  eye  could  read 
Dark  tales  of  many  a  ruthless  deed  ; 
The  ruin'd  maid — the  shrine  profaned — 
Oaths  broken — and  the  threshold  stain'd 
With  blood  of  guests  ! — there  written,  all, 
Black  as  the  damning  drops  that  fall 
From  the  denouncing  Angel's  pen, 
Ere  Mercy  weeps  them  out  again  ! 

Yet  tranquil  now  that  man  of  crime 
(As  if  the  balmy  evening-time 
Soften'd  his  spirit)  look'd  and  lay, 
Watching  the  rosy  infant's  play : — 
Though  still,  whene'er  his  eye  by  chancr 
Fell  on  the  boy's,  its  lurid  glance 

Met  that  unclouded,  joyous  gaze 
As  torches,  that  have  burn'd  all  night 
Through  some  impure  and  godless  rite, 

Encounter  morning's  glorious  rays. 

But  hark!  the  vesper-call  to  prayer, 

As  slow  the  orb  of  daylight  sets, 
Is  rising  sweetly  on  the  air, 

From  Syria's  thousand  minarets  ! 
The  boy  has  started  from  the  bed* 
Of  flowers,  where  he  had  laid  his  head, 
And  down  upon  the  tVairrant  sod 


4  "  Yon  behold  there  a  considerable  number  of  a  remarkable 
species  of  beautiful  insects,  the  elegance  o.  wnosc  appear- 
ance, and  their  attire,  procured  for  them  the  name  of  Dam 
scls." 

*  Imaret  "  hospice  ou  on  loge  ct  mmrrlt,  gratis,  les  |>61erin» 
pendant  trois  jours." — Toderini. 

•  "Such  Turks  as  at  the  common  hours  of  prayer  are  on  the 
road,  or  so  employed  as  not  to  find  convenience  to  attend  the 
mosques,  are  still  obliged  to  execute  that  duty:  nor  are  they 
ever  known  to  (all,  whatever  business  they  are  then  about, 
but  pray  immediately  when  the  hour  alarms  them,  in  that 
very  place  they  chance  to  stand  on."—  Aaron  HUT*  Trvlt 


114 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


Kneels,  with  his  forehead  to  the  south, 
Lisping  the  eternal  name  of  God 

From  pui'ity's  own  cherub  mouth, 
And  looking,  while  his  hands  and  eyes 
Are  lifted  to  the  glowing  skies, 
Like  a  stray  babe  of  Paradise, 
Just  lighted  on  that  flowery  plain, 
And  seeking  for  its  home  again  ! 

Oh  'twas  a  sight — that  heaven — that  child — 
A  scene  which  might  have  well  beguiled 
Even  haughty  Eblis  of  a  sigh 
For  glories  lost  and  peace  gone  by ! 

And  how  felt  Ae,  the  wretched  man 
Reclining  there — while  memory  ran 
O'er  many  a  year  of  guilt  and  strife, 
Flew  o'er  the  dark  flood  of  his  life, 
Nor  found  one  sunny  resting-place, 
Nor  brought  him  back  one  branch  of  grace ! 
;'  There  was  a  time,"  he  said,  in  mild, 
Heart-humbled  tones,  "thou  blessed  child! 
When  young,  and  haply  pure  as  thou, 

I  look'd  and  pray'd  like  thee  ;  but  now — " 
He  hung  his  head — each  nobler  aim 

And  hope  and  feeling,  which  had  slept 
From  boyhood's  hour,  that  instant  came 

Fresh  o'er  him,  and  he  wept — he  wept ! 

Blest  tears  of  soul-felt  penitence  ! 

In  whose  benign,  redeeming  flow 
Is  felt  the  first,  the  only  sense 

Of  guiltless  joy  that  guilt  can  know. 
"  There's  a  drop,"  said  the  Peri,  "  that  down 

from  the  moon 

Falls  through  the  withering  airs  of  June 
Upon  Egypt's  land,1  of  so  healing  a  power, 
.So  balmy  a  virtue,  that  even  in  the  hour 
That  drop  descends,  contagion  dies, 
And  health  reanimates  earth  and  skies ! — 
Oh,  is  it  not  thus,  thou  man  of  sin, 

The  precious  tears  of  repentance  fall  ? 
Though  foul  thy  fiery  plagues  within, 

One   heavenly  drop   hath   dispell'd  them 

all !" 
And  now — behold  him  kneeling  there 

O 

By  the  child's  side,  in  humble  prayer, 
While  the  same  sunbeam  shines  upon 


1  The  Nncia,  or  Miraculous  Drop,  which  falls  in  Egypt  pre- 
llsely  on  St.  John's  Day,  in  June,  and  is  supposed  to  have  the 
iffect  of  stopping  the  plague. 


The  guilty  and  the  guiltless  one, 

And  hymns  of  joy  proclaim  through  heaven 

The  triumph  of  a  soul  forgiven  ! 

'Twas  when  the  golden  orb  had  set, 
While  on  their  knees  they  linger'd  yet, 
There  fell  a  light,  more  lovely  far 
Than  ever  came  from  sun  or  star, 
Upon  the  tear  that,  warm  and  meek, 
Dew'd  that  repentant  sinner's  cheek : 
To  mortal  eye  this  light  might  seem 
A  northern  flash  or  meteor  beam — 
But  well  the  enraptured  Peri  knew 
'Twas  a  bright  smile  the  Angel  threw 
From  heaven's  gate,  to  hail  that  tear 
Her  harbinger  of  glory  near  1 

"  Joy,  joy  forever !  my  task  is  done — 
The  Gates  are  pass'd,  and  heaven  is  won  ! 
Oh  !  am  I  not  happy  ?  I  am,  I  am — 

To  thee,  sweet  Eden !  how  dark  and  saJ 
Are  the  diamond  turrets  of  Shadukiam," 

And  the  fragrant  bowers  of-Amberabad  ! 

"  Farewell,  ye  odors  of  earth,  that  die, 
Passing  away  like  a  lover's  sigh ; — 
My  feast  is  now  of  the  Tooba  tree,3 
Whose  scent  is  the  breath  of  Eternity  ! 

"  Farewell,  ye  vanishing  flowers,  that  shone 
In  my  fairy  wreath,  so  bright  and  brief, — 

Oh,  what  are  the  brightest  that  e'er  have 
blown, 

To  the  lote-tree  spring  by  Alla's  throne,4 
Whose  flowers  have  a  soul  in  every  leaf! 

Joy,  joy  forever! — my  task  is  done — 

The  gates  are  pass'd,  and  heaven  is  won !" 


"  And  this,"  said  the  Great  Chamberlain, 
"  is  poetry  ! — this  flimsy  manufactTire  of  the 
brain,  which,  in  comparison  with  the  lofty 
and  durable  monuments  of  genius,  is  as  the 


a  The  Country  of  Delight — the  name  of  a  province  in  the 
kingdom  of  Jinnistan  or  Fairy  Land,  the  capital  of  which  it 
called  "  The  City  of  Jewels."  Amherabad  is  another  of  the 
cities  of  Jinnistan. 

*  "  The  tree  Tooba,  that  stands  in  Paradise,  in  the  palace  of 
Mohammed." — Touba  signifies  eternal  happiness. 

4  Mohammed  is  described,  in  the  fifty-third  chapter  of  the 
Koran,  as  having  seen  the  angel  Gabriel  "  by  the  lote-tree, 
beyond  which  there  is  no  passing :  near  it  is  the  Garden  of 
Eternal  Abode."  This  tree,  say  the  commentators,  stands  in 
the  seventh  heaven,  OD  ihe  right  hand  of  the  throne  of  God. 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOO  I  IK. 


115 


filigree-work  of  Zamara  beside  the  eter- 
Jiul  architecture  of  Egypt!"  After  this 
gorgeous  sentence,  which,  with  a  few  more 
of  the  same  kind.  Fadladeen  kept  by  him  for 
rare  and  important  occasions,  he  proceeded 
to  the  anatomy  of  the  short  poem  just  re- 
cited. The  lax  and  easy  kind  of  metre  in 
which  it  was  written  ought  to  be  denounced, 
he  said,  as  one  of  the  leading  causes  of  the 
alarming  growth  of  poetry  in  our  times.  If 
some  check  were  not  given  to  this  lawless 
facility,  we  should  soon  be  overrun  by  a  race 
of  bards  as  numerous  and  as  shallow  as  the 
hundred  and  twenty  thousand  streams  of 
Basra. '  They  who  succeeded  in  this  style 
deserved  chastisement  for  their  very  success ; 
— as  warriors  have  been  punished,  even  after 
gaining  a  victory,  because  they  had  taken 
the  liberty  of  gaining  it  in  an  irregular  or 
unestablished  manner.  What,  then,  was  to 
be  said  to  those  who  failed  ? — to  those  who 
presumed,  as  in  the  present  lamentable  in- 
stance, to  imitate  the  licence  and  ease  of  the 
bolder  sons  of  song,  without  any  of  that 
grace  or  vigor  which  gave  a  dignity  even  to 
negligence; — who,  like  them,  flung  the 
jereed8  carelessly,  but  not  like  them,  to  the 
mark ; — "  and  who,"  said  he,  raising  his  voice 
to  excite  a  proper  degree  of  wakefulness  in 
his  hearers,  "  contrive  to  appear  heavy  and 
constrained  in  the  midst  of  all  the  latitude 
they  have  allowed  themselves,  like  one  of 
those  young  pagans  that  dance  before  the 
Princess,  who  has  the  ingenuity  to  move  as  if 
her  limbs  were  fettered,  in  a  pair  of  the  light- 
est and  loosest  drawers  of  Masulipatam  !" 

It  was  but  little  suitable,  he  continued,  to 
the  grave  march  of  criticism  to  follow  this 
fantastical  Peri,  of  whom  they  had  just 
heard,  through  all  her  flights  and  adventures 
between  earth  and  heaven,  but  he  could  not 
help  adverting  to  the  puerile  conceitedness 
of  the  Three  Gifts  which  she  is  supposed  to 
curry  to  the  skies, — a  drop  of  blood,  forsooth, 
a  sigh,  and  a  tear !  How  the  first  of  these 
articles  was  delivered  into  the  Angel's  "  radi- 
ant hand"  he  professed  himself  at  a  loss  to 

1  "  It  ie  paid  that  the  rivers  or  streams  of  Basra  were  reck- 
oned in  the  time  of  Belal  Ben  Abl  Bordeh,  and  amounted  to 
the  number  of  one  hundred  and  twenty  thousand  streams." 

i  "  The  name  of  the  javelin  with  which  the  Easterns  exer- 
ttae." 


discover ;  and  as  to  the  safe  carriage  of  tlio 
sigh  and  tear,  such  Peris  and  such  poets 
were  beings  by  far  too  incomprehensible  for 
him  even  to  guess  how  they  managed  such 
matters.  "  But,  in  short,"  said  he,  "  it  is  a 
waste  of  time  and  patience  to  dwell  longer 
upon  a  thing  so  incurably  frivolous, — puny 
even  among  its  own  puny  race,  and  such  as 
only  the  Banian  Hospital*  for  Sick  Insects 
should  undertake." 

In  vain  did  Lalla  Rookh  try  to  soften 
this  inexorable  critic ;  in  vain  did  she  resort 
to  her  most  eloquent  commonplaces, — re- 
minding him  that  poets  were  a  timid  and 
sensitive  race,  whose  sweetness  was  not  to 
be  drawn  forth,*  like  that  of  the  fragrant 
grass  near  the  Ganges,  by  crushing  and 
trampling  upon  them  ; — that  severity  often 
destroyed  every  chance  of  the  perfection 
which  it  demanded ;  and  that,  after  all,  per- 
fection was  like  the  Mountain  of  the  Talis- 
man,— no  one  had  ever  yet  reached  its 
summit.*  Neither  these  gentle  axioms,  nor 
the  still  gentler  looks  with  which  they  were 
inculcated,  could  lower  for  one  instant  the 
elevation  of  Fadladeen's  eyebrows,  or  charm 
him  into  anything  like  encouragement  or  even 
toleration  of  her  poet.  Toleration,  indeed, 
was  not  among  the  weaknesses  of  Fadladeen ; 
— he  cai'ried  the  same  spirit  into  matters  of 
poetry  and  of  religion,  and,  though  little 
versed  in  the  beauties  or  sublimities  of  either, 
was  a  perfect  master  of  the  art  of  persecution 
in  both.  His  zeal,  too,  was  the  same  in 
either  pursuit ;  whether  the  game  before  him 
was  pagans  or  poetasters, — worshippers  of 
cows,  or  writers  of  epics. 


*  "This  account  excited  a  desire  of  Tisiting  the  Banian 
Hoc pital,  as  I  had  heard  much  of  their  benevolence  to  all  kinds 
of  animals  that  were  either  sick,  lame,  or  infirm,  through  age 
or  accident.    On  ray  arrival  there  were  presented  to  my  view 
many  horses,  cows,  and  oxen,  in  one  apartment;  in  another, 
dogs,  sheep,  coats,  and  monkeys,  with  clean  straw  fur  them  to 
repose  on.    Above-stairs  were  depositories  for  seeds  of  many 
sorts,  and  flat,  broad  dishes  for  water,  for  the  nseof  birds  and 
insects."— Partorui. 

It  is  said  that  all  animals  know  the  Banians,  that  the  most 
timid  approach  them,  and  that  birds  will  fly  nearer  to  them 
than  to  ot her  people.— Vidt  Grandprv. 

«  "  A  very  fragrant  grass  from  the  banks  of  the  Ganges,  near 
Heridwar,  which  in  some  places  covers  whole  acres,  and  dlf 
roses  when  crushed  a  strong  odor."— Sir  W,  Jontt  on  Uu 
Spikenard  of  tht  Anciml*. 

•  "Near  this  is  a  curious  hill,  called  KohTallsm,  the  'Moun- 
tain of  the  Talisman,'  because,  according  to  the  tradltlocs  r  f 
the  country,  no  person  tver succeeded  in  gaining  lu  summit " 


116 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


They  had  now  arrived  at  the  splendid  city 
of  Lahore,  whose  mausoleums  and  shrines, 
magnificent  and  numberless,  where  death 
seemed  to  share  equal  honors  with  Heaven, 
would  have  powerfully  affected  the  heart  and 
imagination  of  Lalla  Rookh,  if  feelings  more 
of  this  earth  had  not  taken  entire  possession 
of  her  already.  She  was  here  met  by  mes- 
sengers, despatched  from  Cashmere,  who  in- 
formed her  that  the  King  had  arrived  in  the 
valley,  and  was  himself  superintending  the 
sumptuous  preparations  that  were  making  in 
the  saloons  of  the  Shalimar  for  lie-r  reception. 
.The  chill  she  felt  on  receiving  this  intelli- 
gence,— which  to  a  bride  whose  heart  w:is 
free  and  light  would  have  brought  only 
images  of  affection  and  pleasure, — convinced 

O  -f.  J 

her  that  her  peace  was  gone  forever,  and 
that  she  was  in  love — irretrievably  in  love — 
with  young  Feramorz.  The  veil,  which  this 
passion  wears  at  first,  had  fallen  off,  and  to 
know  that  she  loved  was  now  as  painful  as  to 
love  without  knowing  it  had  been  delicious. 
Feramorz  too — what  misery  would  be  his,  if 
the  sweet  hours  of  intercourse  so  imprudently 
allowed  them  should  have  stolen  into  his 
heart  the  same  fatal  fascination  as  into  hers; 
if,  notwithstanding  her  rank,  and  the  modest 
homage  he  always  paid  to  it,  even  he  should 
have  yielded  to  the  ir.ri'Aence  of  those  long 
and  happy  interviews,  where  music,  poetry, 
the  delightful  scenes  of  Tiature — all  tended 
to  bring  their  hearts  close  together,  and  to 
waken,  by  every  mesns,  that  too  ready  pas- 
sion, which  often,  like  the  young  of  the 
desert-bii'd,  is  warmed  into  life  by  the  eyes 
alone  I1  She  saw  but  one  way  to  preserve 
herself  from  being  culpable  as  well  as  un- 
happy, and  this,  however  painful,  she  was 
resolved  to  adopt.  Feramorz  must  no  more 
be  admitted  to  her  presence.  To  have 
strayed  so  far  into  the  dangerous  labyrinth 
was  wrong,  but  to  linger  in  it,  while  the  clue 
was  yet  in  her  hand,  would  be  criminal. 
Though  the  heart  she  had  to  offer  to  the 
Kinor  of  Bucharia  might  be  cold  and  broken. 

O  •       C9  ' 

it  should  at  least  be  pure  :  and  she  must  only 
try  to  forget  the  short  vision  of  happiness  she 
had  enjoyed, — like  that  Arabian  shepherd, 


>  "The  Arabians  believe  that  the  ostriches  hatch  their 
rounu  by  only  looking  at  them." 


who,  in  wandering  into  the  wilderness, 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  Gardens  of  Irira 
and  then  lost  them  again  forever  !* 

The  arrival  of  the  young  Bride  at  Lahore 
was  celebrated  in  the  most  enthusiastic  man- 
ner. The  Rajas  and  Omras  in  her  train, 
who  had  kept  at  a  certain  distance  during 
the  journey,  had  never  encamped  nearer  to 
the  Princess  than  was  strictly  necessary  for 
her  safeguard,  here  rode  in  splendid  caval- 
cade through  the  city,  and  distributed  the 
most  costly  presents  to  the  crowd.  Engines 
were  erected  in  all  the  squares,  which  cast 
forth  showers  of  confectionery  among  the 
people ;  while  the  artisans,  in  chariots 
adorned  with  tinsel  and  flying  streamers,  ex- 
hibited the  badges  of  their  respective  trades 
through  the  streets.  Such  brilliant  disulays 
of  life  and  pageantry  among  the  palaces,  and 
domes,  and  gilded  minarets  of  Lahore,  made 
the  city  altogether  like  a  place  of  enchant- 
ment— particularly  on  the  day  when  Lalla 
Rookh  set  out  again  upon  her  journey,  when 
she  was  accompanied  to  the  gate  by  all  the 
fairest  and  richest  of  the  nobility,  and  rode 
along  between  ranks  of  beautiful  boys  and 
girls,  who  waved  plates  of  gold  and  silver 
flowers  over  their  heads3  as  they  went,  and 
then  threw  them  to  be  gathered  by  the 
populace. 

For  many  days  after  their  departure  frcm 
Lahore,  a  considerable  degree  of  gloom  hung 
over  the  whole  party.  Lalla  Rookh,  who 
had  intended  to  make  illness  her  excuse  for 
not  admitting  the  young  minstrel,  as  usual, 
to  the  pavilion,  soon  found  that  to  feign  in- 
disposition was  unnecessary.  Fadladeen  felt 
the  loss  of  the  good  road  they  had  hitherto 
travelled,  and  was  very  near  cursing  Jehan- 
Guire  (of  blessed  memory  !)  for  not  having 
continued  his  delectable  alley  of  trees,4  at 


2  Vide  Sale's  Koran,  note,  vol.  ii.,  p.  484. 

3  Ferishta. 

"  Or  rather,"  eays  Scott,  upon  the  passage  of  FerishU, 
frcm  which  this  is  taken,  "  small  coin,  stamped  with  the  figure 
of  a  flower.  They  are  still  used  in  India  to  distribute  in  char- 
ity, and,  on  occasion,  thrown  by  the  pursebearers  of  the  great 
among  the  populace." 

4  The  fine  road  made  by  the  Emperor  Jehan-Guire  from 
Agra  to  Lahore,  planted  with  trees  on  each  side. 

Thjs  road  is  250  leagues  in  length.  It  has  "  little  pyramids 
or  turrets,"  says  Bernier,  "  erected  every  half  league,  to  mark 
the  ways,  and  freq»ent  wells  to  afford  drink  to  passengers,  and 
to  water  the  yountr  trees  " 


POEMS   OF  THOMAS  MOO! IK. 


117 


Ka<t  as  tar  as  the  mountains  of  Cashmere; — 
while  tin-  ladie>,  who  had  nothing  now  to  do 
all  day  but  to  be  fanned  by  peacocks'  feath- 
ers and  listen  to  Fadladeen,  seemed  heartily 
weary  of  t*ie  life  they  led,  and,  in  spite  of  all 
the  Great  Chamberlain's  criticisms,  were 
tasteless  enough  to  wish  for  the  poet  again. 
One  evening,  as  they  were  proceeding  to 
their  place  of  rest  for  the  night,  the  Princess, 
who,  for  the  freer  enjoyment  of  the  air.,  had 
mounted  her  favorite  Arabian  palfrey,  in 
passing  by  a  small  grove  heard  the  notes  of 
a  lute  from  within  its  leaves,  and  a  voice, 
which  she  but  too  well  knew,  singing  the 

i  O          O 

following  words : — 

"  Tell  me  not  of  joys  above, 

If  that  world  can  give  no  bliss, 
Truer,  happier  thau  the  love 
Which  enslaves  our  souls  in  this  ! 

"  Tell  me  not  of  Houris'  eyes ; — 

Far  from  me  their  dangerous  glow, 
If  those  looks  that  light  the  skies 
Wound  like  sonic  that  burn  below  ! 

"  Who  that  feels  what  love  is  here, 
All  its  falsehood — all  its  pain — 
Would,  for  even  Elysium's  sphere, 
Risk  the  fatal  dream  again  ? 

*  Who  that  midst  a  desert's  heat 

Sees  the  waters  fade  away, 
Would  not  rather  die  than  meet 
Streams  again  as  false  as  they  ?" 

The  tone  of  melancholy  defiance  in  which 
these  words  were  uttered,  went  to  Lalla 
llookh's  heart ; — and,  as  she  reluctantly  rode 
on,  she  could  not  help  feeling  it  as  a  sad  but 
sweet  certainty,  that  Feramorz  was  to  the 
full  as  enamored  and  miserable  as  herself. 

The  place  where  they  encamped  that  even- 
ing was  the  first  delightful  spot  they  had 
come  to  since  they  left  Lahore.  On  one  side 
of  them  was  a  grove  full  of  small  Hindoo 
temples,  and  planted  with  the  most  graceful 
trees  of  the  East ;  where  the  tamarind,  the 
cassia,  and  the  silken  plantains  of  Ceylon 
were  mingled  in  rich  contrast  with  the  high 
fan-like  foliage  of  the  Palmyra, — that  favor- 
ite tree  of  the  luxurious  bird  that  lights  up 
the  chambers  of  its  nest  with  fire-flies.'  In 


'  "  The  baya.  or  Indian  gross-beak." 


the  middle  of  the  lawn  where  the  pavilion 
Mom!,  there  was  a  tank  surrounded  by  small 
mango-trees,  on  the  clear  cold  waters  of 
which  floated  multitudes  of  the  beautiful  r«-d 
lotus;*  while  at  a  distance  stood  the  ruin* 
of  a  strange  and  awful-looking  tower,  which 
seemed  old  enough  to  have  been  the  temple 
of  some  religion  no  longer  known,  and  which 
spoke  the  voice  of  desolation  in  the  midst  of 
ail  that  bloom  and  loveliness.  This  singular 
ruin  excited  the  wonder  and  conjectures  of 
all.  Lalla  Kookh  guessed  in  vain,  and  the 
all-pretending  Fadladeen,  who  had  never  till 
this  journey  been  beyond  the  precincts  of 
Delhi,  was  proceeding  most  learnedly  to 
show  that  he  knew  nothing  whatever  about 
the  matter,  when  one  of  the  ladies  suggested 
that  perhaps  Feramorz  could  satisfy  their 
curiosity.  They  were  now  approaching  his 
native  mountains,  and  this  tower  might  be  a 
relic  of  some  of  those  dark  superstitions 
which  had  prevailed  in  that  country  before 
the  light  of  Islam  had  dawned  upon  it.  The 
Chamberlain,  who  usually  preferred  his  own 
ignorance  to  the  best  knowledge  that  any 
one  else  could  give  him,  was  by  no  means 
pleased  with  this  officious  reference ;  and  the 
Princess,  too,  was  about  to  interpose  a  faint 
word  of  objection,  but,  before  either  of  them 
could  speak,  a  slave  was  despatched  for  Fer- 
amorz, who,  in  a  very  few  minutes,  appeared 
before  them, — looking  so  pale  ami  unhappy 
in  Lalla  Rookh's  eyes,  that  she  already  re- 
pented of  her  cruelty  in  having  so  long  ex- 
cluded him. 

That  venerable  tower,  he  told  them,  was 
the  remains  of  an  ancient  Fire-Temple,  built 
by  those  Ghebers  or  Persians  of  the  old  re- 
ligion, who,  many  hundred  years  since,  had 
fled  hither  from  their  Arab  conquerors/  pre- 
ferring liberty  and  their  altars  in  a  foreign 
land  to  the  alternative  of  apostasy  or  p< 
cution  in  their  own.  It  was  impossible,  he 
added,  not  to  feel  interested  in  the  many 


*  "  Here  is  a  large  pagoda  by  a  tank,  on  the  water  of  which 
float  multitude?  of  the  beautiful  red  lotus  ;  the  flower  if  larger 
than  that  of  the  white  water-lily,  and  is  the  most  lovely  of  the 
nymphtcas  I  have  seen."— Mrt.  GraAatn't  Journal  qf  a  Betl- 
dence  in  India. 

«  "On  ICH  volt,  pensdcute's  par  les  KSalife*.  »e  rotlrcrdan* 
let  montagncBdu  Herman:  plnsieure  choifircnt  pour  retra.i* 
la  Tartarie  et  la  Chine ;  d'autres  s'arCterrnt  snr  les  txmU  di 
Gange,  a  1'ust  dc  Delhi."-lT.  AnywtU,  Mfmoirtt  dt  F  AcuA 
tmie.  torn,  zxzi.,  p.  34«. 


118 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


glorious  hut  unsuccessful  struggles  which 
had  been  bade  by  these  original  natives  of 
Persia  to  cast  off  the  yoke  of  their  bigoted 
conquerors.  Like  their  own  fire  in  the  Burn- 
ing Field  at  Bakou,  when  suppressed  in  one 
place,  they  had  but  broken  out  with  fresh 
flame  in  another ;  and,  as  a  native  of  Cash- 
mere, of  that  fair  and  holy  valley,  which  had 
in  the  same  manner  become  the  prey  of 
strangers,1  and  seen  her  ancient  shrines  and 
native  princes  swept  away  before  the  march 
of  her  intolerant  invaders,  he  felt  a  sympathy, 
he  owned,  with  the  sufferings  of  the  perse- 
cuted Ghebers,  which  every  monument  like 
this  before  them  but  tended  more  powerfully 
to  awaken. 

It  was  the  first  time  that  Feramorz  had 
ever  ventured  upon  so  much  prose  before 
Fadladeen,  and  it  may  easily  be  conceived 
what  effect  such  pi'ose  as  this  must  have 
produced  upon  that  most  orthodox  and  most 
pagan-hating  personage.  He  sat  for  some 
minutes  aghast,  ejaculating  only  at  intervals, 
"  Bigoted  conquerors  ! — sympathy  with  Fire- 
Worshippers  !"8 — while  Feramorz,  happy  to 
take  advantage  of  this  almost  speechless  hor- 
ror of  the  chamberlain,  proceeded  to  say  that 
he  knew  a  melancholy  story,  connected  with 
the  events  of  one  of  those  brave  struggles  of 
the  Fire- Worshippers  of  Persia  against  their 
Arab  masters,  which,  if  the  evening  was  not 
too  far  advanced,  he  should  have  much 
pleasure  in  being  allowed  to  relate  to  the 
Princess.  It  was  impossible  for  Lalla  Rookh 
to  refuse ; — he  had  never  before  looked  half 
so  animated,  and  when  he  spoke  of  the  Holy 
Valley  his  eyes  had  sparkled,  she  thought, 
like  the  talismanic  characters  on  the  scimitar 
of  Solomon.  Her  consent  was  therefore 
most  readily  granted,  and  while  Fadladeen 
eat  in  unspeakable  dismay,  expecting  treason 
and  abomination  in  every  line,  the  poet  thus 
began  his  story  of  the  Fire-Worshippers: — 


1  "  Cashmere,"  says  its  historians,  "  had  its  own  prince? 
4000  years  before  its  conquest  by  Akbar  in  1585.  Akbar  would 
have  found  some  difficilty  to  reduce  this  paradise  of  the  In- 
dies, situated  as  it  is  within  such  a  fortress  of  mountains,  but 
its  monarch,  Ynsef  Kha>.t,  was  basely  betrayed  by  his  Omrahs." 
— Pennant. 

*  Voltaire  tells  as  that  in  his  tragedy  Les  Guebres,  he  was 
generally  supposed  to  have  alluded  to  the  Jansenists  1  and  I 
should  not  be  surprised  if  this  story  of  the  Fire-Worshippeis 
n-ere  found  capable  of  a  similar  rtoubleness  of  application. 


THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. 

'Tis  moonlight  over  Oman's  sea  ;* 

Her  banks  of  pearl  and  palmy  isles 
Bask  in  the  night-beam  beauteously, 

And  her  blue  waters  sleep  in  smiles. 
'Tis  moonlight  in  HarmoziaV  walls, 
And  through  her  Emir's  porphyry  halls, 
Where,  some   hours   since,  was    heard   th« 

swell 

Of  trumpet  and  the  clash  of  zel,* 
Bidding  the  bright-eyed  sun  farewell ; — 
The  peaceful  sun,  whom  better  suits 

The  music  of  the  bulbul's  nest, 
Or  the  light  touch  of  lovers'  lutes, 

To  sing  him  to  his  golden  rest ! 
All  hush'd — there's  not  a  breeze  in  motion  ; 
The  shore  is  silent  as  the  ocean. 
If  zephyrs  come,  so  light  they  come, 

Nor  leaf  is  stirr'd  nor  wave  is  driven; — 
The  wind-tower  on  the  Emir's  dome* 

Can  hardly  win  a  breath  from  heaven. 

Even  he,  that  tyrant  Arab,  sleeps 
Calm,  while  a  nation  round  him  weeps ; 
While  curses  load  the  air  he  breathes, 
And  falchions  from  unnumber'd  sheaths 
Are  starting  to  avenge  the  shame 
His  race  hath  brought  on  Iran's7  name. 
Hard,  heartless  Chief,  unmoved  alike 
'Mid  eyes  that  weep  and  swords  that  strike  ;— 
One  of  that  saintly,  murderous  brood, 

To  carnage  and  the  Koran  given, 
Who  think  through  unbelievers'  blood 

Lies  their  directest  path  to  heaven. 
One  who  will  pause  and  kneel  unshod 

In  the  warm  blood  his  hand  hath  pour'd, 
To  mutter  o'er  some  text  of  God 

Engraven  on  his  reeking  sword  ;* — 
Nay,  who  can  coolly  point  the  line, 
The  letter  of  those  words  divine, 
To  which  his  blade,  with  searching  art, 
Had  sunk  into  its  victim's  heart ! 


1  The  Persian  Gulf. 

<  Gombaroon,  a  town  on  the  Persian  side  of  the  Ooif. 

•  A  Moorish  instrument  of  music. 

•  "  At  Gombaroon,  and  other  places  in  Persia,  they  b*v« 
towers  for  the  ourpose  of  catching  the  wind,  and  cooling  the 
aonses." 

7  "  Iran  is  the  true  general  name  for  the  empire  of  Pers  a.1 

8  "  On  the  blades  of  their  scimitars  tome  verse  from  th« 
Koran  is  usually  inscribed." 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


119 


Just  Alia !  what  must  be  Thy  look, 

When  such  a  wretch  before  Thee  stands 
Unblushing,  with  Thy  sacred  book, — 

Turning    the    leaves    with    blood-stain'd 

hands, 

And  wresting  from  its  page  sublime 
His  creed  of  lust  and  hate  and  crime  ? 
Even  as  thos*  bees  of  Trebizond, 

Which    from    the    sunniest   flowers    that 

glad 
With  their  pure  smile  the  gardens  round, 

Draw  venom  forth  that  drives  men  mad  !' 

Never  did  fierce  Arabia  send 

A  satrap  forth  more  direly  great ; 

Never  was  Iran  doom'd  to  bend 
Beneath  a  yoke  of  deadlier  weight. 

Her  thronehad  fallen— her  pride  was  crush 'd— 

Her  sons  were  willing  slaves,  nor  blush'd 

O  7 

In  their  own  land, — no  more  their  own, — 
To  crouch  beneath  a  stranger's  throne. 
Her  towers,  where  Mithra  once  had  burn'd, 
To  Moslem  shrines — oh  shame  ! — were  turn'd, 
Where  slaves,  converted  by  the  sword, 
Their  mean,  apostate  worship  pour'd, 
And  cursed  the  faith  their  sires  adored. 
Yet  has  she  hearts,  'mid  all  this  ill, 
O'er  all  this  wreck,  high,  buoyant  still 
With  hope  and  vengeance; — hearts  that  yet, 

Like  gems,  in  darkness  issuing  rays 
They've  treasured  from  the  sun  that's  set, 

Beam  all  the  light  of  long-lost  days  ! 
And  swords  she  hath,  nor  weak  nor  slow 

To  second  all  such  hearts  can  dare ; 
As  he  shall  know,  well,  dearly  know, 

Who  sleeps  in  moonlight  luxury  there, 
Tranquil  as  if  his  spirit  lay 
Becalm'd  in  heaven's  approving  ray  ! 
Sleep  on — for  purer  eyes  than  thine 
Those  waves  are  hush'd,  those  planets  shine. 
Sleep  on,  and  be  thy  rest  unmoved 

By  the  white  moonlight's  dazzling  power: 
None  but  the  loving  and  the  loved 

Should  be  awake  at  this  sweet  hour. 

And  see — where,  high  above  those  rocks 
That  o'er  the  deep  their  shadows  fling, 
Yon  turret  stands ; — where  ebon  locks, 


1  "  There  is  a  kind  of  Rhododendron  about  Trebizond, 
nooe  flowers  the  bee  feeds  upon,  and  the  honey  thence  drives 
toad  " 


As  glossy  as  a  heron's  win<; 

Upon  the  turban  of  a  king,* 
Hang  from  the  lattice  long  and  wild, — 
'Tis  she,  that  Emir's  blooming  child. 
All  truth  and  tenderness  and  grace, 
Though  born  of  such  ungentle  race;-- 
An  image  of  youth's  fairy  fountain 
Springing  in  a  desolate  mountain  !' 

Oh.  what  a  pure  and  sacred  thing 

Is  Beauty,  curtain'd  from  the  sight 
Of  the  gross  world,  illumining 

One  only  mansion  with  her  light ! 
Unseen  by  man's  disturbing  eye, — 

The  flower  that  blooms  beneath  the  sea 
Too  deep  for  sunbeams  doth  not  lie 

Hid  in  more  chaste  obscurity  ! 
So,  Hinda,  have  thy  face  and  mind, 
Like  holy  mysteries,  lain  enshrined. 
And  oh,  what  transport  for  a  lover 

To  lift  the  veil  that  shades  them  o'er  I — 
Like  those  who  all  at  once  discover 

In  the  lone  deep  some  fairy  shore, 

Where  mortal  never  trod  before, 
And  sleep  and  wake  in  scented  airs 
No  lip  had  ever  breathed  but  theirs ! 

Beautiful  are  the  maids  that  glide 

On  summer-eves  through  Yemen's4  dale**. 
And  bright  the  glancing  looks  they  hide 

Behind  their  litters'  roseate  veils  ; — 
And  brides,  as  delicate  and  fair 
As  the  white  jasmine  flowers  they  wear, 
Hath  Yemen  in  her  blissful  clime, 

Who,  lull'd  in  cool  kiosk  or  bower,* 
Before  their  mirrors  count  the  time,* 

And  grow  still  lovelier  every  hour. 


*  "  Their  king?  wear  plumes  of  black  herons'  feathers  upon 
the  right  side,  as  a  badge  of  sovere'.gnlty." 

*  "  The  Fountain  of  Youth,  by  a  Mohammedan  tradition,  U 
situated  in  pome  dark  region  of  the  East." 

«  Arabia  Felix. 

•  "  In  the  midst  of  the  garden  is  the  chioek,  that  in,  a  larg« 
room,  commonly  beautified  with  a  fine  fountain  in  the  midst 
of  it.    It  is  raised  nine  or  ten  step*,  and  enclosed  with  gilded 
lattices,  round  which  vines,  jessamines,  and  honeysuckle* 
make  a  son  of  green  wall ;  large  trees  are  planted  round  this 
place,  which  is  the  scene  of  their  greatest  pleasures."— Ladf 
M.  W.  Montagu. 

•  The  women  of  the  East  are  never  without  their  looking- 
glasses.    "  In  Barbary."  bays  Shaw,  "  they  are  MO  fond  of  theii 
looking-glasses,  which  they  hang  upon  their  breasts,  that  they 
will  not  lay  them  aside,  even  when,  after  the  drudgery  of  th« 
day,  they  are  obliged  to  go  two  or  three  miles  with  a  pitcher 
or  a  goat's  fkln  to  fetch  water."—  TVotW*. 

In  other  parts  of  Asia  thi-y  wear  I'ttlo  lookin?  glasse*  «• 


120 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


But  never  yet  hath  bride  or  maid 
In  Araby's  gay  Harams  smiled, 

^hose  boasted  brightness  would  not  fade 
Before  Al  Hassan's  blooming  child. 

Light  as  the  angel  shapes  that  bless 
An  infant's  dream,  yet  not  the  less 
Rich  in  all  woman's  loveliness ; — 
With  eyes  so  pure,  that  from  their  ray 
Dark  Vice  would  turn  abash'd  away, 
Blinded  like  serpents,  when  they  gaze 
Upon  the  emerald's  virgin  blaze  !l 
Yet,  fill'd  with  all  youth's  sweet  desires, 
Mingling  the  meek  and  vestal  fires 
Of  other  worlds  with  all  the  bliss, 
The  fond,  weak  tenderness  of  this  ! 
The  soul,  too,  more  than  half  divine, 

Where,  through  some  shades   of  earthly 

feeling, 
Religion's  soften'd  glories  shine, 

Like  light  through  summer  foliage  stealing, 
Shedding  a  glow  of  such  mild  hue, 
So  warm,  and  yet  so  shadowy  too, 
As  makes  the  very  darkness  there 
More  beautiful  than  light  elsewhere  ! 

Such  is  the  maid  who,  at  this  hour, 

Hath  risen  from  her  restless  sleep, 
And  sits  alone  in  that  high  bower, 

Watching  the  still  and  moonlight  deep. 
Ah  !  'twas  not  thus, — with  tearful  eyes 

And  beating  heart, — she  used  to  gaze 
On  the  magnificent  earth  and  s-kies, 

In  her  own  land,  in  happier  days. 
Why  looks  she  now  so  anxious  down 
Among  those  rocks,  whose  rugged  frown 

Blackens  the  mirror  of  the  deep  ? 
Whom  waits  she  all  this  lonely  night? 

Too  rough  the  rocks,  too  bold  the  steep 
For  man  to  scale  that  turret's  height ! 

So  deem'd  at  least  her  thoughtful  sire, 
When  high,  to  catch  the  cool  night-air 

O       '  O 


their  thumbs.  "Hence  and  from  the  lotus  being  considered 
the  emblem  of  beauty)  is  the  meaning  of  the  following  mute 
Intercourse  of  two  lovers  before  their  parents : — 

"He.  with  salute  of  deference  due, 

A  lotus  to  his  forehead  prest ; 
She  raised  her  mirror  to  hie  view, 
Then  turned  it  inward  to  her  breast." 

Asiatic  Miscellany,  vol.  ii. 

>  "  They  say  that  If  a  snake  or  serpent  fix  his  eyes  on  the 
<Bitr«  of  emeralds  ha  immediately  becomes  blind." 


After  the  day -beam's  withering  fire," 

He  built  her  bower  of  freshness  there, 
And  had  it  deck'd  with  costliest  skill, 

And  fondly  thought  it  safe  as  fair. 
Think,  reverend  dreamer !  think  so  still, 

Nor  wake  to  learn  what  love  can  dare- 
Love,  all-defying  Love,  who  sees 
No  charm  in  trophies  won  with  ease ; — 
Whose  rarest,  dearest  fruits  of  bliss 
Are  pluck'd  on  danger's  precipice ! 
Bolder  than  they  who  dare  not  dive 

For  pearls  but  when  the  sea's  at  rest, 
Love,  in  the  tempest  most  alive, 

Hath  ever  held  that  pearl  the  best 
He  finds  beneath  the  stormiest  water  ! — 
Yes,  Araby's  unrivall'd  daughter, 
Though  high  that  tower,  that  rock- way  rude,. 

There's  one  who,  but  to  kiss  thy  cheek, 
Would  climb  the  untrodden  solitude 

Of  Ararat's  tremendous  peak, 
And  think  its  steeps,  though  dark  and  dread,. 
Heaven's  pathways,  if  to  thee  they  led  ! 
Even  now  thou  seest  the  flashing  spray, 
That  lights  his  oar's  impatient  way  ; — 
Even  now  thou  hearst  the  sudden  shock 
Of  his  swift  bark  against  the  rock, 
And  stretchest  down  thy  arms  of  snow, 
As  if  to  lift  him  from  below ! 
Like  her  to  whom,  at  dead  of  night, 
The  bridegroom,  with  his  locks  of  light, 
Came,  in  the  flush. of  love  and  pride, 
And  scaled  the  terrace  of  his  bride ; — 
When  as  she  saw  him  rashly  spring, 
And  mid-way  up  in  danger  cling, 
She  flung  him  down  her  long  black  hair, 
Exclaiming,  breathless,  "  There,  love,  there  !* 
And  scarce  did  manlier  nerve  uphold 

The  hero  Zal  in  that  fond  hour, 
Than  wings  the  youth  who  fleet  and  bold 

Now  climbs  the  rocks  to  Hinda's  bower^ 
See — light  as  up  their  granite  steeps 

The  rock-goats  of  Arabia  clamber,' 
Fearless  from  crag  to  crag  he  leaps, 

And  now  is  at  the  maiden's  chamber. 

She  loves — but  knows  not  whom  she  loves, 
Nor  what  his  race,  nor  whence  he  came; — 


a  "  At  Qoinbaroon  and  the  Isle  of  Orrnus,  it  is  sometimes  s* 
hot  that  the  people  are  obliged  to  lie  all  day  in  the  water."— 
Maroo  Polo. 

»  "On  the  lofty  hills  of  Arabia  Petraea  are  rock-goads." -• 
Niebukr. 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MooKK. 


Like  one  who  meets,  in  Indian  groves, 

Seme  beauteous  bird  without  a  name, 
Brought  by  the  last  ambrosial  breeze, 
From  isles  in  the  undiscover'd  seas, 
To  show  his  plumage  for  a  day 
To  wondering  eyes,  and  wing  away ! 
Will  he  thus  fly — her  nameless  lover? 

Alia  forbid  !  'twas  by  a  moon 
As  fair  as  this,  while  singing  over 

Some  ditty  to  her  soft  kanoon,1 
Alone,  at  this  same  witching  hour 

She  first  beheld  his  radiant  eyes 
(Jleam  through  the  lattice  of  the  bower, 

Where  nightly  now  they  mix  their  sighs; 
And  thought  some  spirit  of  the  air 
(For  what  could  waft  a  mortal  thc-re  ?) 
Was  pausing  on  his  moonlight  way 
To  listen  to  her  lonely  lay  ! 
This  fancy  ne'er  hath  left  her  mind ; 

And   though,  when    terror's    swoon    had 

pass'd. 
She  saw  a  youth  of  mortal  kind 

Before  her  in  obeisance  cast, — 
Yet  often  since,  when  he  has  spoken 

Strange,  awful  words,  and   gleams   have 

broken 
From  his  dark  eyes,  too  bright  to  bear, 

Oh  !  she  hath  fear'd  her  soul  was  given 
To  some  unhallow'd  child  of  air, 

Some  erring  spirit,  cast  from  heaven, 
Like  those  angelic  youths  of  old, 
Who  burn'd  for  maids  of  mortal  mould, 
Bewilder'd  left  the  glorious  skies, 
And  lost  their  heaven  for  woman's  eyes ! 
Fond  girl !  nor  fiend  nor  angel  he, 
Who  woos  thy  young  simplicity ; 
But  one  of  earth's  impassion'd  sons, 

As  warm  in  love,  as  fierce  in  ire 
As  the  best  heart  whose  current  runs 

Full  of  the  Day-God's  living  fire ! 

But  quench'd  to-night  that  ardor  seems, 
And  pale  his  cheek,  and  sunk  his  brow  ; — 

Never  before,  but  in  her  dreams, 
Had  she  beheld  him  pale  as  now: 

And  those  were  dreams  of  troubled  sleep, 

From  which  'twas  joy  to  wake  and  weep; 

Visions  that  will  not  be  forgot, 


1  "  Can  an,  etpe'cc  de  p»alterion,  avec  dee  cordea  de  bojraux, 
<ro  dames  en  touchent dan*  le  f£rail.avec  de*  dikaille*  armies 
•»*•  po4ntee  de  coco."— Toderinl,  translated  by  De  Cournaud. 


But  sadden  every  waking  scene, 
Like  warning  ghosts  that  leave  the  spot 
All  wither'd  where  they  once  have  be«.-u ! 

"  How  sweetly,"  said  the  trembling  maid, 
Of  her  own  gentle  voice  afraid, 
So  long  had  they  in  silence  stood, 
Looking  upon  that  moonlight  flood — 
"  How  sweetly  does  the  moonbeam  smile 
To-night  upon  yon  leafy  isle ! 
Oft,  in  my  fancy's  wandering, 
I've  wish'd  that  little  isle  had  wings, 
And  we,  within  its  fairy  bowers. 

Were  wafted  off  to  seas  unknown, 
Where  not  a  pulse  should  beat  but  ours, 

And  we  might  live,  love,  die  alone. 
Far  from  the  cruel  and  the  cold, — 

Where  the  bright  eyes  of  angels  only 
Should  come  around  us,  to  behold 

A  Paradise  so  pure  and  lonely ! 
Would  this  be  world  enough  for  thee  'f — 
Playful  she  turn'd,  that  he  might  see 

The  passing  smile  her  cheek  put  on ; 
But  when  she  mark'd  how  mournfully 

His  eyes  met  hers,  that  smile  was  gone  , 
And,  bursting  into  heartfelt  tears, 
"Yes,  yes,"  she  cried,  "my  hourly  fears, 
My  dreams  have  boded  all  too  right — 
We  part — forever  part — to-night ! 
I  knew,  I  knew  it  could  not  last — 
'Twas  bright,  'twas  heavenly,  but  'tis  paat '. 
Oh,  ever  thus,  from  childhood's  hour, 

I've  seen  my  fondest  hopes  decay; 
I  never  loved  a  tree  or  flower, 

But  'twas  the  first  to  fade  away. 
1  never  nursed  a  dear  gazelle, 

To  glad  me  with  its  soft  black  eye, 
l»ut  when  it  came  to  know  me  well, 

And  love  nui,  it  was  sure  to  die  ! 
Now  too — the  joy  most  like  divine 

Of  all  I  ever  dreamt  or  knew, 
To  see  thce,  hear  thee,  call  thee  mine — 

O  misery  !  must  I  lose  that  too? 
Yet  go — on  peril's  brink  we  meet ; — 

Those   frightful    rocks — that    treaeheroa* 

sea — 
Xo,  never  come  again — though  sweet, 

Though  heaven,  it  may  be  death  to  thoe. 
Farewell — and  blessings  on  thy  way, 

Where'er  thou  go'st, beloved  stranger'. 
I'M  'it  IT  to  sit  and  watch  that  ray, 


122 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


And  think  thee  safe,  though  far  away, 
Than  have  thee  near  me,  and  in  danger  !" 

c  Danger !— oh,  tempt  me  not  to  boast," 
The  youth  exclaim'd — "  thou  little  knowst 
What  he  can  brave,  who,  born  and  nurst 
In  danger's  paths,  has  dared  her  woi*st! 
Upon  whose  ear  the  signal-word 

Of  strife  and  death  is  hourly  breaking ; 
Who  sleeps  with  head  upon  the  sword 

His  fever'd  hand  must  grasp  in  waking ! 
Danger ! — " 

"  Say  on — thou  fearst  not,  then, 
And  we  may  meet — oft  meet  again  ?" 

"Oh!  look  not  so, — beneath  the  skies 

I  now  fear  nothing  but  those  eyes. 

If  aught  on  earth  could  charm  or  force 

My  spirit  from  its  destined  course, — 

If  aught  could  make  this  soul  forget 

The  bond  to  which  its  seal  is  set, 

'Twould  be  those  eyes ; — they,  only  they, 

Could  melt  that  sacred  seal  away ! 

But>  no — 'tis  fix'd — my  awful  doom 

Is  fix'd — on  this  side  of  the  tomb 

We  meet  no  more — why,  why  did  Heaven 

Mingle  two  souls  that  earth  has  riven, 

Has  rent  asunder  wide  as  ours  ? 

Oh,  Arab  maid  !  as  soon  the  powers 

Of  light  and  darkness  may  combine, 

AB  I  be  link'd  with  thee  or  thine  ! 

Thy  father " 

"  Holy  Alia  save 

His  gray  head  from  that  lightning  glance  ! 
Thou  knowst  him  not — he  loves  the  brave  : 

Nor  lives  there  under  heaven's  expanse 
One  who  would  prize,  would  worship  thee. 
And  thy  bold  spirit,  more  than  he. 
Oft  when,  in  childhood,  I  have  play'd 

With  the  bright  falchion  by  his  side, 
I've  heard  him  swear  his  lisping  maid 

In  time  should  be  a  warrior's  bride. 
And  still,  whene'er,  at  Haram  hours, 
I  take  him  cool  sherbets  and  flowers, 
He  tells  me,  when  in  playful  mood, 

A  hero  shall  my  bridegroom  be, 
Since  maids  are  best  in  battle  woo'd, 

And  won  with  shouts  of  victory  ! 
Nay,  turn  not  from  me — thou  alone 
Art  form'd  to  make  both  hearts  thy  own. 


Go — join  his  sacred  ranks — thou  knowst 

The  unholy  strife  these  Persians  wage : — 
Good  Heaven,  that  frown  ! — even  now  thou 
glowst 

With  more  than  mortal  warrior's  rage. 
Haste  to  the  camp  by  morning's  light, 
And,  when  that  sword  is  raised  in  fight, 
Oh,  still  remember  love  anrf  I 
Beneath  its  shadow  trembling  lie ! 
One  victory  o'er  those  Slaves  of  Fire, 
Those  impious  Ghebers,  whom  my  sire 
Abhors—" 

"  Hold,  hold — thy  words  are  death !" 

The  stranger  cried,  as  wild  he  flung 
His  mantle  back,  and  show'd  beneath 

The  Gheber  belt  that  round  him  clung.1 — 
"  Here,  maiden,  look — weep — blush  to  see 
All  that  thy  sire  abhors  in  me  ! 
Yes — /am  of  that  impious  race, 

Those  Slaves  of  Fire  who,  morn  and  even, 
Hail  their  Creator's  dwelling-place 

Among  the  living  lights  of  heaven  !' 

Yes — jTam  of  that  outcast  few 
To  Iran  and  to  vengeance  true, 
Who  curse  the  hour  your  Arabs  came 
To  desolate  our  shrines  of  flame, 
And  swear,  before  God's  burning  eye, 
To  break  our  country's  chains,  or  die  ! 
Thy  bigot  sire — nay,  tremble  not — 

He  who  gave  birth  to  those  dear  eyes 
With  me  is  sacred  as  the  spot 

From  which  our  fires  of  worship  rise  ! 
But  know — 'twas  he  I  sought  that  night, 

O  O  * 


>  "  They  (the  Ghebers)  lay  so  mnch  streos  on  their  cushe* 
or  girdle,  as  not  to  dare  to  be  an  instant  without  it." 

"Pour  se  distinguer  des  idolatres  de  1'Inde,  les  Guebres  se 
ceignent  tons  d'un  cordon  de  laine,  ou  de  poil  de  chameau," 
—Encyclopedie  Franfoise. 

D'Herbelot  says  this  belt  was  generally  of  leather. 

2  "  They  suppose  the  throne  of  the  Almighty  is.  seated  In 
the  snn,  and  hence  their  worship  of  that  luminary." 

"As  to  fire,  ths  Ghebers  place  the  spring-head  of  it  in  that 
globe  of  tire,  the  sun,  by  them  called  Mythras,  or  Mihir,  to 
which  they  pay  the  highest  reverence,  in  gratitude  for  th<j 
manifold  benefits  flowing  from  its  ministerial  omn  science. 
But  they  are  so  far  from  confounding  the  subordination  of  the 
servant  with  the  majesty  of  its  Creator,  that  they  not  only 
attribute  no  sort  of  sense  or  reasoning  to  the  sun  or  fire  i*i 
any  of  its  operations,  but  consider  it  as  a  purely  passive  blind 
instrument,  directed  and  governed  by  the  immediate  impres- 
sion on  it  of  the  will  of  God ;  but  they  do  not  even  give  that 
luminary,  all-glorious  as  it  is,  more  than  the  second  rank 
amongst  his  works,  reserving  the  first  for  that  stupendous 
production  of  divine  power,  the  mind  of  man."—  Grose.  The 
false  charges  brought  against  the  religion  of  these  people  by 
their  Mussulman  tyrants  is  but  one  proof  among  many  of  (he 
truth  of  this  writer's  remark,  "that  calumny  is  often  added  to 
oppression,  if  but  for  the  sake  of  justifying  it." 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


When,  from  my  watch-boat  on  the  sea, 
I  caught  this  turret's  glimmering  light, 

And  up  the  rude  rocks  desperately 
Rn&h'd  to  my  prey — thou  knowst  the  rest — 
I  climb'd  the  gory  vulture's  nest, 
And  found  a  trembling  dove  within  ; — 
Thin?,  thine  the  victory — thine  the  sin — 
If  Love  has  made  one  thought  his  own, 
That  Vengeance  .claims  first — last — alone! 
Oh  !  had  we  never,  never  met, 
Or  could  this  heart  even  now  forget 
How  link'd,  how  bless'd  we  might  have  been, 
Had  fate  not  frown'd  so  dark  between ! 
Hadst  thou  been  born  a  Persian  maid, 

In  neighboring  valleys  had  we  dwelt, 
Through  the  same  fields  in  childhood  play'd, 

At  the  same  kindling  altar  knelt, — 
Phen,  then,  while  all  those  nameless  ties, 
In  which  the  charm  of  country  lies, 
Had  round  our  hearts  been  hourly  spun, 
Till  Iran's  cause  and  thine  were  one ; — 
While  in  thy  lute's  awakening  sigh 
I  hwird  the  voice  of  days  gone  by, 
And  saw  in  every  smile  of  thine 
Upturning  hours  of  glory  shine ! — 
While  the . wrong' d  spirit  of  our  land 

Lived,    .v>ok'd.    and    spoke    her   wrongs 

through  thee — 
God  !  who  could  then  this  sword  withstand  ? 

Its  very  flash  were  victory  ! 
But  now,  estranged,  divorced  forever, 
Far  as  the  grasp  of  Fate  can  sever — 
Our  only  ties  what  love  has  wove — 

Faith,  friends,  and  country,  sunder'd  wide ; 
And  then,  then  only  true  to  love, 

When  false  to  all  that's  dear  beside ! 
Thy  father  Iran's  deadliest  foe — 
Thyself,  perhaps,  even  now — but  no — 
Hate  never  look'd  so  lovely  yet ! 

No — sacred  to  thy  soul  will  be 
The  land  of  him  who  could  forget 

All  but  that  bleeding  land  for  thee ! 
When  other  eyes  shall  see,  unmoved, 

Her  widows  mourn,  her  warriors  fall, 
Thou'lt  think  how  well  one  Gheber  loved, 

And  for  his  sake  thou'lt  weep  for  all ! 

But  look " 

With  sudden  start  he  turn'd 
And  pointed  to  the  distant  wave, 
Where  lights,  like  charnel  meteors,  burn'd 

Blnely,  as  oYr  some  sramanV  grave; 


And  fiery  darts,  at  interval^,1 

Flew  up  all  sparkling  from  the  main, 

As  if  each  star  that  nightly  falls, 

Were  shooting  back  to  heaven  again. 

"  My  signal  lights  ! — I  must  away — 

Both,  both  are  ruin'd,  if  I  stay. 

Farewell,  sweet  life  !  thou  clingst  in  vain — 

Now,  vengeance,  I  am  thine  again  !" 

Fiercely  he  broke  away,  nor  stoppM, 

Nor  look'd — but  from  the  lattice  dropp'd 

Down  mid  the  pointed  crags  beneath, 

As  if  he  fled  from  love  to  death. 

While  pale  and  mute  young  Iliuda  stood, 

Nor  moved,  till  in  the  silent  flood 

A  momentary  plunge  below 

Startled  her  from  her  trance  of  woe  ; — 

Shrieking  she  to  the  lattice  flew, 

"  I  come — I  come — if  in  that  tide 
Thou  sleepst  to-night — I'll  sleep  there  too, 

In  death's  cold  wedlock  by  thy  side. 
Oh,  I  would  ask  no  happier  bed 

Than  the  chill  wave  ray  love  lies  under; — ; 
Sweeter  to  rest  together  dead, 

Far  sweeter,  than  to  live  asunder  !" 
But  no — their  hour  is  not  yet  come — 

Again  she  sees  his  pinnace  fly, 
Wafting  him  fleetly  to  his  home, 

Where'er  that  ill-starr'd  home  may  lie; 
And  calm  and  smooth  it  seem'd  to  win 

Its  moonlight  way  before  the  wind, 
As  if  it  bore  all  peace  within, 

Nor  left  one  breaking  heart  behind  ! 

The  Princess,  whose  heart  was  sad  enough 
already,  could  have  wished  that  Feramorz 
had  chosen  a  less  melancholy  story ;  as  it  is 
only  to  the  happy  that  tears  are  a  luxury. 
Her  ladies,  however,  were  by  no  means  sorry 
that  love  was  once  more  the  poet's  thenu>  : 
for  when  he  spoke  of  love,  they  said,  his 
voice  was  as  sweet  as  if  he  had  chewed  the 
leaves  of  that  enchanted  tree  which  grows 
over  the  tomb  of  the  musician,  Tan-Sein.1 


1  "  The  Mamelukes  that  were  tn  the  other  boat,  when  tt  wa» 
dark,  used  to  shoot  up  a  sort  of  fiery  arrows  Into  the  air,  winch, 
in  some  measure,  rcsomhU'd  lightning  or  foiling  stare." 

1  "  At  Gnaltor  is  a  small  tomb  to  the  memory  of  Tan-Sein. 

a  musician  of  Incomparable  skill,  who  flourished  at  the  court 

of  Akbar.    The  tomb  is  overshadowed  by  a  tree,  concerning 

which  a  superstitious  notion  iirevails.  that  the  chewinp  oflto 

!  leaves  will  give  an  extraordinary  melody  to  the  vj  ;e.  '•• 

;  Joumevfrom  Agra  to  On:(t».  !"j  it".  Ilimttr,  Ktq 


1-24 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


Their  road  all  the  morning  had  lain  through 
a  very  dreary  country — through  valleys,  cov- 
ered with  a  low  bushy  jungle,  where,  iu  more 
than  one  place,  the  awful  signal  of  the  bam- 
boo staff,1  with  the  white  flag  at  its  top, 
reminded  the  traveller  that  in  that  very  spot 
the  tiger  had  made  some  human  creature  his 
victim.  It  was  therefore  with  much  pleasure- 
that  they  arrived  at  sunset  in  a  safe  and 
lovely  glen,  and  encamped  under  one  of  those 
holy  trees,  whose  smooth  columns  and 
spreading  roofs  seem  to  destine  them  for 
natural  temples  of  religion.  Beneath  the 
«bade,  some  pious  hands  had  erected  pillars,'2 
ornamented  with  the  most  beautiful  porce- 
lain, which  now  supplied  the  use  of  mirrors 
to  the  young  maidens,  as  they  adjusted  their 
hair  in  descending  from  the  palankeens. 
Here  while,  as  usual,  the  Princess  sat  listen- 
ing anxiously,  with  Fadladeen  in,  one  of  his 
loftiest  moods  of  criticism  by  her  side,  the 
young  poet,  leaning  against  a  branch  of  the 
tree,  thus  continued  his  story : — 

The  morn  has  risen  clear  and  calm, 

And  o'er  the  Green  Sea"  palely  shines, 
Revealing  Bahrein's  groves  of  palm, 

And  lighting  KishmaV  amber  vines. 
Fi'esh  smell  the  shores  of  Araby, 
While  breezes  from  the  Indian  Sea 
Blow  round  SelamaV  sainted  cape, 

And  curl  the  shining  flood  beneath, — 
Whose  waves  are  rich  with  many  a  grape, 

And  cocoanut  and  flowery  wreath, 
Which  pious  seamen,  as  they  pass'd, 
Have  toward  that  holy  headland  cast — 
Oblations  to  the  genii  there 
For  gentle  skies  and  breezes  fair  ! 


1  "It  is  usual  to  place  a  small  white  triangular  flag,  fixed  to 
•  bamboo  staff  of  ten  or  twelve  feet  long,  at  the  piece  where  a 
tiger  has  destroyed  a  man.  The  sight  of  these  flags  imparts 
a  certain  melancholy,  not  perhaps  altogether  void  of  appre- 
hension."— Oriental  Field  Sports,  vol.  ii. 

*  "  The  Fieus  indica  is  called  the  Pagod  Tree  and  Tree  of 
Council.*  ;  the  first  from  the  idols  placed  under  its  shade  ;  the 
second,  because  meetings  were  held  under  its  cool  branches. 
In  some  places  it  is  be.ieved  to  be  the  haunt  of  spectres,  as 
the  ancient  spreading  oaks  of  Wales  have  been  of  fairies  ;  in 
others  are  erected  beneath  the  shade  pillars  of  stone,  or  posts, 
elegantly  carved  and  ornamented  with  the  most  beautiful  por- 
celain to  supply  the  use  of  mirrors."— Pennant. 

»  The  Persian  Gulf. 
4  Islands  in  the  Gulf. 

•  Or  Sclemeh,  the  genuine  name  of  the  headland  at  the  en- 
lr»i>c<>  of  the  Gulf,  commonly  called  Cape  Musseldom. 


The  nightingale  now  bends  her  flight* 
From  the  high  trees,  where  all  the  nisfht 

She  sung  so  sweet,  with  none  to  listen ; 
And  hides  her  from  the  morning  star 

Where  thickets  of'pomegranate  glisten 
In  the  clear  dawn, — bespangled  o'er 

With  dew,  whose  night-drops  would  not 

stain 

The  best  and  brightest  scimitar' 
That  ever  youthful  sultan  wore 

On  the  first  morning  of  his  reign! 

o  o 

And  see — the  sun  himself !— on  wing* 
Of  glory  up  the  east  he  springs. 
Angel  of  light !  who  from  the  time 
Those  heavens  began  their  march  sublime, 
Has  first  of  all  the  starry  chdir 
Trod  in  his  Maker's  steps  of  fire ! 

Where  are  the  days,  thou  wondrous  sphere 
When  Iran,  like  a  sun-flower,  turn'd 
To  meet  that  eye  where'er  it  burn'd? — 

When,  from  the  banks  of  Bendemeer 
To  the  nut-groves  of  Samarcand 
Thy  temples  flamed  o'er  all  the  land  ? 
Where  are  they  ?  ask  the  shades  of  them 

Who,  on  CadessiaV  bloody  plains, 
Saw  fierce  invaders  pluck  the  gem 
From  Iran's  broken  diadem, 

And  bind  her  ancient  faith  in  chains : — 
Ask  the  poor  exile,  cast  alone 
On  foreign  shores,  unloved,  unknown, 
Beyond  the  Caspian's  Iron  Gates,' 

Or  on  the  snowy  Mossian  Mountains, 
Far  from  his  beauteous  land  of  dates, 

Her  jasmine  bowers  and  sunny  fountains  t 
Yet  happier  so  than  if  he  trod 
His  own  beloved  but  blighted  sod, 
Beneath  a  despot  stranger's  nod  ! — 
Oh !  he  would  rather  houseless  i-oam 

Where  Freedom  and  his  God  may  lead, 
Than  be  the  sleekest  slave  at  home 

That  crouches  to  the  conqueror's  creed  ' 


•  "  The  nightingale  sings  from  the  pomegranate-groves  in 
the  day-time,  and  from  the  loftiest  trees  at  night."— ItusaeTt 
Aleppo. 

7  In  speaking  of  the  climate  of  Shiraz,  Francklin  says, 
"  The  dew  is  of  such  a  pure  nature  that,  if  the  brightest  scinii 
tar  should  be  exposed  to  it  all  night,  it  would  not  receive  the 
least  rust." 

8  The  place  where  the  Persians  were  finally  defeated  by  the 
Arabs,  and  their  ancient  monarchy  destroyed. 

•  Derbeud. — "  Les  Turcs  appellent  cette  ville  Demir  Capt 
Porte  de  For ;  ce  sont  les  Caspiae  Port"!  des  anciens." 


1»OEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


(s  Iran's  pride  then  gone  forever, 

Quench'd    with    the    flame    in    Mil  lira's 

caves? — 

No — she  has  sons  that  never — never — 
Will  stoop  to  be  the  Moslem's  slaves, 
While  heaven  has  light  or  earth  lias  graves. 
Spirits  of  fire,  that  brood  not  long, 
Hut  flash  resentment  back  for  wrong  ; 
And  hearts  where,  slow  but  deep,  the  seeds 
Of  vengeance  ripen  into  deeds, 
Till,  in  some  treacherous  hour  of  calm, 
They  burst,  like  Zeilan's  giant  palm,1 
Whose  buds  fly  open  with  a  sound 
That  shakes  the  pigmy  forests  round  ! 

Ves,  Emir !  he  who  scaled  that  tower, 
And,    could    he    reach    thy    slumbering 
breast, 

Would  teach  thee,  in  a  Gheber's  power 
How  safe  even  tyrant  heads  may  rest — 

Is  one  of  many,  brave  as  he, 

Who  loathe  thv  haughxy  race  and  thee; 

*  O         J 

Who,  though  they  know  the  strife  is  vain, 
Who,  though  they  know  the  riven  chain 
iSnaps  but  to  enter  in  the  heart 
Of  him  who  rends  its  links  apart, 
Yet  dare  the  issue, — blest  to  be 
Even  for  one  bleeding  moment  free, 
And  die  in  pangs  of  liberty  ! 
Thou  knowst  them  well — 'tis   some  moons 
since 

Thy  turban'd  troops  and  blood-red  flags, 
Thou  satrap  of  a  bigot  prince  ! 

Have   swarm'd   among   these  Green  Sea 

crags ; 

Yet  here,  even  here,  a  sacred  band, 
Ay,  in  the  portal  of  that  land 
Thou,  Arab,  darest  to  call  thy  own, 
Their  spears  across  thy  path  have  thrown  ; 
Here — ere  the  winds  half-wing'd  thee  o'er — 
Rebellion  braved  thee  from  the  shore. 

Rebellion  !  foul,  dishonoring  word, 

Whose  wrongful  blight  so  oft  has  stain'd 

The  holiest  cause  that  tongue  or  sword 
Of  mortal  ever  lost  or  gain'd. 

How  many  a  spirit,  born  to  bless, 

*  sunk  beneath  that  withering  name, 


1  "The  Talpot  or  Talipot  Palm  Tree.  Tha  sheath  which 
envelop?  the  flower  la  very  large,  and,  when  it  bursts,  make? 
u  explosion  like  the  report  of  a  cannon."—  Thunbery. 


Whom  but  a  day's,  an  hours  success, 

Had  walled  to  eternal  fame! 
As  exhalations,  when  they  burst 
From  the  warm  earth,  if  ehill'd  at  first, 
If  check'd  in  soaring  from  the  plain, 
Darken  to  fogs,  and  sink  again  ; — 
But  if  they  once  triumphant  spread 
Their  wings  above  the  mountain-head, 
Become  enthroned  in  upper  air, 
And  turn  to  sun-bright  glories  there ! 

And  who  is  he  that  wields  the  might 
Of  freedom  on  the  Green  Sea  brink, 
Before  whose  sabre's  dazzling  lijjht* 

o       o 

The  eyes  of  Yeman's  warriors  wink  ? 
Who  comes  embower'd  in  the  spears 
Of  Kerman's  hardy  mountaineers? — 
Those  mountaineers  that  truest,- last, 

Cling  to  their  country's  ancient  rites, 
As  if  that  God,  whose  eyelids  cast 

Their  closing  gleam  on  Iran's  heights, 

O    O  01 

Among  her  snowy  mountains  threw 
The  last  light  of  His  worship  too ! 

'Tis  Hafed — name  of  fear,  whose  sound 

Chills  like  the  muttering  of  a  charm: — 
Shout  but  that  awful  name  around, 

And  palsy  shakes  the  manliest  arm. 
'Tis  Hafed,  most  accurst  and  dire 
(So  rank'd  by  Moslem  hate  and  ire) 
Of  all  the  rebel  Sons  of  Fire ! 
Of  whose  malign,  tremendous  power 
The  Arabs,  at  their  mid-watch  hour, 
Such  tales  of  fearful  wonder  tell, 
That  each  affrighted  sentinel 
Pulls  down  his  cowl  upon  his  eyes, 
Lest  Hafed  in  the  midst  should  rise ! 
A  man,  they  say,  of  monstrous  birth, 
A  mingled  race  of  flame  and  earth, 
Sprung  from  those  old,  enchanted  kings 

Who  in  their  fairy  helms,  of  yore, 
A  feather  from  the  mystic  wings 

Of  the  Simoorgh  resistless  wore ; 
And  gifted,  by  the  fiends  of  fire, 
Who  groan'd  to  see  their  shrines  expire, 


1  "  When  the  bright  ciraitcrs  muku  the  eye*  .    ''.  vc  be 
wink."—  Tht  Moltakat,  I'oetm  qf  Arnru. 

*  Tahmnras,  and  other  ancient  kings  of  Persia ;  *  hose  ad* 
venture*  in  Fairy  Land,  among  the  Perls  and  Dives,  may  b« 
found  in  Richardson's  Dissertation.  The  griftln  Simoorgh, 
they  say,  took  some  feathers  from  her  bread  for  Tahrauraa, 
with  which  he  adorned  his  helmet,  and  transmitted  Uiea 
afterward  to  his  descendants. 


126 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


With  charms  that,  all  in  vain  withstood, 
Would  drown  the  Koran's  light  in  blood ! 

Snch  were  the  tales  that  won  belief, 

And  such  the  coloring  fancy  gave 
To  a  young,  warm,  and  dauntless  Chief, — 

One  who,  no  more  than  mortal  brave, 
Fought  for  the  land  his  soul  adored, 

For  happy  homes  and  altars  free, — 
His  only  talisman  the  sword, 

His  only  spell-word,  Liberty ! 
One  of  that  ancient  hero  line, 
Along  whose  glorious  current  shine 
Names  that  have  sanctified  their  blood  ; 
As  Lebanon's  small  mountain-flood 
Is  render'd  holy  by  the  ranks1 
Of  sainted  cedars  on  its  banks  !* 
'Twas  not  for  him  to  crouch  the  knee 
Tamely  to  Moslem  tyranny  : — 
'Twas  not  for  him,  whose  soul  was  cast 
In  the  bright  mould  of  ages  past. 
Whose  melancholy  spirit,  fed 
With  all  the  glories  of  the  dead, 
Though  framed  for  Iran's  happiest  years, 
Was  born  among  her  chains  and  tears ! — 
'Twas  not  for  him  to  swell  the  crowd 
Of  slavish  heads,  that  shrinking  bow'd 
Before  the  Moslem  as  he  pass'd, 
Like  shrubs  beneath  the  poison-blast ; 
No — far  he  fled — indignant  fled 

The  pageant  of  his  country's  shame  ; 
While  every  tear  her  children  shed 

Fell  on  his  soul  like  drops  of  flame ; 
And  as  a  lover  hails  the  dawn 

Of  a  first  smile,  so  welcomed  he 
The  sparkle  of  the  first  sword  drawn 

For  vengeance  and  for  liberty  ! 

But  vain  was  valor — vain  the  flower 
Of  Kerinan,  in  that  deathful  hour, 
Against  Al  Hassan's  whelming  power. 
In  vain  they  met  him,  helm  to  helm, 
Upon  the  threshold  of  that  realm 
He  came  in  bigot  pomp  to  sway, 


1  In  the  Lettres  Edifiantes,  there  is  a  different  cause  as- 
«igned  for  its  name  of  holy.  "In  these  are  deep  caverns, 
which  formerly  served  as  so  many  cells  for  a  great  number  of 
recluses,  who  had  chosen  these  retreats  as  the  only  witnesses 
upon  the  earth  of  the  severity  of  their  penance.  The  tears  of 
these  pious  penitents  gave  the  river  of  which  we  have  just 
treated  the  name  of  the  Holy  River."  Vide  Chateaubriand's 
'*  Beauties  of  Christianity." 

•  "  Ti«s  riTulet,"  says  Dandini,  "is  called  the  Holy  River, 
Yarn  the  tedar-sainU'  anong  which  it  rise*.1' 


And  with  their  corpses  block'd  his  way ; 
In  vain — for  every  lance  they  raised 
Thousands  around  the  conqueror  blazed  j 
For  every  arm  that  lined  their  shore, 
Myriads  of  slaves  were  wafted  o'er, — 
A  bloody,  bold,  and  countless  crowd, 
Before  whose  swarm  as  fast  they  bow'd 
As  dates  beneath  the  locust-cloud ! 

There  stood — but  one  short  league  away 
From  old  Harmozia's  sultry  bay — 
A  rocky  mountain  o'er  the  Sea* 
Of  Oman  beetling  awfully, 
A  last  and  solitary  link 

Of  those  stupendous  chains  that  reach 
From  the  broad  Caspian's  reedy  brink 

Down  winding  to  the  Green  Sea  beacb 
Around  its  base  the  bare  rocks  stood, 
Like  naked  giants  in  the  flood, 

As  if  to  guard  the  gulf  across  ; 
While  on  its  peak,  that  braved  the  sky 
A  ruin'd  temple  tower'd  so  high 

That  oft  the  sleeping  albatross4 
Struck  the  wild  ruins  with  her  wing, 
And  from  her  cloud-rock'd  slumberiu,. 
Started — to  find  man's  dwelling  there 
In  her  own  silent  fields  of  air ! 
Beneath,  terrific  caverns  gave 
Dark  welcome  to  each  stormy  wave 
That  dash'd,  like  midnight  revellers,  in ; — 
And  such  the  strange,  mysterious  din 
At  times  throughout  those  caverns  roll'd,-* 
And  such  the  fearful  wonders  told 
Of  restless  sprites  imprison'd  there, 
That  bold  were  Moslem  who  would  dare, 
At  twilight  hour,  to  steer  his  skiff 
Beneath  the  Gheber's  lonely  clifl*' 

On  the  land  side,  those  towers  sublime,. 
That  seem'd  above  the  grasp  of  Time, 
Were  sever'd  from  the  haunts  of  men 
By  a  wide,  deep,  and  wizard  glen, 


*  This  mountain  is  my  own  creation,  as  the  "  stupeuc  OB» 
chain"  of  which  I  suppose  it  a  link  does  not  extend  qcile  «e 
far  as  the  shore  of  the  Persian  Gulf. 

«  These  birds  sleep  in  the  air.    They  are  most  common 
about  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope. 

*  "There  is  an  extraordinary  hill  in  the  neighborhood, 
called  Kohe  Gubr,  or  the  Guebre's  mountain.    It  rises  in  the 
form  of  a  lofty  cupola,  and  on  the  summit  of  it,  they  say,  are 
the  remains  of  Atush  Kudu  or  Fire  Temple.    It  is  supersti- 
tiously  held  to  be  the  residence  of  Beeves  or  Sprites,  and 
many  marvellous  stories  are  recounted  of  the  injury  and  witch- 
craft suffered  by  those  who  essayed  in  former  days  to  ascend 
or  explore  it."— Pottinger's  Beloochistan. 


PnK.MS  nl-'  TIIo.MAS  MOOKK. 


1-27 


So  fathomless,  so  full  of  gloom, 

No  eye  could  pierce  the  void  between; 
It  se<jm'd  a  place  where  ghouls  might  come 
With  their  foul  banquets  from  the  tomb, 

And  in  its  caverns  feed  unseen. 
Like  distant  thunder,  from  below 

The  sound  of  many  torrents  came  ; 
Too  deep  for  eye  or  ear  to  know 
If  'twere  the  sea's  imprison'd  flow, 

Or  floods  of  ever-restless  flame. 
.For  each  rapine,  each  rocky  spire 
Of  that  vast  mountain  stood  on  fire  ;J 
And  though  forever  past  the  days 
When  God  was  \vo/shipp'd  in  the  blaze 
That  from  its  lofty  altar  shone, — 
Though  fled  the  priestc,  the  votaries  gone, 
Still  did  the  mighty  flarue  burn  on* 
Through  chance  and  chajge,  through  good 

and  ill, 

Like  its  own  God's  eternal  A  ill, 
Deep,  constant,  bright,  unquenchable  ! 

Thither  the  vanquish'd  Hafed  ieu 

His  little  army's  last  remains  ;- 
"  Welcome,  terrific  glen  !"  he  said, 
"  Thy  gloom,  that  Eblis'  self  might  dread, 

Is  heaven  to  him  who  flies  from  chains !" 
O'er  a  dark,  narrow  bridge-way,  known 
To  him  and  to  his  chiefs  alone, 
They   cross'd   the   chasm    and    gain'd   the 

towers ; — 

"This  home,"  he  cried,  "at  least  is  oius — 
Here  we  may  bleed,  unmock'd  by  hymns 

Of  Moslem  triumph  o'er  our  head ; 
Here  we  may  fall,  nor  leave  our  limbs 

To  quiver  to  the  Moslem's  tread. 
Stretch'd  on  this  rock,  while  vultures'  beaks 
Are  whetted  on  our  yet  warm  cheeks, 
Jlere — happy  that  no  tyrant's  eye 
Gloats  on  our  torments — we  may  die  !" 

'Twas  night  when  to  those  towers  they  came, 
\inl  gloomily  the  fitful  flame, 
That  from  the  ruin'd  altar  broke, 


1  The  Gheber*  generally  .milt  their  temples  over  enbtcrra- 
ne<xi»  flres. 

»  "  At  the  city  of  Yezd  in  Persia,  which  is  distinguished  by 
the  appellation  of  the  Darflb  Abadut.  or  Seat  of  Religion,  the 
Uaebres  are  permitted  to  have  an  Atush  Kudu  or  Fire  Temple 
(which  they  assert  haa  had  the  sacred  fire  in  it  since  the  day* 
of  Zoroaster)  in  their  own  compartment  of  the  city :  but  for 
this  indulgence  they  are  indebted  to  the  avarice,  not  the  toler 
ance  of  the  Persian  government,  which  taxes  them  at  twenty- 
live  miwes  each  man."— Pottinyer'i  Btloochtetun. 


<ll;uc<l  on  his  features  as  he  spoke: — 

"  'Tis  o'c-r — what  cnen  could  do,  we've  done- 

If  Iran  will  look  tamely  on, 

And  see  her  priests,  her  warriors  driven 

Before  a  sensual  bigot's  nod, 
A  wretch  who  takts  his  lusts  to  heaven, 

And  makes  a  pander  of  his  (Jod  ! 
II'  her  proud  sous,  her  high-born  souls, 

Men  in  whose  veins — oh,  last  disgrace ! 
The  blood  of  Zal  and  llustam'  rolls, — 

If  they  will  court  this  upstart  race, 
And  turn  from  .Mahra's  ancient  ray, 
To  kneel  at  shrines  of  yesterday  ! 
If  they  will  crouch  to  Iran's  foes, 

Why,  let  them — till  the  land's  despair 
Cries  out  to  Heaven,  and  bondage  grows 

Too  vile  for  even  the  vile  to  bear ! 
Till  shame  at  last,  long  hidden,  burns 
Their  inmost  core,  and  conscience  turns 
Each  coward  tear  the  slave  lets  fall 
Back  on  his  heart  in  drops  of  gall ! 
But  here,  at  least,  are  arms  unchain'd, 
And  souls  thr.t  thraldom  never  stain' d  ; — 

This  spot,  at  least,  no  toot  of  slav*-. 
Or  satrap  ever  yet  profaned; 

And  though  but  few — though  fast  the  wave 
Of  life  is  ebbing  from  our  veins, 
Enough  for  vengeance  still  remains 
As  panthers,  after  set  of  sun, 
Rush  from  the  roots  of  Lebanon 
Across  the  dark  sea-robber's  way, 
We'll  bound  upon  our  startled  prey  ; — 
And  when  some  hearts  that  proudest  swell 
Have  felt  our  falchion's  last  farewell ; 
When  Hope's  expiring  throb  is  o'er, 
And  even  Despair  can  prompt  no  more, 
This  spot  shall  be  the  sacred  grave 
Of  the  last  few  who,  vainly  brave, 
Die  for  the  land  they  cannot  save  !" 

His  chiefs  stood  round — each  shining  blade 
Upon  the  broken  altar  laid — 
And  though  so  wild  and  desolate 
Those  courts,  where  once  the  mighty  sate; 
Nor  longer  on  those  mouldering  towers 
Was  seen  the  feast  of  fruits  and  flowers, 
With  which  of  old  the  Magi  fed 
The  wandering  spirits  of  their  dead  ;* 


•  Ancient  heroes  of  Persia.  "  Among  the  Ohcbers  then 
are  some  who  boast  their  descent  from  Rustam." 

4  "  Among  other  ceremonies,  the  Mayi  need  to  place  npo* 
the  tops  of  high  towers  various  kinds  of  rich  viand*,  apor 


128 


POEMS   OF  THOMAS  JMOOIJE. 


Though  neither  priest  nor  rites  were  there, 

Nor  charm'd  leaf  of  pure  pomegranate  ;l 
Nor  hymn,  nor  censer's  fragrant  air, 

Nor  symbol  of  their  worshipp'd  planet;* 
Yet  the  same  God  that  heard  their  sires 
Heard  them,  while  on  that  altar's  fires 
They  swore*  the  latest,  holiest  deed 
Of  the  few  hearts  still  left  to  bleed, 
Should  be  in  Iran's  injured  name 
To  die  upon  that  mount  of  flame — 
The  last  of  all  her  patriot  line, 
Before  her  last  untrampled  shrine  ! 
Brave,  suffering  souls !  they  little  knew 
How  many  a  tear  their  injuries  drew 
From  one  meek  heart,  one  gentle  foe, 
Whom  Love  first  touch'd  with  others'  woe — 
Whose  life,  as  free  from  thought  as  sin, 
Slept  like  a  lake,  till  Love  threw  in 
His  talisman,  and  woke  the  tide, 
And  spread  its  trembling  circles  wide. 
Once,  Emir!  thy  unheeding  child, 
Mid  all  this  havoc,  bloom'd  and  smiled — 
Tranquil  as  on  some  battle-plain 

The  Persian  lily  shines  and  towers,4 
Before  the  combat's  reddening  stain 

Had  fallen  upon  her  golden  flowers. 
Light-hearted  maid,  unawed,  unmoved, 
While  Heaven  but  spared  the  sire  she  loved, 
Once  at  thy  evening  tales  of  blood 
CJnlistening  and  aloof  she  stood — 
And  oft,  when  thou  hast  paced  along 

Thy  Haram  halls  with  furious  heat, 
Hast  thou  not  cursed  her  cheerful  song, 

That  came  across  thee,  calm  and  sweet, 
Like  lutes  of  angels,  touch'd  so  near 
Hell's  confines,  that  the  damn'd  can  hear? 
Far  other  feelings  love  has  brought — 

o  o 

Her  soul  all  flame,  her  brow  all  sadness, 


which  it  was  supposed  the  Peris  and  the  spirits  of  their  de- 
parted heroes  regaled  themselves." 

1  In  the  ceremonies  of  the  Ghebers  round  their  are,  as  de- 
scribed by  Lord.  "  The  Daroo,"  he  says,  "  giveth  them  water 
to  drink,  and  a  pomegranate  leaf  to  chew  in  the  mouth,  to 
Cleanse  them  from  inward  uncleanness." 

*  "Early  in  the  morning,  they  (the  Parsees  or  Ghebers  at 
Dulam)  go  in  crowds  to  pay  their  devotions  to  the  sun,  to 
whom  upon  ail  tlie  altars  there  are  spheres  consecrated,  made 
by  magic,  resemoling  the  circles  of  the  sun,  and  when  the  sun 
rises,  these  orbs  seem  to  be  inflamed,  and  to  turn  round  with  a 
great  noise.    They  have  every  one  a  censer  in  their  hands, 
•nd  offer  incense  to  the  sun." 

1  "Nul  d'entre  eux  oseroit  se  perjurer,  quand  il  a  pris  a 
temoin  cet  Element  terrible  et  vengeur."— Encyclopedia 
Francois. 

*  "A  vivid  verdure  succeeds  tne  autumnal  pains,  and  the 
ploughed  fields  arc  covered  with  the  Persian  lily,  of  a  resplen- 
dent ytllow  color."-  -RusseTt  Aleppo. 


She  now  has  but  the  one  dear  thought, 

O  / 

And  thinks  that  o'er,  almost  to  madness  ! 
Oft  doth  her  sinking  heart  recall 
His  words — "  For  my  sake,  weep  for  all ;" 
And  bitterly,  as  day  on  day 

Of  rebel  carnage  fast  succeeds, 
She  weeps  a  lover  snatch'd  away 

.  In  every  Gheber  wretch  that  bleeds. 
There's  not  a  sabre  meets  her  eye, 

But  with  his  life-blood  seems  to  swim  ; 
There's  not  an  arrow  wings  the  sky 

But  fancy  turns  its  point  to  him. 
No  more  she  brings  with  footstep  light 
Al  Hassan's  falchion  for  the  fight ; 
And — had  he  look'd  with  clearer  sight, 
Had  not  the  mists,  that  ever  rise 
From  a  foul  spirit,  dimm'd  his  eyes — 
He  would  have  mark'd  her  shuddering  frame, 
When  from  the  field  of  blood  he  came, 
The  faltering  speech — the  look  estranged — 
Voice,  step,  and  life,  and  beauty  changed  ; 
He  would  have  mark'd  all  this,  and  known 
Such  change  is  wrought  by  love  alone  ! 

Ah  !  not  the  love  that  should  have  bless'd 
So  young,  so  innocent  a  breast ; 
Not  the  pure,  open,  prosperous  love 
That,  pledged  on  earth  and  seal'd  above, 
Grows  in  the  world's  approving  eyes, 

In  friendship's  smile  and  home's  caress, 
Collecting  all  the  heart's  sweet  ties 

Into  one  knot  of  happiness  ! 
No,  Hinda,  no — thy  fatal  flame 
Is  nursed  in  silence,  sorrow,  shame. 

A  passion,  without  hope  or  pleasure, 
In  thy  soul's  darkness  buried  deep 

It  lies,  like  some  ill-gotten  treasure, — 
Some  idol,  without  shrine  or  name, 
O'er  which  its  pale-eyed  votaries  keep 
Unholy  watch,  while  others  sleep  ! 

Seven  nights  have  darken'd  Oman's  Sea, 
Since  last,  beneath  the  moonlight  ray, 
She  saw  his  light  oar  rapidly 

Hurry  her  Gheber's  b&rk  away  ; 
And  still  she  goes,  at  midnight  hour, 
To  weep  alone  in  that  high  bower, 
And  watch,  and  look  along  the  deep 
For  him  whose  smiles  first  made  her  weep,— 
But  watching,  weeping,  all  was  vain, 
She  never  saw  that  bark  asrain. 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOOUK. 


129 


The  owlet's  solitary  cry, 

The  night-hawk,  flitting  darkly  by, 

And  oft  the  hateful  carrion-bird, 
Heavily  flapping  his  clogg'd  wing, 
Which  reek'd  with  that  day's  b:m<|ueting — 

"Was  all  she  saw,  was  all  she  hoard. 

'Tie  the  eighth  morn — Al  Hassan's  brow 

Is  brighten'd  with  unusual  joy — 
What  mighty  mischief  glads  him  now, 

Who  never  smiles  but  to  destroy  ? 
The  sparkle  upon  Ilerkend's  Sea, 
When  tost  at  midnight  furiously,1 
Tells  not  of  wreck  and  ruin  nigh, 
More  surely  than  that  smiling  eye  ! 
"  Up,  daughter,  up — the  KernaV  breath 
Has  blown  a  blast  would  waken  Death, 
And  yet  thou  sleepst — up,  child,  and  see 
This  blessed  day  for  Heaven  and  me, 
A  day  more  rich  in  Pagan  blood 
Than  ever  flash'd  o'er  Oman's  flood. 
Before  another  dawn  shall  shine, 
His  head — heart — limbs — will  all  be  mine  ; 
This  very  night  his  blood  shall  steep 
These  hands  all  over  ere  I  sleep  !" — 
"  Hits  blood !"  she  faintly  scream'd — her  mind 
Still  singling  one  from  all  mankind. 

"  Yes,  spite  of  his  ravines  and  towers, 
Hafed,  my  child,  this  night  is  ours. 
Thanks  to  all-conquering  treachery, 

Without  whose  aid  the  links  accurst, 
That  bind  these  impious  slaves,  would  be 

Too  strong  for  Alla's  self  to  burst ! 
That  rebel  fiend,  whose  blade  has  spread 
My  path  with  piles  of  Moslem  dead, 
Whose  baffling  spells  had  almost  driven 
Back  from  their  course  the  swords  of  Heaven, 
This  night,  with  all  his  band,  shall  know 
How  deep  an  Arab's  steel  can  go, 
When  God  and  vengeance  speed  the  blow. 
And — Prophet ! — by  that  holy  wreath 
Thou  worest  on  Ohod's  field  of  death 
I  swear,  for  every  sob  that  parts 
In  anguish  from  these  heathen  hearts, 

"  It  5*  observed,  with  reppect  to  the  Sea  of  Herkend,  that 

wi.eii  it  is  tossed  by  tempestuous  winds  it  sparkles  like  fire." 

'•  A  kind  of  trumpet ;— it  "was  that  used  by  Tamerlane,  the 

•-.-.•••I  of  which  is  so  loud  as  to  be  heard  at  the  distance  of 

tevi  -mJ  miles." 

'  "  tobammed  had  two  helmet*,  an  interior  and  exterior 
we  Jje  latter  of  which,  called  Al  Mawaxhah,  the  wreathed 
•vlaL'i  he  wort  at  the  battle  of  Oboe 


A  gem  from  IVrsi:i'»  plunder'd  mines 
Shall  glitter  on  thy  shrine  of  shrinrs. 
But,  ha  ! — she  sinks — that  look  so  wild — 
Those  livid  lips — my  child,  my  child, 
This  life  of  blood  befits  not  thee, 
And  thou  must  back  to  Araby. 

Ne'er  had  I  risk'd  thy  timid  sex 
In  scenes  that  man  himself  might  dread, 
Had  I  not  hoped  our  every  tread 

Would  be  on  prostrate  Persian  necka — 
Curst  race,  they  offer  swords  instead  ! 
But  cheer  thee,  maid, — the  wind  that  now 
Is  blowing  o'er  thy  feverish  brow 
To-day  shall  waft  thee  from  the  shore ; 
And,  ere  a  drop  of  this  night's  gore 
Hath  time  to  chill  in  yonder  towers, 
Thou'lt  see  thy  own  sweet  Arab  bowers  !w 

His  bloody  boast  was  all  too  true — 
There  lurk'd  one  wretch  among  the  few 
Whom  Hafed's  eagle  eye  could  count 
Around  him  on  that  fiery  mount, — 
One  miscreant,  who  for  gold  betray'd 
The  pathway  through  the  valley's  shade 
To  those  high  towers  where  Freedom  stood 
In  her  last  hold  of  flame  and  blood 
Left  on  the  field  last  dreadfiK  night. 
When,  sallying  from  their  sacred  height, 
The  Ghebers  fought  hope's  farewell  fight, 
He  lay — but  died  not  with  the  brave  ; 
That  sun,  which  should  have  gilt  his  grave, 
Saw  him  a  traitor  and  a  slave ; — 
And,  while  the  few,  who  thence  return'd 
To  their  high  rocky  fortress,  mourn'd 
For  him  among  the  matchless  dead 
They  left  behind  on  glory's  bed, 
He  lived,  and,  in  the  face  of  morn, 
Laugh'd  them  and  faith  and  heaven  to  scorn  1 

Oh  for  a  tongue  to  curse  the  slave, 

Whose  treason,  like  a  deadly  blight, 
Comes  o'er  the  counsels  of  the  brave, 

And  blasts  them  in  their  hour  of  might ! 
May  life's  unblessed  cup  for  him 
Be  drugg'd  with  treacheries  to  the  brim, — 
With  hopes  that  but  allure  to  fly, 

With  joys  that  vanish  while  lie  sips, 
Like  Dead-Sea  fruits  that  tempt  the  eye,* 

I5ut  turn  to  ashes  on  the  lips  ! 


«  "  They  say  that  there  are  apple-trees  upon  the  tldo*  of 
this  sea.  which  bear  very  lovely  fruit,  bat  withic  are  fall  of 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


His  country's  curse,  his  children's  shame, 
Outcast  of  virtue,  peace,  and  fame, 
May  he,  at  last,  with  lips  of  flame, 
On  the  parch'd  desert  thirsting  die, — 
While  lakes  that  shone  in  mockery  nigh1 
Are  fading  off,  untouch'd,  untasted, 
Like  the  once  glorious  hopes  he  blasted  ! 
And,  when  from  earth  his  spirit  flies, 

Just  Prophet,  let  the  damn'd  one  dwell 
Full  in  the  sight  of  Paradise, 

Beholding  heaven,  and  feeling  hell ! 

Lalla  Rookh  had  had  a  dream  the  night 
before,  which,  in  spite  of  the  impending  fate 
of  poor  Hafed,  made  her  heart  more  than 
usually  cheerful  during  the  morning,  and 
gave  her  cheeks  all  the  freshened  animation 
of  a  flower  that  the  Bid-musk  had  just  passed 
over."  She  fancied  that  she  was  sailing  on 
that  Eastern  Ocean,  where  the  sea-gipsies,' 
who  live  forever  on  the  water,  enjoy  a  per- 
petual summer  in  wandering  from  isle  to  isle, 
when  she  saw  a  small  gilded  bark  approach- 
ing her.  It  was  like  one  of  those  boats 
which  the  Maldivian  islanders  annually  send 
adrift,  at  the  mercy  of  winds  and  waves, 
loaded  with  perfumes,  flowers,  and  odorifer- 
ous wood,  as  an  offering  to  the  Spirit  whom 
they  call  King  of  the  Sea.  At  first  this 
little  bark  appeared  to  be  empty,  but  on 
coming  nearer 


ashes.1'—  Tfievenot.    The  same  is  asserted  of  the  oranges  there. 
—  Vide  Witman's  Travels  in  Asiatic  Turkey. 

Lord  Byron  has  a  similar  allusion  to  the  fruits  of  the  Dead 
Sea,  in  that  wonderful  display  of  genius— his  Third  Canto  of 
"  CbiMe  Harold"— magnificent  beyond  anything,  perhaps,  that 
even  he  has  ever  written. 

''  The  Shuhrab  or  Water  of  the  Desert  is  said  to  be  caused 
oy  the  refraction  of  the  atmosphere  from  extreme  heat ;  and, 
which  augments  the  delusion,  it  is  most  frequent  in  hollows, 
where  water  might  be  expected  to  lodge.  I  have  seen  bushes 
and  trees  reflected  in  it,  with  as  much  accuracy  as  though  it 
had  been  the  face  of  a  clear  and  still  lake." — Pottinger. 

"  As  to  the  unbelievers,  their  works  are  like  a  vapor  in  a 
plain,  which  the  thirsty  traveller  thinketh  to  be  water,  until 
when  he  cometh  thereto  he  flndeth  it  to  be  nothing." — Koran, 
chap.  24. 

"  "  A  wind  which  prevails  in  February,  called  Bidmusk, 
from  a  small  and  odoriferous  flower  of  that  name."  "  The 
wind  which  blows  these  flowers  commonly  lasts  till  the  end 
of  the  month."— Le  Bniyn. 

»  "The  Biajus  are  of  two  races;  the  one  is  settled  on 
Borneo,  and  are  a  rude  but  warlike  and  industrious  nation, 
who  reckon  themoelves  the  original  possessors  of  the  island 
»f  Borneo.  The  othar  is  a  species  of  sea-gipsies  or  itinerant 
fishermen,  who  live  in  small  covered  boats,  and  enjoy  a  per- 
petual summer  or  '.b-s  eastern  ocean,  shifting  to  leeward  from 
Bland  to  island,  with  the  variations  of  the  monsoon." — Dr. 
Leyd'n  on  tht  Indo-  Chit  test  \atian*.  - 


She  had  proceeded  thus  far  in  relating  th» 
dream  to  her  ladies,  when  Feramorz  appeared 
at  the  door  of  the  pavilion.  In  his  presence 
of  course,  everything  else  was  forgotten, 
and  the  continuance  of  the  story  was  in- 
stantly requested  by  all.  Fresh  wood  of 
aloes  was  set  to  burn  in  the  cassolets ; — the 
violet  sherbets4  were  hastily  handed  round, 
and,  after  a  short  prelude  on  his  lute,  in  the 
pathetic  measure  of  Nava,6  which  is  always 
used  to  express  the  lamentations  of  absent 
lovers,  the  poet  thus  continued : — 

The  day  is  lowering — stilly  black 
Sleeps  the  grim  wave,  while  heaven's  rack> 
Dispersed  and  wild,  'twixt  earth  and  sky 
Hangs  like  a  shatter'd  canopy ! 
There's  not  a  cloud  in  that  blue  plain 

But  tells  of  storm  to  come  or  past ; — 
Here,  flying  loosely  as  the  mane 

Of  a  young  war-horse  in  the  blast; 
There,  roll'd  in  masses  dark  and  swelling,. 
As  proud  to  be  the  thunder's  dwelling  ! 
While  some,  already  burst  and  riven, 
Seem  melting  down  the  verge  of  heaven ; 
As  though  the  infant  storm  had  rent 

The  mighty  womb  that  gave  him  birth. 
And,  having  swept  the  firmament, 

Was  now  in  fierce  career  for  earth. 
On  earth  'twas  all  yet  calm  around, 
A  pulseless  silence,  dread,  profound, 
More  awful  than  the  tempest's  sound. 
The  diver  steer'd  for  Ormus'  bowers, 
And  moor'd  his  skiff  till  calmer  hours; 
The  sea-birds,  with  portentous  screech, 
Flew  fast  to  land  ; — upon  the  beach 
The  pilot  oft  had  paused  with  glance 
Turn'd  upward  to  that  wild  expanse ; 
And  all  was  boding,  drear,  and  dark 
As  her  own  soul,  when  Hinda's  bark 
Went  slowly  from  the  Persian  shore. 
No  music  timed  her  parting  oar,* 
Nor  friends  upon  the  lessening  strand 


4  "  The  sweet-scented  violet  is  one  of  the  plants  most  es- 
teemed, particularly  for  its  great  use  in  Sorbet,  which  they 
make  of  violet  sugar." — Hasselquist. 

"The  sherbet  they  most  esteem,  and  which  is  drunk  by  the- 
Grand  Signor  himself,  is  made  of  violets  and  sugar."— 
Tavernier. 

'  "  Last  of  all  she  took  a  guitar,  and  sung  a  pathetic  air  in 
the  measure  called  Nava,  which  is  always  used  to  express  the 
lamentations  of  absent  lovers." — Persian  Tiles. 

*  "The  Easterns  used  to  set  out  on  their  longer  vr 
with  music." 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOO  UK. 


131 


Lingered  to  wave  the  unseen  hand, 
Or  speak  the  farewell,  heard  no  more ; 
But  lone,  unheeded,  from  the  bay 
The  vessel  takes  its  mournful  way, 
Like  some  ill-destined  bark  that  steers 
In  silence  through  the  Gate  of  Tears.1 

And  where  was  stern  Al  Hassan  then  ? 
Could  not  that  saintly  scourge  of  men 
From  bloodshed  and  devotion  spare 
One  minute  for  a  farewell  there  ? 
No — close  within,  in  changeful  fits 
Of  cursing  and  of  prayer,  he  sits 
In  savage  loneliness  to  brood 
Upon  the  coming  night  of  blood, 

With  that  keen,  second-scent  of  death, 
By  which  the  vulture  smift's  his  food 

In  the  still  warm  and  living  breath  !' 
Whilo  o'er  the  wave'his  weeping  daughter 
Is  wafted  from  these  scenes  of  slaughter, — 
As  a  young  bird  of  Babylon, 
Let  loose  to  tell  of  victory  won, 
Flies  home,  with  wing,  ah  !  not  unstain'd 
By  the  red  hands  that  held  her  chain'd. 
And  does  the  long-left  home  she  seeks 
Light  up  no  gladness  on  her  cheeks  ? 
The    flowers   she    nursed — the  well-known 

groves, 

Where  oft  in  dreams  her  spirit  roves — 
Once  more  to  see  her  dear  gazelles 
Come  bounding  with  their  silver  bells ; 
Her  birds'  new  plumage  to  behold, 

And  the  gay,  gleaming  fishes  count, 
She  left,  all  filleted  with  gold, 

Snooting  around  their  jasper  fount.1 
Her  little  garden  mosque  to  see, 

And  once  again,  at  evening  hour, 
To  tell  her  ruby  rosary4 

In  her  own  sweet  acacia  bower. — 


1  "  The  Gate  of  Tears,  the  straits  or  passage  into  the  Red 
Bea,  called  Babelmandeb.  It  received  this  name  from  the 
danger  of  the  navigation  and  the  number  of  shipwrecks  by 
which  it  was  dietini;uished  ;  which  induced  them  to  consider 
as  dead  all  who  had  the  boldness  to  hazard  the  passage 
tlnough  it  into  the  Kthiopic  ocean." 

-  "  I  have  been  told  that,  whensoever  an  animal  falls  down 
Jfud.  one  or  more  vultures,  unseen  before,  instantly  appear." 

'  "  The  Empress  of  Jehan-Gnire  used  to  divert  herself  with 
feeding  tame  flab,  in  her  canals,  some  of  which  were  many 
years  afterward  known  by  fillets  of  gold  which  nhe  caused  to 
\c  put  round  them." 

4  Le  Tespih,  qui  cst  un  cbapclct,  compose'  de  09  petitct 

onles  d'agathe,  de  jaspe,  d'ambre,  de  corail,  on  d'antre  nmti- 

ire  prticieuse.    J'en  ai  vn  nn  snpcrbe  au  Seigneur  Jcrpos ;  11 

*toit  de  belles  et  grosses  perles  parfaites  et  egales,  estlme' 

•~ente  mille  piastres."—  Toderini. 


Can  these  delights,  that  wait  her  LOW, 

Call  up  no  sunshine  on  her  brow  ? 

No  ;  silent,  from  her  train  apart, — 

As  if  even  now  she  felt  at  heart 

The  chill  of  her  approaching  doom, — 

She  sits,  all-lovely  in  her  gloom 

As  a  pale  angel  of  the  grave  ; 

And  o'er  the  wide,  tempestuous  wave, 

Looks,  with  a  shudder,  to  those  towers, 

Where,  in  a  few  short  awful  hours, 

Blood,  blood,  in  steaming  tides  shall  run, 

Foul  incense  for  to-morrow's  sun  ! 

"  Where  art  thou,  glorious  stranger  !  thou, 

So  loved,  so  lost,  where  art  thou  now  ? 

Foe — Gheber — infidel — whate'er 

The  unhallow'd  name  thou'rt  doom'd  to  bear, 

Still  glorious — still  to  this  fond  heart 

Dear  as  its  blood,  whate'er  thou  art ! 

Yes — Alia,  dreadful  Alia !  yes — 

If  there  be  wrong,  be  crime  in  this, 

Let  the  black  waves  that  round  us  roll 

Whelm  me  this  instant,  ere  my  soul, 

Forgetting  faith, — home, — father, — all — 

Before  its  earthly  idol  fall, 

Nor  worship  even  thyself  above  him. 

For  oh  !  so  wildly  do  I  love  him, 

Thy  Paradise  itself  were  dim 

And  joyless,  if  not  shared  with  him !" 

Her  hands  were  clasp'd — her  eyes  upturn'd, 

Dropping  their  tears  like  moonlight  rain , 
And  though  her  lip,  fond  raver,  burn'd 

With  words  of  passion,  bold,  profane, 
Yet  was  there  light  around  her  brow 

A  holiness  in  those  dark  eyes, 
Which    show'd — though   wandering   earth- 
ward now, — 

Her  spirit's  home  was  in  the  skies. 
Yes, — for  a  spirit  pure  as  hers 
Is  always  pure,  even  while  it  errs  ; 
As  sunshine,  broken  in  the  rill, 
Though  turn'd  astray,  is  sunshine  still ! 

So  wholly  had  her  mind  forgot 
All  thoughts  but  one,  she  heedel  not 
The  rising  storm — the  wave  that  east 
A  moment's  midnight,  as  it  pass'd — 
Nor  heard  the  frequent  shout,  the  tread 
Of  gathering  tumult  o'er  her  head — 
Clash'd  swords,  and  tongues  that  seem'd  lo  ri« 
With  the  rude  riot  of  the  sky. — 


132 


TOEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


But  hark  ! — that  warwhoop  on  the  deck — 
That  crash,  as  if  each  engine  there, 

Masts,  sails,  and  all  were  gene  to  wreck, 
Mid  yells  and  stampings  of  des-pair  ! 

Merciful  Heaven  !  what  can  it  be  ? 

Tis  not  the  storm,  though  fearfully 

The  ship  has  shudder' d  as  she  rode 

O'er  mountain  waves — "  Forgive  me,  God  ! 

Forgive  me,"  shriek'd  the  maid,  and  knelt, 

Trembling  all  over. — for  she  felt 

O  * 

As  if  her  judgment-hour  was  near; 

While  crouching  round,  half  dead  with  fear, 

Her   handmaids    clung,   nor   breathed,    nor 

stirr'd — 

When,  hark  ! — a  second  crash — a  third  ; 
And  now,  as  if  a  bolt  of  thunder 
Had  riven  the  laboring  planks  asunder, 
The  deck  falls  in — what  horrors  then  ! 
Blood,  waves,  and  tackle,  swords  and  men 
Come  mix'd  together  through  the  chasm  ; — 
Some  wretches  in  their  dying  spasm 
Still  fighting  on — and  some  that  call 
"  For  God  and  Iran  !"  as  they  fall. 

Whose  was  the  hand  that  turn'd  away 

The  perils  of  the  infuriate  fray, 

And  snatch'd  her  breathless  from  beneath 

This  wilderment  of  wreck  and  death  ? 

She  knew  not — for  a  faintness  came 

Chill  o'er  her,  and  her  sinking  frame 

Amid  the  ruins  of  that  hour 

Lay  like  a  pale  and  scorched  flower, 

Beneath  the  red  volcano's  shower  ! 

But  oh  !  the  sights  and  sounds  of  dread 

That  shock'd  her,  ere  her  senses  fled  ! 

The  yawning  deck — the  crowd  that  strove 

Upon  the  tottering  planks  above — 

The  sail,  whose  fragments,  shivering  o'er 

The  stragglers'  heads,  all  dash'd  with  gore, 

Flutter'd  like  bloody  flags — the  clash 

Of  sabres,  and  the  lightning's  flash 

Upon  their  blades,  high  toss'd  about 

Like  meteor  brands' — as  if  throughout 

The  elements  one  fury  ran, 
One  general  rage,  that  left  a  doubt 

Which  was  the  fiercer,  Heaven  or  man  ! 

Once,  too — but  no — it  could  not  be — 

'Twas  fancy  all — yet  once  she  thought, 
While  yet  her  fading  eyes  could  see, 


1  The  meteor*  that  Pliny  calls  "  Faces." 


High  on  the  ruin'd  deck  she  caught 
A  glimpse  of  that  unearthly  form, 

That  glory  of  her  soul, — even  then, 
Amid  the  whirl  of  wreck  and  storm, 

Shining  above  his  fellow-men, 
As,  on  some  black  and  troublous  night, 
The  star  of  Egypt,'  whose  proud  light 
Never  has  beam'd  on  those  who  rest 
In  the  White  Islands  of  the  West, 
Burns  through  the  storm  with  looks  of  flame 
That  put  heaven's  cloudier  eyes  to  shame 
But  no — 'twas  but  the  minute's  dream — 
A  fantasy — and  ere  the  scream 
Had  half-way  pass'd  her  pallid  lips, 
A  death-like  swoon,  a  chill  eclipse 
Of  soul  and  sense  its  darkness  spread 
Around  her,  and  she  sunk,  as  dead  ! 

How  calm,  how  beautiful  comes  on 
The  stilly  hour,  when  storms  are  gone ; 
When  warring  winds  have  died  away, 
And  clouds,  beneath  the  glancing  ray, 
Melt  off,  and  leave  the  land  and  sea 
Sleeping  in  bright  tranquillity, — 
FYesh  as  if  day  again  were  born, 
Again  upon  the  lap  of  Morn  ! 
When  the  light  blossoms,  rudely  torn 
And  scatter'd  at  the  whirlwind's  will, 
Hang  floating  in  the  pure  air  still, 
Filling  it  all  with  precious  balm, 
In  gratitude  for  this  sweet  calm  ; — 
And  every  drop  the  thunder  showers 
Have  left  upon  the  grass  and  flowers 
Sparkles,  as  'twere  that  lightning-gem* 
Whose  liquid  flame  is  born  of  them  ! 

When,  'stead  of  one  unchanging  breeze, 
There  blow  a  thousand  gentle  airs, 
And  each  a  different  perfume  bears, — 

As  if  the  loveliest  plants  and  trees 
Had  vassal  breezes  of  their  own 
To  watch  and  wait  on  them  alone, 
And  waft  no  other  breath  than  theirs  ! 
When  the  blue  waters  rise  and  fall, 
In  sleepy  sunshine  mantling  all ; 
And  even  that  swell  the  tempest  leaves 
Is  like  the  full  and  silent  heaves 


8  "  The  brilliant  Canopus,  unseen  in  European  climates." 
3  A  precious  stone  of  the  Indies,  called  by  the  ancient* 
ceraunium,  because  it  was  supposed  to  be  found  in  plac<>i 
where  thunder  had  fallen.  Tertnllian  says  it  has  a  glittering 
appearance,  as  if  there  had  been  fire  in  it ;  and  others  supi'O^ 
it  to  be  the  opal. 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


Of  lovers'  hearts,  when  newly  blest, 
Too  newly  to  be  quite  at  rest ! 

Such  was  the  golden  hour  that  broke 
Upon  the  world,  when  Him  la  woke 
From  her  lone:  trance,  and  heard  around 

O  ' 

No  motion  but  the  water's  sound 
Rippling  against  the  vessel's  side, 
As  slow  it  mounted  o'er  the  tide. — 
But  where  is  she  ? — her  eyes  are  dark, 
Are  wilder'd  still — is  this  the  bark, 
The  same,  that  from  Harmozia's  bay 
Bore  her  at  morn — whose  bloody  way 
The  sea-dog  tracks  ? — no — strange  and  new 
Is  all  that  meets  her  wondering  view. 
Upon  a  galliot's  deck  she  lies, 

Beneath  no  rich  pavilion's  shade, 
No  plumes  to  fan  her  sleeping  eyes, 

Nor  jasmine  on  her  pillow  laid. 
But  the  rude  litter,  roughly  spread 
With  war-cloaks,  is  her  homely  bed, 
And  shawl  and  sash,  on  javelins  hung, 
For  awning  o'er  her  head  are  flung. 
Shuddering  she  look'd  around — there  lay 

A  group  of  warriors  in  the  sun 
Resting  their  limbs,  as  for  that  day 

Their  ministry  of  death  were  done. 
Some  gazirg  on  the  drowsy  sea, 
Lost  in  unconscious  reverie ; 
And  some,  who  eeem'd  but  ill  to  brook 
That  sluggish  calm,  with  many  a  look 
To  the  slack  sail  impatient  cast, 
As  loose  it  flagg'd  around  the  mast. 

Blest  Alia  !  who  shall  save  her  now  ? 

There's  not  in  all  that  warrior-band 
One  Arab  sword,  one  turban'd  brow, 

From  her  own  faithful  Moslem  land. 
Their  garb — the  leathern  belt  that  wraps 

Each  yellow  vest1 — that  rebel  hue — 
The  Tartar  fleece  upon  their  caps' — 

Yes — yes — her  fears  are  all  too  true, 
And  Heaven  hath,  in  this  dreadful  hour, 
Abandon'd  her  to  Hafed's  power  ; — 
Hafed,  the  Gheber ! — at  the  thought 

Her  very  heart's-blood  chills  within  ; 
He,  whom  her  soul  was  hourly  taught 

To  loathe,  as  some  foul  fiend  of  sin, 


i  ••  The  Ohebers  are  known  by  a  dark  yellow  color  which 
the  raeu  affect  in  their  clothes." 

»  "  The  Kolah,  or  cap,  worn  by  the  Persians,  is  made  of  the 
tkin  of  tho  sheep  of  Tartary." 


Some  minister — whom  hell  had  scut 
To  spread  its  blast  where'er  he  went, 
And  ^ing,  as  o'er  our  earth  he  trod, 
His  shadow  betwixt  man  and  God  ! 
And  she  is  now  his  captive,  thrown 
In  his  fierce  hands,  alive,  alone ; 
His  the  infuriate  band  she  sees, 
All  infidels — all  enemies ! 
What  was  the  daring  hope  that  then 
Cross'd  her  like  lightning,  as  again, 
With  boldness  that  despair  had  lent, 

She  darted  through  that  armed  crowd 
A  look  so  searching,  so  intent, 

That  even  the  sternest  warrior  bow'd 
Abash'd,  when  he  her  glances  caught, 
As  if  he  guess'd  whose  form  they  sought  ? 
But  no — she  sees  him  not — 'tis  gone, — 
The  vision,  that  before  her  shone 
Through  all  the  maze  of  blood  and  storm, 
Is  fled — 'twas  but  a  phantom  form — 
One  of  those  passing  rainbow  dreams, 
Half  light,  half  shade,  which  Fancy's  beami 
Paint  on  the  fleeting  mists  that  roll 
In  trance  or  slumber  round  the  soul ! 

But  now  the  bark,  with  livelier  bound, 
Scales    the    blue    wave — the    crew's    id 

motion — 
The  oars  are  out,  and  with  light  sound 

Break  the  bright  mirror  of  the  ocean, 
Scattering  its  brilliant  fragments  round. 
And  now  she  sees — with  horror  sees — 
Their  course  is  toward  that  mountain  hold, — 
Those  towers,  that  make  her  life-blood  freeze, 
Where  Mecca's  godless  enemies 
Lie,  like  beleaguer'd  scorpions,  roll'd 
In  their  last  deadly,  venomous  fold  ! 
Amid  the  illumined  land  and  flood 
Sunless  that  mighty  mountain  stood , 
Save  where,  above  its  awful  head, 
There  shone  a  flaming  cloud,  blood-red, 
As  'twere  the  flag  of  destiny 
Hung  out  to  mark  where  death  would  be  1 

Had  her  bewilder'd  mind  tho  power 

Of  thought  in  this  terrific  hour, 

She  well  might  marvel  where  or  how 

Man's  foot  could  scale  that  mountain's  brow 

Since  ne'er  had  Arab  heard  or  known 

Of  path  but  through  the  glen  alone. — 

But  every  thought  is  lost  in  fear. 


134 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


When,  as  their  bounding  bark  drew  near 
The  craggy  base,  she  felt  the  waves 
Hurry  them  toward  those  dismal  caves 
That  from  the  deep  in  windings  pass 
Beneath  that  mount's  volcanic  mass — 
And  loud  a  voice  on  deck  commands 
To  lower  the  mast  and  light  the  brands  ! — 
Instantly  o'er  the  dashing  tide 
Within  a  cavern's  mouth  they  glide, 
Gloomy  as  that  eternal  porch 

Through  which  departed  spirits  go  ; — 
Not  even  the  flare  of  brand  and  torch 

Its  flickering  light  could  further  throw 

Than  the  thick  flood  that  boil'd  below. 
Silent  they  floated — as  if  each 
Sat  breathless,  and  too  awed  for  speech 
In  that  dark  chasm,  where  even  sound 
Seem'd  dark, — so  sullenly  around 
The  goblin  echoes  of  the  cave 
Mutter'd  it  o'er  the  long  black  wave, 
As  'twere  some  secret  of  the  grave ! 
But  soft — they  pause — the  current  turns 

Beneath  them  from  its  onward  track ; — 
Some  mighty,  unseen  barrier  spurns 

The  vexed  tide,  all  foaming,  back, 
And  scarce  the  oar's  redoubled  force  : 
Can  stem  the  eddy's  whirling  course 
When,  hark !— some  desperate  foot  has  sprung 
Among  the  rocks — the  chain  is  flung — 
The  oars  are  up — the  grapple  clings, 
And  the  toss'd  bark  in  moorings  swings. 
Just  then,  a  day-beam  through  the  shade 
Broke  tremulous — but,  ere  the  maid 
Can  see  from  whence  the  brightness  steals, 
Upon  her  brow  she  shuddering  feels 
A  viewless  hand,  that  promptly  ties 
A  bandage  round  her  burning  eyes ; 
While  the  rude  litter  where  she  lies, 
Uplifted  by  the  warrior  throng, 
O'er  the  steep  rocks  is  borne  along. 

Blest  power  of  sunshine  !  genial  Day, 
What  balm,  what  life  is  in  thy  ray  ! 
To  feel  thee  is  such  real  bliss, 
That  had  the  world  no  joy  but  this, — 
To  sit  in  sunshine  calm  and  sweet, — 
It  were  a  world  too  exquisite 
For  man  to  leave  it  for  the  gloom, 
The  deep,  cold  shadow  of  the  tomb  ! 
Even  Ilinda,  though  she  saw  n.ot  where 
Or  whither  wound  the  perilous  road, 


Yet  knew  by  that  awakening  air, 

Which  suddenly  around  her  glow'd, 
That  they  had  risen  from  darkness  then, 
And  breathed  the  sunny  world  again  ! 
But  soon  this  balmy  freshness  fled — 
For  now  the  steepy  labyrinth  led 
Through  damp  and  gloom — 'mid  crash  of 

boughs, 

And  fall  of  loosen'd  crags  that  rouse 
The  leopard  from  his  hungry  sleep, 

Who,  starting,  thinks  each  crag  a  prey, 
And  long  is  heard  from  steep  to  steep, 

Chasing  them  down  their  thundering  way  . 
The  jackal's  cry — the  distant  moan 
Of  the  hya3na,  fierce  and  lone  ; — 
And  that  eternal,  saddening  sound 

Of  torrents  in  the  glen  beneath, 
As  'twere  the  ever-dark  profound 

That  rolls  beneath  the  Bridge  of  Death  ! 
All,  all  is  fearful — even  to  see, 

To  gaze  on  those  terrific  things 
She  now  but  blindly  hears,  would  be 

Relief  to  her  imaginings  ! 
Since  never  yet  was  shape  so  dread, 

But  fancy,  thus  in  darkness  thrown, 
And  by  su«h  sounds  of  horror  fed, 

Could  frame  more  dreadful  of  her  own. 

But  does  she  dream  ?  has  fear  again 

Perplex'd  the  workings  of  her  brain, 

Or  did  a  voice,  all  music,  then 

Come  from  the  gloom,  low  whispering  near — 

"  Tremble  not,  love,  thy  Gheber's  here  ?" 

She  does  not  dream — all  sense,  all  ear, 

She  drinks  the  words,  "  Thy  Gheber's  here.1* 

'Twas  his  own  voice — she  could  not  err — 

Throughout  the  breathing  world's  extent 
There  was  but  one  such  voice  for  her, 
So  kind,  so  soft,  so  eloquent ! 
Oh  !  sooner  shall  the  rose  of  May 

Mistake  her  own  sweet,  nightingale, 
And  to  some  meaner  minstrel's  lay 

Open  her  bosom's  glowing  veil,1 
Than  Love  shall  ever  doubt  a  tone, 
A  breath  of  the  beloved  one ! 
Though  blest,  'mid  all  her  ills,  to  think 

She  has  that  one  beloved  near, 
Whose  smile,  though  met  on  ruin's  brink, 


1  "A  frequent,  image  among  the  oriental  poets.  'The  night- 
ingales warbled  their  enchanting  notes,  and  rent  the  thim  veils 
of  the  rose-bud  and  the  rose.'  " 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


135 


Has  power  to  make  even  ruin  dear, — 
Yet  soon  this  gleam  of  rapture,  cross'd 
By  fears  for  him,  is  chill'd  and  lost. 
How  shall  the  ruthless  Hafed  brook 
That  one  of  Gheber  blood  should  look, 
With  aught  but  curses  in  his  eye, 
OD  her — a  maid  of  Araby — 
A  Moslem  maid — the  child  of  him 

Whose  bloody  banner's  dire  success 
Has  left  their  altars  cold  and  dim, 

And  their  fair  land  a  wilderness ! 
And,  worse  than  all,  that  night  of  blood 

Which  comes  so  fast — oh !  who  shall  stay 
The  sword  that  once  has  tasted  food 
Of  Persian  hearts,  or  turn  its  way  ? 
What  arm  shall  then  the  victim  cover, 
Or  from  her  father  shield  her  lover? 
''  Save  him,  my  God  !"  she  inly  cries — 
'*  Save  him  this  night — and  i-f  thine  eyes 

Have  ever  welcomed  with  delight 
The  sinner's  tears,  the  sacrifice 
Of  sinners'  hearts — guard  him  this  night, 

O  O  7 

And  here,  before  Thy  throne,  I  swear 
From  my  heart's  inmost  core  to  tear 

Love,  hope,  remembrance,  though  they  be 
Link'd  with  each  quivering  life-string  there, 

And  give  it  bleeding  all  to  Thee ! 
Let  him  but  live,  the  burning  tear, 
The  sighs,  so  sinful  yet  so  dear, 
Which  have  been  all  too  much  his  own, 
Shall  from  this  hour  be  Heaven's  alone. 
Youth  pass'd  in  penitence,  and  age 
In  long  and  painful  pilgrimage, 
Shall  leave  no  traces  of  the  flame 
That  wastes  me  now — nor  shall  his  name 
E'er  bless  my  lips,  but  when  I  pray 
For  his  dear  spirit,  that  away 
Casting  from  its  angelic  ray 
The  eclipse  of  earth,  he  too  may  shine 
RedoemM,  all-glorious  and  all  Thine! 
Think — think  what  victory  to  win 
One  radiant  soul  like  his  from  sin; — 
One  wandering  star  of  virtue  back 
To  its  own  native,  heavenward  track  ! 
Let  him  but  live,  and  both  are  Thine, 

Together  Thine — for,  blest  or  cross'd, 
Living  or  dead,  his  doom  is  mine, 

And  ii  he  perish,  both  are  lost !" 

The   next   evening   Lalla  Rookh  was  en- 
treated by  her  ladies  to  continue  the  relation 


of  her  wonderful  dream  ;  but  the  fearfd 
interest  that  hung  round  the  fate  of  Hinda 
and  her  lover  had  completely  removed  every 
trace  of  it  from  her  mind — much  to  the  dis- 
appointment of  a  fair  seer  or  two  in  her 
train,  who  prided  themselves  on  their  skill 
in  interpreting  visions,  and  who  had  already 
remarked,  as  an  unlucky  omen,  that  th<» 
Princess,  on  the  very  morning  after  the 
dream,  had  worn  a  silk  dyed  with  the  blos- 
soms of  the  sorrowful  tree  Nilica.1 

Fadladeen,  whose  wrath  had  more  than 
once  broken  out  during  the  recital  of  some 
parts  of  this  most  heterodox  poem,  seemed 
at  length  to  have  made  up  his  mind  to  the 
infliction ;  and  took  his  seat  this  evening 
with  all  the  patience  of  a  martyr,  while  the 
poet  continued  his  profane  and  seditious 
story  thus : — 

To  tearless  eyes  and  hearts  at  ease 
The  leafy  shores  and  sun-bright  seas 
That  lay  beneath  that  mountain's  height 
Had  been  a  fair,  enchanting  sight. 
'Twas  one  of  those  ambrosial  eves 
A  day  of  storm  so  often  leaves 
At  its  calm  setting — when  the  West 
Opens  her  golden  bowers  of  rest, 
And  a  moist  radiance  from  the  skies 
Shoots  trembling  down,  as  from  the  eyes 
Of  some  meek  penitent,  whose  last, 
Bright  hours  atone  for  dark  ones  past, 
And  whose  sweet  tears,  o'er  wrong  forgiven, 
Shine,  as  they  fall,  with  light  from  heaven  I 
'Twas  stillness  all — the  winds  that  late 

Had   rush'd    through    Herman's   almond 

groves, 
And  shaken  from  her  bowers  of  date 

That  cooling  feast  the  traveller  loves,* 
Now,  lull'd  to  .languor,  scarcely  curl 
The  Green  Sea  wave,  whose  waters  gleam, 
Limpid,  as  if  her  mines  of  pearl 

Were  melted  all  to  form  the  stream. 
And  her  fair  islets,  small  and  bright, 

With  their  green  shores  reflected  there, 


1  "Bloocom*  of  the  sorrowful  Nyctanthi--  ;:ive  •  durable 
color  to  filk."— Hrmark*  on  the  husbandry  of  Ilfttyal,  p.  300. 
"Nlllca  It  one  of  the  Indian  name*  of  tlitu  flower." — Sir  tP. 
Jontf.  "The  Persian* call  it  Onl."—  t'arreri. 

1  "  In  part*  of  Kcrmnn,  whatever  i!;itc«  arc  r  taken  from  ibt 
trees  by  the  wind,  they  leave  for  tlio«f  who  iuve  not  any,  at 
for  trrivi'lliT*.1' 


136 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


Look  like  those  Peri  isles  of  light, 
That  hang  by  spell-work  in  the  air. 

But  vainly  did  those  glories  burst 
On  Hinda's  dazzled  eyes,  when  first 
The  bandage  from  her  brow  was  taken, 
And  pale  and  awed  as  those  who  waken 
In  their  dark  tombs — when,  scowling  near, 
The  searchers  of  the  grave1  appear, — 
She,  shuddering,  turn'd  to  read  her  fnte 

In  the  fierce  eyes  that  flash'd  annum  ; 
And  saw  those  towers  all  desolate, 

That  o'er  her  head  terrific  frown'd, 
As  if  defying  even  the  smile 
Of  that  soft  heaven  to  gild  their  pile. 
In  vain,  with  mingled  hope  and  fear, 
She  looks  for  him  whose  voice  so  dear 
Had  come,  like  music,  to  her  ear — 
Strange,  mocking  dream  !  again  'tis  fled. 
And  oh  !  the  shoots,  the  pangs  of  dread 
That  through  her  inmost  bosom  run, 

When  voices  from  without  proclaim, 
"  Hafed,  the  Chief" — and,  one  by  one, 

The  warriors  shout  that  fearful  name ! 
He  comes — the  rock  resounds  his  tread — 
How  shall  she  dare  to  lift  her  head, 
Or  meet  those  eyes,  whose  scorching  glare 
Not  Yeman's  boldest  sons  can  bear? 
In  whose  red  beam,  the  Moslem  tells, 
Such  rank  and  deadly  lustre  dwells, 
As  in  those  hellish  fires  that  light 
The  mandrake's  charnel  leaves  at  night!" 
How  shall  she  bear  that  voice's  tone, 
At  whose  loud  battle-cry  alone 
Whole  squadrons  oft  in  panic  ran, 
Scatter'd,  like  some  vast  caravan, 
When,  stretch'd  at  evening  round  the  well, 
They  hear  the  thirsting  tiger's  yell ! 

Breathless  she  stands,  with  eyes  cast  down, 
Shrinking  beneath  the  fiery  frown, 
Which,  fancy  tells  her,  from  that  brow 
Is  flashing  o'er  her  fiercely  now ; 
And  shuddering,  as  she  hears  the  tread 

Of  his  retiring  warrior  band. 
Never  was  pause  so  full  of  dread ; 

Till  Hafed,  with  a  trembling  hand, 
Took  hers,  and,  leaning  o'er  her$  said, 


1  "  The  two  terrible  angels,  Monkir  and  Nakir,  who  are 
called  '  The  Searchers  of  the  Grave.'  " 

*  "  The  Arabians  call  the  mandrake  '  The  Devil's  Candle,' 
•c  account  of  its  shining  appearance  in  the  ni^ht." 


"  Hinda !" — that  word  was  all  he  spoke  ; 
And  'twas  enough — the  shriek  that  broke 

From  her  full  bosom  told  the  rest — 
Breathless  with  terror,  joy,  surprise, 
The  maid  but  lifts  her  wondering  eyes 

To  hide  them  on  her  Gheber's  breast ! 
'Tis  he,  'tis  he — the  man  of  blood, 
The  fellest  of  the  Fire-Fiend's  brood. 
Hafed,  the  demon  of  the  fight, 
Whose     voice      unnerves,    whose     glancet 

blight, 

Is  her  own  loved  Gheber,  mild 
And  o-lorious  as  when  first  he  smiled 

O 

In  her  lone  tower,  and  left  such  beams 
Of  his  pure  eye  to  light  her  dreams, 
That  she  believed  her  bower  had  given 
Rest  to  some  habitant  of  heaven  ! 

Moments  there  are,  and  this  was  one, 
Snatch'd  like  a  minute's  gleam  of  sun 
Amid  the  black  Simoom's  eclipse — • 

Or  like  those  verdant  spots  that  bloom 
Around  the  crater's  burning  lips, 

Sweetening  the  very  edge  of  doom  ! 
The  past — the  future — all  that  fate 
Can  bring  of  dark  or  desperate 
Around  such  hours,  but  makes  them  caat 
Intenser  radiance  while  they  last ! 

Even  he,  this  youth — though   dimni'd  *ad 

gone 

Each  star  of  hope  that  cheer'd  him  on — 
His  glories  lost — his  cause  betray'd — 
Iran,  his  dear-loved  country,  made 
A  land  of  carcases  and  slaves, 
One  dreary  waste  of  chains  and  graves — 
Himself  but  lingering,  dead  at  heart, 

To  see  the  last,  long-struggling  breath 
Of  liberty's  great  soul  depart, 

Then  lay  him  down,  and  share  her  death — 
Even  he,  so  sunk  in  wretchedness, 

With  doom  still  darker  gathering  o'er  him. 
Yet  in  this  moment's  pure  caress, 

In  the  mild  eyes  that  shone  before  him, 
Reaming;  that  blest  assurance,  worth 

O  ' 

All  other  transports  known  on  earth, 
That  he  was  loved — well,  warmly  loved— 
Oh  !  in  this  precious  hour  he  proved 
How  deep,  how  thorough-felt  the  glow 
Of  rapture,  kindling  out  of  woe  ; — 
How  exquisite  one  single  drop 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOOIIK. 


I    ' 


Of  bliss,  thus  sparkling  to  the  top 
Of  misery's  cup — how  keenly  quaff'd, 
Though  death  must  follow  on  the  draught! 

She,  too,  while  gazing  an  those  eyes 

That  sink  into  her  soul  so  deep, 
Forgets  all  fears,  all  miseries, 

Or  feels  them  like  the  wretch  in  sleep, 
Whom  fancy  cheats  into  a  smile, 
Who  dreams  of  joy,  and  sobs  the  while  ! 
The  mighty  ruins  where  they  stood, 

Upon  the  mount's  high  rocky  verge, 
Lay  open  toward  the  ocean's  Hood, 

Where  lightly  o'er  the  illumined  surge 
Many  a  fair  bark  that  all  the  day 
Had  lurk'd  in  sheltering  creek  or  bay 
Xow  bounded  on  and  gave  their  sails, 
Yet  dripping,  to  the  evening  gales, — 
Like  eagles,  when  the  storm  is  done, 
Spreading  their  wet  wings  in  the  sun. 
The    beauteous    clouds,   though    daylight's 

star 

Had  sunk  behind  the  hills  of  Lar, 
Were  still  with  lingering  glories  bright, — 
As  if  to  grace  the  gorgeous  west, 

The  spirit  of  departing  light 
That  eve  had  left  his  sunny  vest 

Behind  him,  ere  he  wing'd  his  fi-ight. 
Never  was  scene  so  form'd  for  love!  % 

Beneath  them,  waves  of  crystal  move 
In  silent  swell — heaven  glows  above, 
And  their  pure  hearts,  to  transport  given, 
Swell  like  the  wave,  and  glow  like  heaven  ! 
But  ah  !  too  soon  that  dream  is  past — 

Againv  again  her  fear  returns  ; — 
Night,  dreadful  night,  is  gathering  fast, 

More  faintly  the  horizon  burns, 
And  every  rosy  tint  that  lay 
On  the  smooth  sea  has  died  away. 
Hastily  to  the  darkening  skies 
A  glance  she  casts — then  wildly  cries, 
"At  night,  he  said — and,  look,  'tis  near — 

Fly,  fly — if  yet  thou  lovest  me,  fly — 
Soon  will  his  murderous  band  be  here, 

And  I  shall  see  thee  bleed  and  die. 
Bash  ! — heardst  thou  not  the  tramp  of  men 
Sounding  from  yonder  fearful  ^U-u  ? — 
Perhaps  even  now  they  climb  the  wood. 

Fly,  fly — though  still  the  west  is  bright, 
He'll  come — oh  !  yes — he  wants  thy  blood — 

I  know  him — he'll  not  wait  for  night !" 


In  terrors  even  to  agony 

She  clings  around  the  wondering  Chief;— 
"Alas,  poor  wilder'd  maid  !  to  me 

Thou  owest  this  raving  trance  of  grief. 
Lost  as  I  am,  naught  ever  grew 
Beneath  my  shade  but  perish'd  too — 
My  doom  is  like  the  Dead  Sea  air, 
And  nothing  lives  that  enters  there  ! 
Why  were  our  barks  together  driven 
T.i  in  ath  this  morning's  furious  heaven? 
Why,  when  I  saw  the  prize  that  chance 

Had  thrown  into  my  desperate  arms, — 
When,  casting  but  a  single  glance 

Upon  thy  pale  and  prostrate  charms, 
I  vow'd  (though  watching  viewless  o'er 

Thy  safety  through  that  hour's  alarms) 
To  meet  the  unmanning  sight  no  more — 
Why  have  I  broke  that  heart-wrung  vow? 
Why  weakly,  madly  met  thee  now  ? — 
Start  not — that  noise  is  but  the  shock 

Of  torrents  through  yon  valley  hurl'd — 
Dread  nothing  here — upon  this  rock 

We  stand  above  the  jarring  world, 
Alike  beyond  its  hope — its  dread — 
In  gloomy  safety,  like  the  dead  ! 
Or,  could  even  earth  and  hell  unite 
In  league  to  storm  this  sacred  height, 
Fear  nothing  thou — myself,  to-night, 
And  each  o'erlooking  star  that  dwells 
Near  God  will  be  thy  sentinels  ; — 
And,  ere  to-morrow's  dawn  shall  glow, 
Buck  to  thy  sire — 

"  To-morrow ! — no—-'* 
The  maiden  scream'd — "  thou'lt  never  see 
To-morrow's  sun — death,  death  will  be 
The  night-cry  through  each  reeking  tou 
Unless  we  fly — ay,  fly  this  hour  ! 
Thou  art  betray'd  :  some  wretch  who  knew 
That  dreadful  glen's  mysterious  clew- 
Nay,  doubt  not — by  yon  stars,  'tis  tru» — 
Hath  sold  thee  to  my  vengeful  sire; 
This  morning,  with  that  smile  so  dire 
He  wears  in  joy,  he  told  me  all, 
And  stamp'd  in  triumph  through  our  hall, 
As  though  thy  heart  already  beat 
Its  last  life-throb  beneath  his  feet ! 
Rood  heaven,  how  little  dream'd  I  then 

His  victim  was  my  own  loved  youth  !— 
Fly — send — let  some  one  watch  the  glen— 

By  all  my  hopes  of  heaven,  'tis  trith  !M 


138 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


Ob  !  cjolder  than  the  wind  that  freezes 

Founts,  that  but  now  in  sunshine  play'd, 
Is  that  congealing  pang  which  seizes 

The  trusting  bosom  when  betray'd. 
He  felt  it — deeply  felt — and  stood, 
As  if  the  tale  had  frozen  his  blood, 

So  mazed  and  motionless  was  he ; — 
Like  one  whom  sudden  spells  enchant, 
Or  some  mute  marble  habitant 

Oi  the  still  halls  of  Ishmonie!1 

But  soon  the  painful  chill  was  o'er, 
And  his  great  soul,  herself  once  more, 
Look'd  from  his  brow  in  all  the  rays 
Of  her  best,  happiest,  grandest  days  ; 
Never,  in  moment  most  elate, 

Did  that  high  spirit  loftier  rise ; — 
While  bright,  serene,  determinate, 

His  looks  are  lifted  to  the  skies, 
As  if  the  signal-lights  of  Fate 

Were  shining  in  those  awful  eyes  ! 
'Tis  come — his  hour  of  martyrdom 
In  Iran's  sacred  cause  is  come  ; 
And  though  his  life  has  pass'd  away 
Like  lightning  on  a  stormy  day, 
Yet  shall  Li*  death-hour  leave  a  track 

Of  glory,  permanent  and  bright, 
To  which  the  brave  of  after-times, 
The  suffering  brave,  shall  long  look  back 

With  proud  regret, — and  by  its  light 

Watch  through  the  hours  of  slavery's  night 
For  vengeance  on  the  oppressor's  crimes ! 
This  rock,  his  monument  aloft, 

Shall  speak  the  tale  to  many  an  age  ; 
And  hither  bards  and  heroes  oft 

Shall  come  in  secret  pilgrimage, 
And  bring  their  warrior  r.ons,  and  tell 
The  wondering  boys  where  Hafed  fell, 
And  swear  them  on  tbose  lone  remains 
Of  their  lost  country's  ancient  fanes, 
Never- — while  breach  of  life  shall  live 
Within  them — never  to  forgive 
The  accursed  race,  whose  ruthless  chain 
Has  left  on  Inn's  neck  a  stain 
Blood,  blood  alone  can  cleanse  again ! 

Such  are  tLe  swelling  thoughts  that  now 
Enthrone  themselves  on  Hafed's  brow  ; 


1  For  an  account  )f  Ishmonie.  the  petrified  city  in  Upper 
Egypt,  where  it  is  said  there  are  many  statues  "f  men,  womer., 
fee.,  to  be  teen  to  this  day,  vide  Perry's  "  View  of  the  Levant.  " 


And  ne'er  did  saint  of  Issa*  gaze 

On  the  red  wreath,  for  martyrs  twined, 
More  proudly  than  the  youth  surveys 

That  pile,  which  through  the  gloom  behind, 
Half-lighted  by  the  altar's  fire, 
Glimmers, —  his  destined  funeral  pyre  ! 
Heap'd  by  his  own,  his  comrades'  hands, 

Of  every  wood  of  odorous  breath, 
There,  by  the  Fire-God's  shrine  it  stands, 

Ready  to  fold  in  radiant  death 
The  few  still  left  of  those  who  swore 
To  perish  there,  when  hope  was  o'er — 
The  few  to  whom  that  couch  of  flame, 
Which  rescues  them  from  bonds  and  shame, 
Is  sweet  and  welcome  as  the  bed 
For  their  own  infant  Prophet  spread, 
When  pitying  Heaven  to  roses  turn'd 
The  death-flames  that  beneath  him  burn'd !' 

With  watchfulness  the  maid  attends 
His  rapid  glance,  where'er  it  bends — 
Why  shoot  his  eyes  such  awful  beams '{ 
What  plans  he  now  ?  what  thinks  or  drea.  .u  ? 
Alas  !  why  stands  he  musing  here, 
When  every  moment  teems  with  fear  ? 
"  Hafed,  my  own  beloved  lord," 
She  kneeling  cries — "  first,  last  adored  ! 
If  in  that  soul  thou'st  ever  felt 

Half  what  thy  lips  impassion'd  swore, 
Here,  on  my  knees  that  never  knelt 

To  any  but  their  God  before, 
I  pray  thee,  as  thou  lovest  me,  fly — 
Now,  now — ere  yet  their  blades  are  nigh 
Oh  haste — the  bark  that  bore  me  hither 

Can  waft  us  o'er  yon  darkening  sea 
East,  west, — alas,  I  care  not  whither, 

So  thou  art  safe,  and  I  with  thee  ! 
Go  where  we  will,  this  hand  in  thine, 

Those  eyes  before  me  smiling  thus, 
Through   good  and  ill,  through    storm  Mad 
shine, 

The  world's  a  world  of  love  for  us  ! 


2  Jesus. 

1  "The  GhebtTs  say  that  when  Abraham,  their  great 
prophet,  was  thrown  into  the  fire  by  order  of  Nimrod,  the 
flame  tnriu-rl  instantly  into  'a  bed  of  roses,  where  the  child 
sweetly  reposed.'  " 

Of  their  other  prophet  Zoroaster,  there  is  a  story  told  in 
Dion  Prusceits,  Oral.  36,  that  the  love  of  wisdom  and  virtue 
leading  him  to  a  solitary  life  upon  a  mountain,  he  found  it  one 
clay  all  in  a  flame,  shining  with  celestial  fire,  out  of  which  he 
came  without  any  harm,  and  instituted  certain  sacrifices  to 
God,  who,  he  declared,  then  appeared  to  him.  Vide  "  Patric' 
on  Exodus."  ii.  2. 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  M  <  ><  >  I ,' K. 


139 


On  some  calm,  blessed  shore  we'll  dwell, 
Where  'tis  no  crime  to  love  too  well ; — 
Where  thus  to  worship  tenderly 
An  erring  child  of  light  like  thee 
Will  not  be  sin — or,  if  it  be, 
Where  we  may  weep  our  faults  away, 
Together  kneeling,  night  and  day, 
Thou,  for  my  sake,  at  Alla's  shrine, 
And  I — at  any  God's,  for  thine  !" 

Wildly  these  passionate  words  she  spoke — 
Then  hung  her  head,  and  wept  for  shame ; 
Sobbing,  as  if  a  heart-string  broke 

With  every  deep-heaved  sob  that  came. 
While  he,  young,  warm — oh  !  wonder  not 
If,  for  a  moment,  pride  and  fame, 
His  oath — his  cause — that  shrine  of  flame, 
And  Iran's  self  are  all  forgot 
For  her  whom  at  his  feet  he  sees, 
Kneeling  in  speechless  agonies. 
Xo,  blame  him  not,  if  Hope  a  while 
Dawn'd  in  his  soul,  and  threw  her  smile 
O'er  hours  to  come — o'er  days  and  nights 
Wing'd  with  those  precious,  pure  delights 
Which  she,  who  bends  all-beauteous  there, 
Was  born  to  kindle  and  to  share  ! 
A  tear  or  two,  which,  as  he  bow'd 

To  raise  the  suppliant,  trembling  stole, 
First  warn'd  him  of  this  dangerous  cloud 

Of  softness  passing  o'er  his  soul. 
Starting,  he  brush'd  the  drops  away, 
Unworthy  o'er  that  cheek  to  stray ; — 
Like  one  who,  on  the  morn  of  fight, 
Shakes  from  his  sword  the  dew  of  night, 
That  had  but  dimm'd,  not  stain'd  its  light. 

Yet  though  subdued  the  unnerving  thrill, 
Its  warmth,  its  weakness  linger'd  still 

So  touching  in  each  look  and  tone, 
That  the  fond,  fearing,  hoping  maid 
Half  counted  on  the  flight  she  pray'd, 

Half  thought  the  hero's  soul  was  grown 

As  soft,  as  yielding  as  her  own, 
And  smiled  and  bless' d  him,  while  he  said, — 
"  Yes — if  there  be  some  happier  sphere, 
Where  fadeless  truth  like  ours  is  dear ; — 
It'  there  be  any  land  of  rest 

For  those  who  love  and  ne'er  forget, 
Oh  !  comfort  thee — for  safe  and  blest 

We'll  meet  in  that  calm  region  yet !" 
had  she  time  to  ask  her  h»-art 


If  good  or  ill  these  words  impart, 
When  the  roused  youth  impatient  11 «  v, 
To  the  tower-wall,  where,  high  in  view, 
A  ponderous  sea-horn1  hung,  and  lilc-w 
A  signal,  deep  and  dread  as  those 
The  Storm-Fiend  al  his  rising  blows. — 
Full  well  his  chieftains,  sworn  and  true 
Through  life  and  death,  that  signal  knew; 
For  'twas  the  appointed  warning-blast, 
The  alarm  to  tell  when  hope  was  past, 
And  the  tremendous  death-die  cast ! 
And  there,  upon  the  mouldering  tower, 
Has  hung  his  sea-horn  many  an  hour, 
Ready  to  sound  o'er  land  and  sea 
That  dirge-note  of  the  brave  and  free. 

They  came — his  chieftains  at  the  call 
Came  slowly  round,  and  with  them  all — 
Alas,  how  few  ! — the  worn  remains 
Of  those  who  late  o'er  Kerman's  plains 
Went  gayly  prancing  to  the  clash 

Of  Moorish  zel  and  tymbalon, 
Catching  new  hope  from  every  flash 

Of  their  long  lances  in  the  sun — 
And  as  their  coursers  charged  the  wind, 
And  the  white  ox-tails  stream'd  behind,* 
Looking  as  if  the  steeds  they  rode 
Were  wing'd,  and  every  chief  a  god  ! 
How  fallen,  how  alter'd  now  !  kow  wan 
Each  scarr'd  and  faded  visage  shone, 
As  round  the  burning  shrine  they  came ; — 

How  deadly  was  the  glare  it  cast, 
As  mute  they  paused  before  the  flame 

To  light  their  torches  as  they  pass'd ! 
'Twas  silence  all — the  youth  had  plann'd 
The  duties  of  his  soldier-band  ; 
And  each  determined  brow  declares 
His  faithful  chieftains  well  know  theirs. 

But  minutes  speed — night  gems  the  skies — 
And  oh  how  soon,  ye  blessed  eyes 
That  look  from  heaven,  ye  may  behold 
Sights  that  will  turn  your  star-fires  cold ! 
Breathless  with  awe,  impatience,  hope, 
The  maiden  sees  tin-  veteran  group 


>  "  Tin-  -hell  called  Siianko*.  common  to  India.  Africa,  and 
the  Mediterranean,  and  mill  lined  In  many  part?  a»  a  inmnx* 
for  blowing  alarmf  or  giving  t>ignal»:  It  tend*  forth  a  deer 
and  hollow  pound." 

1  "  The-  flncrt  ornament  for  the  hor»c«  10  made  of  fix  larg« 
flying  u-T-rN  of  long  white  hair,  taken  out  of  the  Uil-  of  wlM 
•  IX.MI  that  are  to  be  found  In  eome  place*  of  the  Irdle*." 


140 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


Her  Htter  silently  prepare, 

And  lay  it  at  "her  trembling  feet ; — 
And  now  the  youth,  with  gentle  care, 

Has  placed  her  in  the  shelter'd  seat, 
And  press'd  her  hand — that  lingering  press 

Of  hands,  that  for  the  last  time  sever ; 
Of  hearts,  whose  pulse  of  happiness, 

When  that  hold  breaks,  is  dead  forever. 
And  yet  to  her  this  sad  caress 

Gives  hope — so  fondly  hope  can  err ! 
'Twas  joy,  she  thought,  joy's  mute  excess — 

Their  happy  flight's  dear  harbinger ; 
'Twas  warmth — assurance — tenderness — 

'Twas  anything  but  leaving  her. 

"  Haste,  haste  !"  she  cried,  "  the  clouds  grow 

7  O 

dark, 

But  still,  ere  night,  we'll  reach  the  bark : 
And  by  to-morrow^s  dawn — oh,  bliss  ! 

With  thee  upon  the  sunbright  deep, 
Far  off,  I'll  but  remember  this 

As  some  dark  vanish'd  dream  of  sleep  ! 
And  thou "   But  ha ! — he  answers  not — 

Good  Heaven  ! — and  does  she  go  alone? 
She  now  has  reach'd  that  dismal  spot 

Where,  some  hours  since,  his  voice's  tone 
Had  come  to  soothe  her  fears  and  ills, 
Sweet  as  the  angel  IsrafilV 
When  every  leaf  on  Eden's  tree 
Is  trembling  to  his  minstrelsy — 
Yet  now — oh  now,  he  is  not  nigh — 

"  Hafed  !  my  Hafed !— if  it  bo 
Thy  will,  thy  doom  this  night  to  die, 

Let  me  but  stay*  to  die  with  thee, 
And  I  will  bless  thy  loved  name, 
Till  the  last  life-breath  leave  this  frame. 
Oh !  let  our  lips,  our  cheeks  be  laid 
But  near  each  other  while  they  fade ; 
Let  us  but  mix  our  parting  breaths, 
And  I  can  die  ten  thousand  deaths  ! 
You  too,  who  hurry  me  away 
So  cruelly,  one  moment  stay — 

Oh  !  stay — one  moment  is  not  much — 
He  yet  may  come — for  him  I  pray — 
Hafed !  dear  Hafed  ! "     All  the  way, 

In  wild  lamentings  that  would  touch 
A  heart  of  stone,  she  shriek'd  his  name 
To  the  dark  woods — no  Hafed  came ; — 
No — hapless  pair — you've  looked  your  last ; 


i  "  The  angel  Israfil,  who  has  the  most  melodious  voice  of 
lU  God'e  creatures       pule. 


Your    hearts    should   both    have    broken 

then : 

The  dream  is  o'er — your  doom  is  cast — 
You'll  never  meet  on  earth  again  ! 

Alas  for  him,  who  hears  her  cries ! — 
Still  half-way  dowrn  the  steep  he  standi, 

Watching  with  fix'd  and  feverish  eyes 
The  glimmer  of  those  burning  brands 

*Z7  O 

That  down  the  rocks,  with  mournful  ray, 
Light  all  he  loves  on  earth  away  ! 
Hopeless  as  they  who,  far  at  sea, 

By  the  cold  moon  have  just  consign'd 
The  corse  of  one,  loved  tenderly, 

To  the  bleak  flood  they  leave  behind ; 
And  on  the  deck  still  lingering  stay, 
And  long  look  back,  with  sad  delay, 
To  watch  the  moonlight  on  the  wave, 
That  ripples  o'er  that  cheerless  grave. 

But  see — he  starts — what  heard  he  then  ? 
That  dreadful  shout ! — across  the  glen 
From  the  land  side  it  comes,  and  loud 
Rings  through  the  chasm  ;  as  if  the  crowd 
Of  fearful  things  that  haunt  that  dell, 
Its  ghouls  and  dives,  and  shapes  of  hell, 
Had  all  in  one  dread  howl  broke  out, 
So  loud,  so  terrible  that  shout ! 
"They    come — the     Moslems     come!" — h* 

cries, 

His  proud  soul  mounting  to  his  eyes, — 
"  Now,  spirits  of  the  brave,  who  roam 
Enfranchised  through  yon  starry  dome, 
Rejoice — for  souls  of  kindred  fire 
Are  on  the  wing  to  join  your  choir  !" 
He  said — and,  light  as  bridegrooms  bound 

To  their  young  loves,  re-climb'd  the  steep 
And   gain'd    the   shrine — his    chiefs    stood 

round — 

Their  swords,  as  with  instinctive  leap, 
Together,  at  that  cry  accurst, 
Had  from  their  sheaths,  like  sunbeams,  burst. 
And  hark ! — again — again  it  rings ; 
Near  and  more  near  its  echoings 
Peal  through  the  chasm — oh !  who  that  then 
Had  seen  those  listening  warrior-men, 
With  their  swords  grasp'd,  their  eyes  of  flame 
Turn'd .  on    their    chief — could    doubt    the 

shame, 

The  indignant  shame  with  which  they  thrill 
To  hear  those  shouts  and  yet  stand  still  ? 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOOKK. 


HI 


He    read    their    thoughts — they    were    his 
own — 

u  What !  while  our  arms  can  wield  these 

blades, 
Shall  we  die  tamely?  die  alone? 

Without  one  victim  to  our  shinies, 
One  Moslem  heart  where,  buried  deep, 
The  sabre  from  its  toil  may  sleep  - 
No — God  of  Iran's  burning  skies  ! 
Thou  scornst  the  inglorious  sacrifice. 
No — though  of  all  earth's  hope  bereft, 
Life,  swords,  and  vengeance  still  are  left. 
W.-'ll  make  yon  valley's  reeking  caves 

Live  in  the  awe-struck  minds  of  men, 
Till  tyrants  shudder  when  their  slaves 

Tell  of  the  Ghebers'  bloody  glen. 
Follow,  brave  hearts  ! — this  pile  remains 
Our  refuge  still  from  life  and  chains  ; 
But  his  the  best,  the  holiest  bed, 
\\  ho  sinks  entomb'd  in  Moslem  dead  !" 

Down  the  precipitous  rocks  they  sprung, 
W  tiile  vigor  more  than  human  strung 
Each  arm  and  heart. — The  exulting*  foe 
Stul  through  the  dark  defiles  --t-c  v-. 
Track'd  by  his  torches'  lurid  fire, 

Wound  slow,  as  through  Golconda's  valt 
The  mighty  serpent,  in  his  ire, 

Glides  on  with  glittering,  deadly  trail. 
No  torch  the  Ghebers  need — so  well 
They  know  each  mystery  of  the  dell, 
So  oft  have,  in  their  wanderings, 
C'n-ssM  the  wild  race  that  round  them  dwell, 
The  very  tigers  from  their  delves 
Look  out,  and  let  them  pass,  as  things 
Untamed  and  fearless  like  themselves ! 

There  was  a  deep  ravine  that  lay 

Yet  darkling  in  the  Moslem's  way  ; — 

Fit  spot  to  make  invaders  rue 

The  many  fallen  before  the  few. 

The  torrents  from  that  morning's  sky 

Had  fill'd  the  narrow  chasm  breast-high, 

And,  on  each  side,  aloft  and  wild 

Huge  cliffs  and  toppling  crags  were  piled., — 

The  guards,  with  which  young  Freedom  lines 

The  pathways  to  her  mountain  shrines. 

Here,  at  this  pass,  the  scanty  band 

Of  Iran's  last  avengers  stand  ; — 

Here  wait,  in  silence  like  the  dead, 

And  listen  for  the  Moslem';  *,read 


So  anxiously,  the  carrion  bird 
Above  them  flaps  his  wing  unheard  ! 

They  come — that  plunge  into  the  water 
Gives  signal  for  the  work  of  slaughter. 
Now,  Ghebers,  now — if  e'er  your  blades 

Had  point  or  prowess,  prove  them  now — 
Woe  to  the  file  that  foremost  wades ! 

They  come — a  falchion  greets  each  brow. 
And,  as  they  tumble,  trunk  on  trunk, 
Beneath  the  gory  waters  sunk, 
Still  o'er  their  drowning  bodies  press 
New  victims  quick  and  numberless; 
Till  scarce  an  arm  in  Hafed's  band, 

So  fierce  their  toil,  hath  power  to  stir, 
But  listless  from  each  crimson  hand 

The  sword  hangs,  clogg'd  with  massacre. 
Never  was  horde  of  tyrants  met 
With  bloodier  welcome — never  yet 
To  patriot  vengeance  hath  the  sword 
More  terrible  libations  pour'd  ! 
All  up  the  dreary,  long  ravine,     . 
By  the  red,  murky  glimmer  seen 
Of  half-quench'd  brands,  that  o'er  the  flood 
Lie  sc\ttei  d  icutd  snd  burn  in  blood. 
What  ruin  glares !  what  carnage  swims  ! 
Heads,  blazing  turbans,  quivering  limbs, 
Lost  swords  that,  dropp'd  from  many  a  hand, 
In  that  thick  pool  of  slaughter  stand  ; — 
Wretches  who  wading,  half  on  fire 

From  the  toss'd  brands  that  round  them 

%, 

'Twixt  flood  and  flame,  in  shrieks  expire ; — 
And  some  who,  grasp'd  by  those  that  die, 
Sink  woundless  with  them,  smother'd  o'er 
In  their  dead  brethren's  gushing  gore  ! 

But  vainly  hundreds,  thousands  bleed, 
Still  hundreds,  thousands  more  succeed  ! — 
Countless  as  toward  some  flame  at  night 
The  North's  dark  insects  wing  their  flight, 
And  quench  or  perish  in  its  light, 
To  this  terrific  spot  they  pour — 
Till,  bridged  with  Moslem  bodies  oVr, 
It  bears  aloft  their  slippery  tread, 
And  o'er  the  dying  and  the  dead, 
Tremendous  causeway !  on  they  pass.  - 
Then,  hapless  Ghebere,  then,  alas, 
What  hope  was  left  for  you  ?  for  you, 
Whose  yet  warm  pile  of  sacrifice 
Is  smoking  in  their  vengeful  eyes — 


142 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


Whose  swords  how  keen,  how  fierce  they 

knew, 

And  burn  with  shame  to  find  how  few. 
Crush'd  down  by  that  vast  multitude, 
Some  found   their  graves  where   first  they 

stood ; 

While  some  with  harder  struggle  died, 
And  still  fought  on  by  Hafed's  side, 
Who,  fronting  to  the  foe,  trod  back 
Toward  the  high  towers  his  gory  track; 
And,  as  a  lion,  swept  away 

By  sudden  swell  of  Jordan's  pride 
From  the  wild  covert  where  he  lay,1 

Long  battles  with  the  o'erwhelming  tide, 
So  fought  he  back  with  fierce  delay, 
And  kept  both  foes  and  fate  at  bay ! 

But  whither  now  ?  their  track  is  lost, 
Their  prey  escaped — guide,  torches  gone — 
By  torrent-beds  and  labyrinths  cross'd, 

The  scatter'd  crowd  rush  blindly  on — 
"  Curse  on  those  tardy  lights  that  wind," 
They  panting  cry,  "  so  far  behind — 
Oh  for  a  bloodhound's  precious  scent, 
To  track  the  way  the  Gheber  went !" 
Vain  wish — confusedly  along 
They  rush,  more  desperate  as  more  wrong : 
Till,  wilder'd  by  the  far-off  lights, 
Yet  glittering  up  those  gloomy  heights, 
Their  footing,  mazed  and  lost,  they  miss, 
And  down  the  darkling  precipice 
Are  dash'd  into  the  deep  abyss  ; — 
Or  midway  hang,  impaled  on  rocks, 
A  banquet,  yet  alive,  for  flocks 
Of  ravening  vultures, — while  the  dell 
Re-echoes  with  each  horrible  yell. 

Those  sounds — the  last,  to  vengeance  dear, 
That  e'er  shall  ring  in  Hafed's  ear, — 
Now  reach'd  him,  as  aloft,  alone, 
Upon  the  steep  way  breathless  thrown, 
He  lay  beside  his  reeking  blade, 

Resign'd,  as  if  life's  task  were  o'er, 
Its  last  blood-offering  amply  paid, 

And  Iran's  self  could  claim  no  more. 
One  only  thought,  one  lingering  beam 
Now  broke  across  his  dizzy  dream 


1  "  In  this  thicket,  upon  the  banks  of  the  Jordan,  wild 
beasts  are  wont  to  har'x>r,  whose  being  washed  out  of  the 
covtrt  by  the  overflowings  of  the  river  gave  occasion  to  that 
»llnsion  of  Jeremiak,  '  He  shall  come  up  like  a  lion  from  the 
netlliny  of  Jordan.1  '  —  MaundrelVs  Aleppo 


Of  pain  and  weariness — 'twas  she 

His  heart's  pure  planet,  shining  yet 
Above  the  waste  of  memory, 
When  all  life's  other  lights  were  set. 
And  never  to  his  mind  before 
Her  image  such  enchantment  wore. 
It  seem'd  as  if  each  thought  that  stain'd, 

Each  fear  that  chill'd  their  loves  was  past, 
And  not  one  cloud  of  earth  remaiu'd 

Between  him  and  her  glory  cast ; — 
As  if  to  charms,  before  so  bright, 

New  grace  from  other  worlds  was  given. 
And  his  soul  saw  her  by  the  light 

Now  breaking  o'er  itself  from  heaven  ! 
A  voice  spoke  near  him — 'twas  the  tone 
Of  a  loved  friend,  the  only  one 
Of  all  his  warriors  left  with  life 
From  that  short  night's  tremendous  strife — 
"  And  must  we  then,  my  Chief,  die  here? 

Foes  round  us,  and  the  shrine  so  near  !" 
These  words  have  roused  the  last  remains 

Of  life  within  him — "  What !  not  yet 
Beyond  the  reach  of  Moslem  chains  !" 

The  thought  could  make  even  Death  forget 
His  icy  bondage — with  a  bound 
He  springs,  all  bleeding,  from  the  ground, 
And  grasps  his  comrade's  arm,  now  grown 
Even  feebler,  heavier  than  his  own, 
And  up  the  painful  pathway  leads, 
Death  gaining  on  each  step  he  treads. 
Speed  them,  thou  God,  who  heardst   their 

vow  !. 
They   mount — they   bleed — oh    save    them 

now — 

Tli-e  crags  are  red  they've  clamber'd  o'er, 
The  rock- weed's  dripping  with  their  gore — 
Thy  blade  too,  Hafed,  false  at  length, 
Now  breaks  beneath  thy  tottering  strength — 
Haste,  haste — the  voices  of  the  foe 
Come  near  and  nearer  from  below — 
One  effort  more — thank  Heaven  !  'tis  past, 
They've  gain'dthe  topmost  steep  at  last. 
And  now  they  touch  the  temple's  walls, 

Now  Hafed  sees  the  Fire  divine — 
When  lo  ! — his  weak,  worn  comrade  fall* 

Dead  on  the  threshold  of  the  sbrine. 
"  Alas,  brave  soul,  too  quickly  fled ! 

And  must  I  leave  thee  withering  here, 
The  sport  of  every  ruih'anrs  tread, 

The  mark  for  every  coward's  spear  ? 
No,  by  yon  altar's  sacred  beams  !" 


143 


He  cries,  and,  with  a  strength  that  stems 
Not  of  this  world,  uplifts  the  frame 
Of  the  fallen  chief,  and  toward  the  flame 
Bears  him  along  ; — with  death-damp  hand 

The  corpse  upon  the  pyre  he  lays, 
Then  lights  the  consecrated  brand, 

And  fires  the  pile,  whose  sudden  blaze 
Like  lightning  bursts  o'er  Oman's  Sea. — 
"  Now,  Freedom's  God  !  I  come  to  Thee," 
The  youth  exclaims,  and  with  a  smile 
Of  triumph  vaulting  on  the  pile, 
In  that  last  effort,  ere  the  fires 
Have  hurm'd  one  glorious  limb,  expires  ! 

What  shriek  was  that  on  Oman's  tide  ? 

It  came  from  yonder  drifting  bark, 
That  just  has  caught  upon  her  side 

The  death-light — and  again  is  dark. 

o  o 

It  is  the  boat — ah,  why  delay'd  ? — 
That  bears  the  wretched  Moslem  maid  ; 
Confided  to  the  watchful  care 

Of  a  small  veteran  band,  with  whom 
Their  generous  Chieftain  would  not  share 

The  secret  of  his  final  doom  ; 
But  hoped  when  Ilinda,  safe  and  free, 

Was  render'd  to  her  lather's  eyes, 
Their  pardon,  full  and  prompt,  would  be 

The  ransom  of  so  dear  a  prize. — 
Unconscious,  thus,  of  Ilafed's  fate, 
And  proud  to  guard  their  beauteous  freight, 
Scan  e  had  they  clear'd  the  surfy  waves 
That  foam  around  those  frightful  caves, 

O  / 

When  the  curst  war-whoops,  known  so  well, 
Came  echoing  from  the  distant  dell. 
Sudden  each  oar,  upheld  and  still, 

Hung  dripping  o'er  the  vessel's  side, 
And,  driving  at  the  current's  will, 

They  rock'd  along  the  whispering  tide. 
.  While  every  eye,  in  mute  dismay, 

Was  toward  that  fatal  mountain  turn'd, 
Where  the  dim  altar's  quivering  ray 

As  yet  all  lone  and  tranquil  burn'd.t 

Oh !  'tis  not,  Ilinda,  in  the  power 

Of  fancy's  most  terrific  touch 
To  paint  thy  pangs  in  that  dread  hour — 

Thy  silent  agony — 'twas  such 
As  those  who  feel  could  paint  too  well, 
But  none  e'er  felt  and  lived  to  tell ! 
'Twas  not  alone  the  dreary  state 
Ol  a  lorn  spirit,  crush'd  by  fate, 


When,  though  no  more  remains  to  dread, 

The  panic  chill  will  not  depart ; — 
When,  though  the  inmate  Hope  be  dead, 

Her  ghost  still  haunts  the  mouldering  heart. 
No — pleasures,  hopes,  affections  gone, 
The  wretch  may  bear,  and  yet  live  on, 
Like  things  within  the  cold  rock  found 
Alive  when  all's  congeal'd  around. 
But  there's  a  blank  repose  in  this, 
A  calm  stagnation  that  were  bliss 
To  the  keen,  burning,  harrowing  pain 
Now  felt  through  all  thy  breast  and  brain — 
That  spasm  of  terror,  mute,  intense, 
That  breathless,  agonized  suspense, 
From  whose  hot  throb,  whose  deadly  aching 
The  heart  had  no  relief  but  breaking ! 

Calm  is  the  wave — heaven's  brilliant  lights, 

Reflected,  dance  beneath  the  prow  ; — 
.Time  was  when,  on  such  lovely  nights, 

She,  who  is  there  so  desolate  now, 
Could  sit  all-cheerful,  though  alone, 

And  ask  no  happier  joy  than  seeing 
That  star-light  o'er  the  waters  thrown — 

No  joy  but  that  to  make  her  blest, 
And  the  fresh,  buoyant  sense  of  Being 

That    bounds    in     youth's     yet    carelt-si 

breast, — 

Itself  a  star,  not  borrowing  light, 
But  in  its  own  glad  essence  bright. 
How  different  now  ! — but,  hark,  again 
The  yell  of  havoc  rings — brave  men  I 
In  vain,  with  beating  hearts,  ye  stand 
On  the  bark's  edge — in  vain  each  hand 
Half  draws  the  falchion  from  its  sheath  ; 

All's  o'er — in  rust  your  blades  may  lie  ; — 
He,  at  whose  word  they've  scatter'd  death. 

Even  now,  this  night,  himself  must  die  ! 
Well  may  ye  look  to  yon  dim  tower, 

And  ask,  and  wondering  guess  what  meani 
The  battle-cry  at  this  dead  hour — 

Ah  !  she  could  tell  you — she,  who  leans 
Unheeded  there,  pale,  sunk,  aghast, 
With  brow  against  the  dew-cold  mast — 

Too  well  she  knows — her  more  than  life, 
Her  soul's  first  idol,  and  its  last, 

Lies  bleeding  in  that  murderous  strife 

But  see — what  moves  upon  the  height ! 
Some  signal ! — 'tis  a  torch's  light. 
What  bodes  its  solitary  glare? 


144 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


In  gasping  silence  toward  the  shrine 
All  eyes  are  turn'd — thine,  Hinda,  thine 

Fix  their  last  failing  life-beams  there. 
Twas  but  a  moment — fierce  and  high 
The  death-pile  blazed  into  the  sky, 
And  far  away  o'er  rock  and  flood 

Its  melancholy  radiance  sent ; 
While  Hafed,  like  a  vision,  stood 
Reveal'd  before  the  burning  pyre, 
Tall,  shadowy,  like  a  Spirit  of  Fire 

Shrined  in  its  own  grand  element ! 
"  'Tis  he !" — the  shuddering  maid  exclaims, — 

But  while  she  speaks,  he's  seen  no  more; 
High  burst  in  air  the  funeral  flames, 

And  Iran's  hopes  and  hers  are  o'er ! 

One  wild,  heart-broken  shriek  she  gave — 
Then  sprung,  as  if  to  reach  that  blaze, 
Where  still  she  fix'd  her  dying  gaze, 
And,  gazing,  sunk  into  the  wave, — 
Deep,  deep, — where  never  care  or  pain 
Shall  reach  her  innocent  heart  again  ! 


Farewell — farewell  to  thee,  Araby's  daugh- 
ter ! 

(Thus  warbled  a  Peri  beneath  the  dark  sea ;) 
No  pearl  ever  lay  under  Oman's  green  water 

More  pure  in  its  shell  than  thy  spirit  in  thee. 

Oh  !  fair  as  the  sea-flower  close  to  thee  grow- 
ing, 

How  light  was  thy  heart  till  love's  witch- 
ery came, 
Like  the  wind  of  the  south1  o'er  a  summer 

lute  blowing, 

And  hush'd  all  its  music  and  wither'd  its 
frame  ! 

But  long,  upon  Araby's  green  sunny  high- 
lands, 
Shall  maids  and  their  lovers  remember  the 

doom 
Of  her,  who  lies  sleeping  among  the  Pearl 

Islands, 

With  naught  but  the  sea-star7  to  light  up 
her  tomb. 

1  "  Thie  wind  (the  Samoor)  so  softens  the  strings  of  lutes, 
that  they  can  never  be  tuned  while  it  lasts.' 

*  "  The  star-fish.  It  is  circular,  and  at  night  very  luminous, 
r**cmblinc  the  fill  moon  fiirrounded  by  rays." 


And  still,  when  the  merry  date-season  is  burn- 
ing, 
And  calls  to  the  palm-groves  the  young 

and  the  old, 

The  happiest  there,  from  their  pastime  return- 
ing 
At  sunset,  will  weep  when  thy  story  is  told. 

The  young  village  maid,  when  with  flowers 

she  dresses 
Her  dark-flowing   hair  for  some   festival 

day, 
Will  think  of  thy  fate  till,  neglecting  her 

tresses, 

She    mournfully    turns    from  the    mirror 
away. 

Nor  shall  Iran,  beloved  of  her  hero !  forget 

thee, — 
Though  tyrants  watch  over  her  tears  as 

they  start, 
Close,  close  by  the  side  of  that  hero  she'll  set 

thee, 

Embalm'd  in  the  innermost  shrine  of  her 
heart. 

Farewell ! — be  it  ours  to  embellish  thy  pillow 
With  everything  beauteous  that  growe  in 

the  deep ; 
Each  flower  of  the  rock  and  each  gem  of  the 

billow 

Shall  sweeten  thy  bed  and  illumine  thy 
sleep. 

Around  thee  shall  glisten  the  loveliest  amber 

That  ever  the  sorrowing  sea-bird  has  wept ; 

With  many  a  shell,  in  whose  hollow-wreathed 

chamber, 

We,  Peris  of  ocean,  by  moonlight  have 
slept. 

We'll  dive  where  the  gard^-  of  coral  lie 

"  darkling, 

And  plant  all  the  rosiest  stems  at  thy  head ; 
We'll  seek  where  the  sands  of  the  Caspian4 

are  sparkling, 

And  gather  their  gold  to  strew  over  thy 
bed. 


1  "  Some  naturalists  have  imag-'ned  that  amber  is  a  concre- 
tion of  the  tears  of  birds." 

«  "  The  bay  Kieselarke,  which  ,8  otherwise  called  the  Oold- 
•u  Bay.  tin  sand  whereof  shines  a*  fire." 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOOIZK. 


145 


Farewell! — farewell!  —  until    pity's    sweet 

ibu  n  tain 
Is  lost  in  the  hearts  of  the  fair  and  the 

brave, 

They'll  weep  for  the  Chieftain  who  died  on 

that  mountain, 

They'll  weep  for  the  Maiden  who  sleeps  in 
the  wave. 


The  singular  placidity  with  which  Fadla- 
deen  had  listened,  during  the  latter  part  of 
this  obnoxious  story,  surprised  the  Princess 
and  Feramorz  exceedingly;  and  even  in- 
clined toward  him  the  hearts  of  these  unsus- 
picious young  persons,  who  little  knew  the 
source  of  a  complacency  so  marvellous.  The 
truth  was  he  had  been  organizing  for  the  last 
few  days  a  ruost  notable  plan  of  persecution 
against,  the  poet,  in  consequence  of  some 
passage*1,  that  had  fallen  from  him  on  the 
second  evening  of  ree-ital, — which  appeared 
to  this  worthy  Chamberlain  to  contain  lan- 
guage and  principles  for  which  nothing  short 
of  the  summary  criticism  of  the  chabuk1 
would  be  advisable.  It  was  his  intention, 
therefore,  immediately  on  their  arrival  at 
Cashmere,  to  give  information  to  the  King 
of  Bucharia  of  the  very  dangerous  senti- 
ments of  his  minstrel :  and  if,  unfortunately, 
that  monarch  did  not  act  with  suitable  vigor 
on  the  occasion,  (that  is,  if  he  did  not  give 
the  chabuk  to  Feramorz,  and  a  place  to  Fad- 
ladeen,)  there  would  be  an  end,  he  feared,  of 
all  legitimate  government  in  Bucharia.  He 
could  not  help,  however,  auguring  better 
both  for  himself  and  the  cause  of  potentates 
in  general ;  and  it  was  the  pleasure  arising 
from  these  mingled  anticipations  that  diffused 
such  unuHiial  satisfaction  through  his  fea- 
tures, and  made  his  eyes  shine  out,  like  pop- 
pies of  the  desert,  over  the  wide  and  lifeless 
wilderness  of  that  countenance. 

Having  decided  upon  the  Poet's  chastise- 
ment in  this  manner,  he  thought  it  but 
humanity  to  spare  him  the  minor  tortures 
of  criticism.  Accordingly,  when  they  as- 
sembled next  evening  in  the  pavilion,  and 
Lalla  Rookh  expected  to  sec  all  the  beauties 

•Tbc  application  of  whiti«  or  rod*." 


of  her  bard  melt  away,  OIK-  1>\  one,  in  the 
acidity  of  criticism,  like  pe:irl>  in  the  «jup  of 
the  Egyptian  Queen, — he  agreeably  disap- 
pointed her  by  merely  saying,  with  an  iron- 
ical smile,  that  the  merits  of  sneh  a  poem 
deserved  to  be  tried  :it  a  much  higher  tribn 
nal  ;  and  then  suddenly  passing  off  into  a 
panegyric  upon  all  .Mussulman  sovereigns, 
more  particularly  his  .-intrust  and  Imperial 
master  Aurungzebe, — the  wisest  and  best  of 
the  descendants  of  Timur, — who,  among 
other  great  things  he  had  done  for  mankind, 
had  given  to  him,  Fadladeen,  the  very  profit- 
able posts  of  Betel-carrier  and  Taster  of 
Sherbets  to  the  Emperor,  Chief  Holder  of 
the  Girdle  of  Beautiful  Forms,1  and  Grand 
Nazir,  or  Chamberlain  of  the  Haram. 

They  were  now  not  far  from  that  forbidden 
river,'  beyond  which  no  pure  Hindoo  can 
pass;  and  were  reposing  for  a  time  in  the 
rich  valley  of  Hussun  Abdual,  which  had 
always  been  a  favorite  resting-place  of  the 
Emperors  in  their  annual  migrations  to 
Cashmere.  Here  often  had  the  Light  of  the 
Faith,  Jehan-Guire,  wandered  with  his  be- 
loved and  beautiful  Nourmahal ;  and  here 
would  Lalla  Rookh  have  been  happy  to  re- 
maki  forever,  giving  up  the  throne  of  Bucha- 
ria and  the  world  for  Feramorz  and  love  in 
this  sweet  lonely  valley.  The  time  was  now 
fast  approaching  when  she  must  see  him  no 
longer, — or  see  him  with  eyes  whose  every 
look  belonged  to  another ;  and  there  was  a 
melancholy  preciousness  in  these  last  mo- 
ments, which  made  her  heart  cling  to  them 
as  it  would  to  life.  During  the  latter  part 
of  his  journey,  indeed,  she  had  sunk  into  a 
deep  sadness,  from  which  nothing  but  the 
presence  of  the  young  minstrel  could  awake 
her.  Like  those  lamps  in  tombs,  which  only 
light  up  when  the  air  is  admitted,  it  was 
only  at  his  approach  that  her  eyes  became 
smiling  and  animated.  But  here,  in  this 
dear  valley,  every  moment  was  an  age  ot 


*  Ills'  bus-lues's  was,  at  elated  periods,  to  measure  the  ladle* 
of  the  Haram  by  a  port  of  regulation-girdle,  whoso  limit*  It 
was  not  thought  jiraceful  to  exceed.  If  any  of  them  outgrew 
this  standard  of  nlmpe.  they  were  reduced  by  abstinence  till 
they  came  within  it*  hound*. 

»  The  Attock. 

"Akbar  on  his  way  ordered  a  fort  to  be  built  upon  th« 
Nllab,  which  he  called  Attock.  which  means  In  the  Indian 
Innjjnajre  Forbidden;  for  by  the  superstition  of  the  Hindoo* 
I  It  watt  held  unlawful  to  cro»»  that  rirer  oir't  //irufcy  fu~ 


146 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


pleasure;  she  saw  him  all  day,  and  was, 
therefore,  all  day  happy, — resembling,  she 
«ften  thought,  that  people  of  Zinge,1  who 
attribute  the  unfading  cheerfulness  they 
enjoy  to  one  genial  star  that  rises  nightly 
over  their  heads. a 

The  whole  party,  indeed,  seemed  in  their 
liveliest  mood  during  the  few  days  they 
passed  in  this  delightful  solitude.  The 
young  attendants  of  the  Princess,  who  were 
here  allowed  a  freer  range  than  they  could 
safely  be  indulged  with  in  a  less  sequestered 
place,  ran  wild  among  the  gardens  and 
bounded  through  the  meadows,  lightly  as 
young  roes  over  the  romantic  plains  of 
Tibet.  While  Fadladeen,  besides  the  spirit- 
ual comfort  he  derived  from  a  pilgrimage  to 
the  tomb  of  the  saint  from  whom  the  valley 
is  named,  had  opportunities  of  gratifying,  in 
a  small  way,  his  taste  for  victims,  by  putting 
to  death  some  hundreds  of  those  unfortunate 
little  lizards,*  which  all  pious  Mussulmans 
make  it  a  point  to  kill ; — taking  for  granted, 
that  the  manner  in  which  the  creature  hangs 
its  head  is  meant  as  a  mimicry  of  the  attitude 
in  Avhich  the  Faithful  say  their  prayers  ! 

About  two  miles  from  Hussun  Abdual 
were  those  Royal  Gardens,  which  had  grown 
beautiful  under  the  care  of  so  many  lovely 
eyes,  and  were  beautiful  still,  though  those 
eye-s  could  see  them  no  longer.  This  place, 
with  its  flowers  and  its  holy  silence,  inter- 
rupted only  by  the  dipping  of  the  wings  of 
birds  in  its  marble  basins  filled  with  the  pure 
water  of  those  hills,  was  to  Lalla  Rookh  aii 
that  her  heart  could  fancy  of  fragrance,  cool- 
ness, and  almost  heavenly  tranquillity.  As 
the  Prophet  said  of  Damascus,  "  It  was  too 
delicious  ;"4 — and  here,  in  listening  to  the 


1 "  The  inhabitants  of  this  country  (Zinge)  are  never  affected 
with  sadness  or  melancholy :  on  this  subject  the  Sheikh  Abu- 
al-Kheir-Azhari  has  the  following  distich  :— 

"  '  Who  is  the  man  without  care  or  sorrow  (tell),  that  I  may 
rub  my  hand  to  him. 

" '  (Behold)  the  Zingians,  without  care  or  sorrow,  frolick- 
eome  with  tipsiness  and  mirth.' " 

•'  The  philosophers  have  discovered  that  the  cause  of  this 
cheerfulness  proceeds  from  the  influence  of  the  Star  Soheil  or 
Canopus,  which  rises  over  them  every  night."— Heft  Aklim,  or 
the  Seven  Climates,  translated  by  W.  Ousley,  Esq. 

1  The  star  Soheil  or  Uanopus. 

»  "The  lizard  Stellio.  The  Arabs  call  it  Hardnn.  The 
Turks  kill  it,  for  they  imagine  that  by  declining  the  head  it 
ximics  them  when  they  say  their  prayer*."— //a.^«A/?«s<:. 

•  "As  you  enter  at  that  Bazar  without  the  <;ate  at  Danias- 


sweet  voice  of  Feramorz,  or  reading  in  his 
eyes  what  yet  he  never  dared  to  tell  her,  the 
most  exquisite  moments  of  her  whole  life 
were  passed.  One  evening  when  they  iiad 
been  talking  of  the  Sultana  Nourmahal, — the 
Light  of  the  Haram,6 — who  had  so  often  wan- 
dered among  these  flowers,  and  fed  with  her 
own  hands,  in  those  marble  basins,  the  small 
shining  fishes  of  which  she  was  so  fond, — 
the  youth,  in  order  to  delay  the  moment  of 
separation,  proposed  to  recite  a  short  story, 
or  rather  rhapsody,  of  which  this  adored 
Sultana  was  the  heroine.  It  related,  he  said, 
to  the  reconcilement  of  a  sort  of  lovers' 
quarrel,  which  took  place  between  her  and 
the  Emperor  during  a  Feast  of  Roses  at 
Cashmere ;  and  would  remind  the  Princess 
of  that  difference  between  Haroun-al-Raschid 
and  his  fair  mistress  Marida,  which  was  so 
happily  made  up  by  the  sweet  strains  of  the 
musician  Moussali.6  As  the  story  was 
chiefly  to  be  told  in  song,  and  Feramorz 
had  unluckily  forgotten  his  own  lute  in  the 
valley,  he  borrowed  the  vina  of  Lalla 
Rookh's  little  Persian  slave,  and  thu* 
began : — 

THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  HARAM. 

WHO  has  not  heard  of  the  Vale  of  Cashmere, 
With  its   roses  the  brightest  that  earth 

ever  gave,* 

Its  temples,  and  grottos,  and  fountains  as  clear 
As  the  love-lighted  eyes  that  hang  over 
their  wave  ? 


cus,  you  see  the  Green  Mosque,  so  called  because  it  hath  A 
Bt»eple,  faced  with  green  glazed  bricks,  which  render  it  rerj 
resplendent ;  it  is  «oTer«d  at  the  top  with  a  pavilion  of  tke 
same  stuff.  The  Turks  say  tills  Mosque  was  made  in  that 
place  because  Mohammed,  being  come  so  far,  would  not  enter 
the  town,  saying  it  was  too  delicious." — Thevenot. 

•  Nourmahal  signifies  Light  of  the  Haram.    She  was  after- 
ward called  Nourjehan,  or  the  Light  of  the  World. 

•  "Haroun  Al  Raschid,  cinquieme  Khalife  des>  Abassides, 
s'etant  uu  jour  brouiile  avec  Maridah,  qu'il  aimoit  cependant 
jupqu'a  1'exces,  et    cette  meeintelligence  ayant  deja  dure 
quelque  temps  commenca  a  s'ennuyer.    Giafar  Barmaki,  sou 
favori,  qui  s'en  appercfit,   commanda  a  Abbas  ben  Ahnaf 
excellent  poete  de  ce  temp^-la,  de  composer  quelques  ven-  sur 
lo  sujet  de  cette  brouillerie.    Ce  poete  executa  Tordre  de 
Giafar,  qui  fit  chanter  ces  vers  par  Monssali  en  presence  dn 
Khalife,  et  ce  Prince  nit  tellement  louche  de  la  tendresse  de« 
vers  du  poete  et  de  la  douceur  de  la  voix  du  musicien,  qu'U 
alia  aussitflt  trouver  Ivlaridah,  et  fit  sa  paix  avec  elle."— 
D'Herbelot. 

7  "  The  rose  of  Cashmere,  for  its  brilliancy  and  delicacy  of 
odor,  has  long  been  proverbial  in  thf  East." 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


147 


Oh  !  to  see  it  at  sunset, — when  warm  o'er 

the  lake 
Its    splendor   at   parting   a   summer   eve 

throws, 
Like  a  bride,  full  of  blushes,  when  lingering 

to  take 
A  last  look  of  her  mirror  at  night  ere  she 

goes ! — 
When  the  shrines  through  the  foliage  are 

gleaming  half  shown, 
And  each  hallows  the  hour  by  some  rites  of 

its  own. 
Here   the  music  of  prayer  from  a  minaret 

swells, 
Here  the  Magian  his  urn  full  of  perfume 

is  swinging, 

And  here,  at  the  altar,  a  zone  ^of  sweet  bells 
Round   the    waist    of   some   fair   Indian 

dancer  is  ringing. 
Or  to  see  it  by  moonlight, — when  mellowly 

shines 
The    light   o'er    its   palaces,   gardens,   and 

shrines ; 
When  the  waterfalls  gleam  like  a  quick  fall 

of  stars, 
And  the  nightingale's  hymn  from  the  Isle 

of  Chenars 
Is  broken  by  laughs    and   light  echoes  oJ 

feet 
From   the   cool   shining   walks    where    the 

young  people  meet. 
Or  at  morn,  when  the  magic  of  daylight 

awakes 
A  new  wonder  each   minute  as  slowly  it 

breaks, 
Hills,  cupolas,  fountains,  called  forth  every 

one 
Out  of  darkness,  as  they  were  just  born  of 

the  sun. 
When  the  spirit  of  fragrance  is  up  with  the 

day, 
From  his  Haram  of  night-flowers   stealing 

away; 
And  the  wind,  full  of  wantonness,  woos  like 

a  lover 
The  young  aspen  trees  till  they  tremble  all 

over. 
When  the  East  is  as  warm  as  the  light  of 

first  hopes, 
A<!'1  day  with  its  banner  of  radiance  un- 

furlM, 


Shines  in  through  the  mountainous  portal 

that  opes, 

Sublime,  from  that  valley  of  bliss  to  th« 
world  ! 

But  never  yet,  by  night  or  day, 
In  dew  of  spring  or  summer's  ray, 
Did  the  sweet  valley  shine  so  gay 
As  now  it  shines — all  love  and  light, 
Visions  by  day  and  feasts  by  night  ! 
A  happier  smile  illumes  each  brow, 

With  quicker  spread  each  heart  unclose* 
And  all  is  ecstasy, — for  now 

The  valley  holds  its  Feast  of  Roses.* 
That  joyous  time,  when  pleasures  pour 
Profusely  round,  and  in  their  shower 
Hearts  open,  like  the  season's  rose, — 

The  floweret  of  a  hundred  leaves, 
Expanding  while  the  dew-fall  flows, 

And  every  leaf  its  balm  receives. 
|  'Twas  when  the  hour  of  evening  came 

Upon  the  lake,  serene  and  cool, 
When  day  had  hid  his  sultry  flame 

Behind  the  palms  of  Baramoule. 
When  maids  began  to  lift  their  heads, 
Refresh'd  from  their  embroider'd  beds, 
Where  they  had  slept  the  sun  away, 
And  waked  to  moonlight  and  to  play. 
All  were  abroad — the  busiest  hive 
On  BelaV  hills  is  less  alive 
When  saffron  beds  are  full  in  flower, 
Than  look'd  the  valley  in  that  hour. 
A  thousand  restless  torches  play'd 
Through  every  grove  and  island  shade ; 
A  thousand  sparkling  lamps  were  set 
On  every  dome  and  minaret ; 
And  fields  and  pathways,  far  and  near, 
Were  lighted  by  a  blaze  so  clear, 
That  you  could  see,  in  wandering  round, 
The  smallest  rose-leaf  on  the  ground. 
Yet  did  the  maids  and  matrons  leave 
Their  veils  at  home  that  brilliant  eve ; 
And  there  were  glancing  eyes  about, 
And  cheeks  that  would  not  dare  shine  out 
In  open  day,  but  thought  they  might 


1  "  The  Tuckt  Snllman,  the  name  bestowed  by  the  Moham- 
medan* on  this  hill,  forms  one  aide  of  a  grand  portal  to  Uu 
lake." 

*  "The  Feast  of  Roses  continues  the  whole  time  <>l  it«-ii 
remaining  In  bloom." 

•  Mentioned  In  the    Toostk  Jthangttry.  <>r    •  v 
Jehan-Gulre,"  where  there  1*  an  account  of  Uic  oer'i 
flowers  about  Caahmere. 


148 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


Look  lovely  then,  because  'twas  night ! 
And  all  were  free,  and  wandering, 

And  all  exclaim'd  to  all  they  met 
That  never  did  the  summer  bring 

So  gay  a  Feast  of  Roses  yet; — 
The  moon  had  never  shed  a  light 

So  clear  as  that  which  bless'd  them  there ; 
The  roses  ne'er  shone  half  so  bright, 

Nor  they  themselves  look'd  half  so  fair. 

And  what  a  wilderness  of  flowers  ! 
It  seein'd  as  though  from  all  the  bowers 
And  fairest  fields  of  all  the  year, 
The  mingled  spoil  were  scatter'd  here. 
The  lake,  too,  like  a  garden  breathes, 

With  the  rich  buds  that  o'er  it  lie, — 
As  if  a  shower  of  fairy  wreathes 

Had  fallen  upon  it  from  the  sky ! 
And  then  the  sounds  of  joy, — the  beat 
Of  tabors  and  of  dancing  feet ; — 
The  minaret-crier's  chant  of  glee 
Sung  from  his  lighted  gallery,1 
And  answer'd  by  a  ziraleet 
From  neighboring  Haram,  wild  and  sweet ; — 
The  merry  laughter,  echoing 
From  gardens  where  the  silken  swing8 
Wafts  some  delighted  girl  above 
The  top  leaves  of  the  orange  grove  ; 
Or,  from  those  infant  groups  at  play 
Among  the  tents  that  line  the  way, 
Flinging,  unawed  by  slave  or  mother, 
Kandfuls  of  roses  at  each  other ! 

And   the   sounds  from   the   lake, — the  low 

whisp'ring  in  boats, 
As  they  shoot  through  the  moonlight ; — 

the  dipping  of  oars, 
And  the  wild,  airy  warbling  that  everywhere 

floats, 
Through  the  groves,  round  the  islands,  as 

if  all  the  shores 
Like  those  of  Kathay  utter'd  music,  and  gave 


1  "  It  is  the  custom  among  the  women  to  employ  the  Maa- 
zeen  to  chant  from  the  gallery  of  the  nearest  minaret,  which 
oi<  that  occasion  is  illuminated,  and  the  women  assembled  at 
the  house    respond  at  intervals  with  a  ziraleet  or  joyous 
efcorns." 

2  '-The swing  is  a  favorite  pastime  in  the  East,  as  promot- 
tig  u  circulation  of  air,  extremely  refreshing  in  those  sultry 
climates."— Itichardxon . 

"Tiiu  swings  are  adorned  with  festoons.  This,  pastime  is 
accompanied  with  music  of  voices  and  of  instruments,  hired 
by  the  masters  of  the  B wings. "—Tntrenat. 


An  answer  in  song  to  the  kiss  of  each  wave  !' 
But  the  gentlest  of  all  are  those  sounds,  lull 

of  feeling, 
That  soft  from  the  lute  of  some  lover  are 

stealing, — 

Some  lover  who  knows  all  the  heart- touch- 
ing power 

Of  a  lute  and  a  sigh  in  this  magical  hour. 
Oh !  best  of  delights,  as  it  everywhere  is, 
To  be  near  the  loved  one, — what  a  rapture 

is  his, 
Who  in  moonlight  and  music  thus  sweetly 

may  glide 
O'er  the  Lake  of  Cashmere  with  that  one  by 

his  side  ! 

If  woman  can  make  the  worst  wilderness  dear, 
Think,  think  what  a  heaven  she  must  make 

of  Cashmei'e  ! 

So  felt  the  magnificent  Son  of  Acbar,4 
When  from  power  and  pomp  and  the  trophies 

of  war 

He  flew  to  that  valley,  forgetting  them  all 
With  the  Light  of  the  Haram,  his  youug 

Nourmahal. 
When  free  and  uncrown'd  as  the  conqueror 

roved 

By  the  banks  of  that  lake,  with  his  only  be- 
loved, 
Ue  saw,  in  the  wreaths  she  would  playfully 

snatch 
From  the  hedges,  a  glory  his  crown  could 

not  match, 
And  preferr'd  in  his  heart  the  least  ringlet 

that  curl'd 
Down  her  exquisite  neck  to  the  throne  of  the 

world ! 

There's  a  beauty,  forever  unchangingly 
bright, 

Like  the  long  sunny  lapse  of  a  summer- 
day's  light, 

Shining  on,  shining  on,  by  no  shadow  made 
tender, 

Till  love  falls  asleep  in  its  sameness  of  splen- 
dor. 


*  "  The  ancients  having  remarked  that  a  current  of  watet 
made  some  of  the  stones  near  its  banks  send  forth  a  sound, 
they  detached  t-ome  of  them,  and  being  charmed  with  the  de- 
lightful sound  they  emitted,  constructed  Kiii£  or  musical  1» 
struments  of  them." 

4  Jehan-Ouire,  the  son  of  the  Great  Acbar. 


This  was  not  the  beauty — oh  !  nothing  like 

this, 
That  to  young  Nourmahal  gave  such  magic 

of  bliss, 
But  that  loveliness,  ever  in  motion,  which 

plays 
Like  the  light  upon  autumn's  soft  shadowy 

days, 
Now  here  and  now  there,  giving  warmth  as 

it  flies 
From  the  lips  to  the  cheek,  from  the  cheek 

to  the  eyes, 
Now  melting  in  mist  and  now  breaking  in 

gleams, 
Like  the  glimpses  a  saint  has  of  heaven  in 

his  dreams ! 

When  pensive,  it  seem'd  as  if  that  very  grace, 
That  charm  of  all  others,  was  born  with  her 

face ; 
And  when  angry — for  even  in  the  tranquil- 

lest  climes 

Light  breezes  will  ruffle  the  flowers  some- 
times— 
The   short,   passing '  anger    but   seem'd   to 

awaken 
New  beauty,  like  flowers  that  are  sweetest 

when  shaken. 

If  tenderness  touch'd  her,  the  dark  of  her  eye 
At  once  took  a  darker,  a  heavenlier  dye, 
From  the  depth  of  whose  shadow,  like  holy 

revealings 
From  innermost  shrines,  came  the  light  of 

her  feelings ! 
Then  her  mirth — oh  !  'twas  sportive  as  ever 

took  wing 

From  the  heart  with  a  burst  like  the  wild- 
bird  in  spring ; — 

Illumed  by  a  wit  that  would  fascinate  sages, 
Yet  playful  as  Peris  just  loosed  from  their 

cages.1 
While  her  laugh,  full  of  life,  without  any 

control 
But  the  sweet  one  of  gracefulness,  rung  from 

her  soul ; 
And  where  it  most  sparkled  no  glance  could 

discover, 
In  lip,  cheek,  or  eyes,  for  she  brightened  all 

over, — 


Like  any  fair  hike  that  the  IMV. •/.<•  is  upon, 
When  it  breaks  into  dimples,  and  laughs  in 

the  sun. 
Such,  sucli  were  the  peerless  enchantments, 

that  gave 
Nourmahal  the  proud  Lord  of  the  East  for 

her  slave ; 
And  though  bright  was  his  Haram, — a  living 

parterre 

Of  the  flowers'  of  this  planet — though  treas- 
ure's were  there, 
For  which  Solomon's  self  might  have  given 

all  the  store 
That  the  navy  from  Ophir  e'er  wing'd  to  his 

shore, 
Yet  dim  before  her  were  the  smiles  of  them 

all, 
And   the  Light   of  1  is   Haram  was  young 

Nourmahal ! 

But  where  is  she  now,  this  night  of  joy, 
When  bliss  is  every  heart's  employ  ? — 

When  all  around  her  is  so  bright, 
So  like  the  visions  of  a  trance, 
That  one  might  think,  who  came  by  chance 

Into  the  vale  this  happy  night, 

He  saw  that  City  of  Delight* 
In  Fairy-land,  whose  streets  and  towers 
Are  made  of  gems  and  light  and  flowers ! — 
Where  is  the  loved  Sultana  ?  where, 
When  mirth  brings  out  the  young  and  fair, 
Does  she,  the  fairest,  hide  her  brow, 
In  melancholy  stillness  now  ? 

Alas — how  light  a  cause  may  move 

Dissension  between  hearts  that  love ! 

Hearts  that  the  world  in  vain  has  tried, 

And  sorrow  but  more  closely  tied ; 

That  stood  the  storm  when  waves  were  rough, 

Yet  in  a  sunny  hour  fall  off, 

Like  ships  that  have  gone  down  at  sea, 

When  heaven  was  all  tranquillity  i 

A  something  light  as  air— a  look, 

A  word  unkind  or  wrongly  taken — 
Oh  !  love  that  tempests  never  shook, 

A  breath,  a  touch  like  this  has  shaken. 
And  ruder  words  will  soon  rush  in 
To  spread  the  breach  that  words  begin ; 


>  In  the  wan  of  the  Dives  with  the  Peris,  whenever  the 
former  took  the  latter  prisoners,  "they  shut  them  up  In  iron 
*,  and  hung  them  on  the  highest  trees." 


*  In  the  Malay  language  the  samo  word  i  guide*  women 
flowers. 

*  The  capital  of  Shaduklam. 


150 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


And  eyes  forget  the  gentle  ray 
They  wore  in  courtship's  smiling  day ; 
And  voices  lose  the  tone  that  shed 
A  tenderness  round  all  they  said ; 
Till  fast  declining,  one  by  one, 
The  sweetnesses  of  love  are  gone, 
And  hearts,  so  lately  mingled,  seem 
Like  broken  clouds, — or  like  the  stream, 
That  smiling  left  the  mountain's  brow, 

As  though  its  waters  ne'er  could  sever, 
Yet,  ere  it  reach  the  plain  below, 

Breaks  into  floods  that  part  forever 

Oh,  you  that  have  the  charge  of  love, 

Keep  him  in  rosy  bondage  bound, 
As  in  the  fields  of  bliss  above 

He  sits,  with  flowerets  fetter'd  round ; — 
Loose  not  a  tie  that  round  him  clings, 
Nor  ever  let  him  use  his  wings  ; 
For  even  an  hour,  a  minute's  flight, 
Will  rob  the  plumes  of  half  their  light. 
Like  that  celestial  bird — whose  nest 

Is  found  beneath  far  Eastern  skies — 
Whose  wings,  though  radiant  when  at  rest, 

Lose  all  their  g'ory  when  he  flies  !l 

Some  difference,  of  this  dangerous  kind, — 
By  which,  though  light,  the  links  that  bind 
The  fondest  hearts  may  soon  be  riven ; 
Some  shadow  in  love's  summer  heaven, 
Which,  though  a  fleecy  speck  at  first, 
May  yet  in  awful  thunder  burst ; — 
Such  cloud  it  is  that  now  hangs  over 
The  heart  of  the  imperial  lover, 
And  far  hath  banish'd  from  his  sight 
His  Nourmahal,  his  Haram's  light ! 
Hence  is  it,  on  this  happy  night, 
When  pleasure  through  the  fields  and  groves 
Has  let  loose  all  her  world  of  loves, 
And  every  heart  has  found  its  own, — 
He  wanders,  joyless  and  alone, 
And  weary  as  that  bird  of  Thrace, 
Whose  pinion  knows  no  resting-place. 
In  vain  the  loveliest  cheeks  and  eyes 
This  Eden  of  the  earth  supplies 

Come   crowding  round — the    cheeks  are 

pale, 
The  eyes  are  dim  :  though  rich  the  spot 


With  every  flower  this  earth  hath  got, 

What  is  it  to  the  nightingale 
If  there  his  darling  rose  is  not?" 
In  vain  the  valley's  smiling  throng 
Worship  him,  as  he  moves  along ; 
He  heeds  them  not — one  smile  of  hers 
Is  worth  a  world  of  worshippers. 
They  but  the  star's  adorers  are, 
She  is  the  heaven  that  lights  the  star ! 
Hence  is  it  too  that  Nourmahal, 

Amid  the  luxuries  of  this  hour, 
Far  from  the  joyous  festival, 

Sits  in  her  own  sequester'd  bower, 
With  no  one  near  to  soothe  or  aid, 
But  that  inspired  and  wondrous  maid, 
Namouna,  the  enchantress  ; — one 
O'er  whom  his  race  the  golden  sun 
For  unremember'd  years  has  run, 
Yet  never  saw  her  blooming  brow 
Younger  or  fairer  than  'tis  now. 
Nay,  rather,  as  the  west-wind's  sigh 
Freshens  the  flower  it  passes  by, 
Time's  wing  but  seem'd,  in  stealing  o'er 
To  leave  her  lovelier  than  before. 
Yet  on  her  smiles  a  sadness  hung, 
And  when,  as  oft,  she  spoke  or  sung 
Of  other  worlds,  there  came  a  light 
From  her  dark  eyes  so  strangely  bright, 
That  all  believed  nor  man  nor  earth 
Were  conscious  of  Namouna's  birth  ! 

All  spells  and  talismans  she  knew, 

From  the  great  Mantra,8  which  around 
The  air's  sublimer  spirits  drew, 

To  the  gold  gems4  of  Afric,  bound 
Upon  the  wandering  Arab's  arm, 
To  keep  him  from  the  SiltimV  harm. 
And  she  had  pledged  her  powerful  art, 
Pledged  it  with  all  the  zeal  and  heart 

O 

Of  one  who  knew,  though  high  her  sphere, 
What  'twas  to  lose  a  love  so  dear, 
To  find  some  spell  that  should  recall 
Her  SelimV  smile  to  Nourmahal ! 


1  "  Among  the  birds  of  Tonquin  is  a  species  of  goldfinch 
which  sings  so  melodiously  that  it  is  called  the  Celestial  Bird. 
It*  wings,  when  it  is  perched,  appear  variegated  with  beauti- 
ml  colors,  but  when  it  flies  they  lose  all  their  splendor." 


3  "  You  may  place  a  hundred  handfuls  of  fragrant  herbs  and 
flowers  before  the  nightingale,  yet  he  wishes  not,  in  his  con- 
stant heart,  for  more  than  the  sweet  breath  of  his  beloved 


•  "  He  is  said  to  have  found  the  great  Mantra  spell  or  talis- 
man, through  which  he  ruled  over  the  elements  and  spirits  of 
all  denominations." 

4  "  The  gold  jewels  of  Jiunie,  which  are  called  by  the  Arabi 
'  El  Herrez,'  from  the  supposed  charm  they  contain." 

'  "A  demon  supposed  to  haunt  woods,  &c.,  in  a  humam 
shape." 

8  The  name  of  Jehan-Guire  before  his  accession  to  1  he  throne 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


151 


'Twas     midnight — through     the     lattice, 

wreathed 

With  woodbine,  many  a  perfume  breathed 
Krom  plants  that  wake  when  others  sleep, 
From  timid  jasmine  buds  that  keep 
Their  odor  to  themselves  all  day, 
But,  when  the  sunlight  dies  away, 
Let  the  delicious  secret  out 
To  every  breeze  that  roams  about ; — 
When  thus  Namouna : — "  'Tis  the  hour 
That  scatters  spells  on  herb  and  flower ; 
And  garlands  might  be  gather'd  now, 
That,  twined  around  the  sleeper's  brow, 
Would  make  him  dream  of  such  delights, 
Such  miracles  and  dazzling  sights 
As  genii  of  the  sun  behold, 
At  evening,  from  their  tents  of  gold 
Upon  the  horizon — where  they  play 
Till  twilight  comes,  and,  ray  by  ray, 
Their  sunny  mansions  melt  away  ! 
Now,  too,  a  chaplet  might  be  wreathed 
Of  buds  o'er  which  the  moon  has  breathed, 
Which,  worn  by  her  whose  love  has  stray'd, 

Mignt  brin  or  some  Peri  from  the  skies, 

DO  * 

Some  sprite,  whose  very  soul  is  made 

Of  flowerets'  breaths  and  lovers'  sighs, 
And  who  might  tell " 

"  For  me,  for  me," 
Cried  Nourmahal  impatiently, — 
"  Oh  !  twine  that  wreath  for  me  to-night." 
Then,  rapidly,  with  foot  as  light 
As  the  young  musk-roes,  out  she  flew 
To  cull  each  shining  leaf  that  grew 
Beneath  the  moonlight's  hallowing  beams 
For  this  enchanted  wreath  of  dreams. 
Anemones  and  seas  of  gold,1 

And  new-blown  lilies  of  the  river, 
And  those  sweet  flowerets  that  unfold 

Their  buds  on  Camadeva's  quiver;* — 
The  tube-rose,  with  her  silvery  light, 

That  in  the  gardens  of  Malay 
Is  call'd  the  Mistress  of  the  Night,' 
So  like  a  bride,  scented  and.  bright, 

She  comes  out  when  the  sun's  away. — 
Amaranths,  such  as  crown  the  maids 


"Hemasagara,  or  the  Sea  of  Gold,  with  flowers  of  the 
trighiest  gold  color  " 

•  "  The  delicious  odor  of  the  blossoms  of  this  tree  justly 
five*  it  a  place  in  tne  ouiver  of  Camadeva,  or  the  God  of  Love." 

•  ••  The  Malayans  style  the  tube-rose  (Folianthet  tuderosa) 

lam.'  or  the  Mistress  of  the  Night." 


That  wander  through  Zainara'>  shades  ;' 
And  the  white  moon-flower,  as  it  shows 
On  Serendib's  high  crags  to  those 
Who  near  the  isle  at  evening  sail, 
Scenting  her  clove-trees  in  the  gale ; — 
In  short,  all  flowerets  and  all  plants, 

From  the  divine  Amrita  tree,* 
That  blesses  heaven's  inhabitants 

With  fruits  of  immortality, 
Down  to  the  basil*  tuft,  that  waves 
Its  fragrant  blossom  over  graves,7 

And  to  the  humble  rosemary, 
Whose  sweets  so  thanklessly  are  shed 
To  scent  the  desert*  and  the  dead, — 
All  in  that  garden  bloom,  and  all 
Are  gather'd  by  young  Nouwnahal, 
Who  heaps  her  baskets  with  the  flowers 

And  leaves,  till  they  can  hold  no  more ; 
Then  to  Namouna  flies,  and  showers 

Upon  her  lap  the  shining  store. 

With  what  delight  the  enchantress  views 

So  many  buds,  bathed  with  the  dews 

And  beams  of  that  bless'd  hour  : — iier  gianc* 

Spoke  something  past  all  mortal  pleasures, 
As,  in  a  kind  of  holy  trance, 

She  hung  above  those  fragrant  treasures, 
Bending  to  drink  their  balmy  airs, 
As  if  she  mix'd  her  soul  with  theirs. 
And  'twas,  indeed,  the  perfume  shed 
From  flowers  and  scented  flame  that  fed 
Her  charmed  life — for  none  had  e*er 
Beheld  her  taste  of  mortal  fare, 
Nor  ever  in  aught  earthly  dip, 
But  the  morn's  dew,  her  roseate  lip. 
Fill'd  with  the  cool  inspiring  smell, 
The  enchantress  now  begins  her  spell, 
Thus  singing  as  she  winds  and  weaves 
In  mystic  form  the  glittering  leaves: — 


«  "  In  Zamara  (Sumatra)  they  load  an  idle  life,  parsing  the 
day  in  playing  on  a  kind  of  flute,  crowned  with  garland*  of 
flower*,  among  which  the  globe  ninaranthus  mostly  prevails." 

•  "  The  largest  and  richest  sort  (of  the  •  Jamba'  or  RUM 
Apple)  is  called  '  Amrita,1  or  immortal,  tad  the  mvtholoL-i«ti 
of  Tibet  apply  the  same  word  to  the  celestial  tree  bearing  am- 
brosial fruit." 

•  Sweet  basil,  called  'Rayhan1  in  Persia,  and  generally 
found  in  churchyards. 

'  "  The  women  in  Egypt  go,  at  least  two  days  in  the  week, 
to  pray  and  weep  at  the  sepulchres  of  the  dead ;  and  the  cus- 
tom then  is  to  throw  upon  the  tombs  a  sort  of  herb,  which 
the  Arabs  call  rUian,  and  which  I*  our  sweet  basil."— J/ 
Lttt.  10. 

•  "  In  the  Great  Desert  are  found  many  »ta!k«  of  l»* 
and  rofomary." 


152 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


*  I  know  where  the  winged  visions  dwell 

That  around  the  night-bed  play ; 
I  know  each  herb  and  floweret's  bell, 
Where  they  hide  their  wings  by  day. 
Then  hasten  we,  maid, 
To  twine  our  braid, 
To-morrow  the  dreams  and  flowers  will  fade. 

"  The  image  of  love  that  nightly  flies 

To  visit  the  bashful  maid, 
Steals  from  the  jasmine  flower,  that  sighs 

Its  soul,  like  her,  in  the  shade. 
The  hope,  in  dreams,  of  a  happier  hour 

That  alights  on  misery's  brow, 
Springs  out  of  the  silvery  almond-flower, 

That  blooms  on  a  leafless  bough.1 
Then  hasten  we,  maid, 
To  twine  our  braid, 
To-morrow  the  dreams  and  flowers  will  fade. 

"  The  visions  that  oft  to  worldly  eyes 
The  glitter  of  mines  unfold, 

O  / 

Inhabit  the  mountain-herb,2  that  dyes 

The  tooth  of  the  fawn  like  gold.3 
The  phantom  shapes — oh,  touch  not  them — 

That  appal  the  murderer's  sight, 
Lurk  \n  the  fleshly  mandrake's  stem, 
That  shrieks  when  torn  at  night ! 
Then  hasten  we,  maid, 
To  twine  our  braid, 
To-morrow  the  dreams  and  flowers  will  fade. 

"The  dream  of  the  injured,  patient  mind, 

That  smiles  at  the  wrongs  of  men, 
Is  found  in  the  bruised  and  wounded  rind 
Of  the  cinnamon,  sweetest  then  ! 
Then  hasten  we,  maid, 
To  twine  our  braid, 
To-morrow  the  dreams  and  flowers  will  fade." 


1  "The  almond-tree,  with  whit}  flowers,  blossoms  on  the 
bare  branches." 

a  An  herb  on  Mount  Libauus,  which  is  said  to  communicate 
a  yellow  golden  hue  to  the  teeth  of  the  goats  and  other  ani- 
mals that  graze  upon  it. 

3  Niebuhr  thinks  this  may  be  the  herb  which  the  Eastern 
alchymists  look  to  as  a  means  of  making  gold.  "Most  of 
those  alchymical  enthusiasts  think  themselyes  sure  of  suc- 
cess if  they  could  but  find  out  the  herb  which  gilds  the  teeth 
and  gives  a  yellow  color  to  the  flesh  of  the  sheep  that  eat  it." 

Father  Jerome  Dandini,  however,  asserts  that  the  teeth  of 
the  goats  at  Mount  Libanus  are  of  a  silver  color ;  and  adds, 
"this  confirms  me  that  which  I  observed  in  Candia ;  to  wit, 
that  the  animals  that  live  on  Mount  Ida  eat  a  certain  herb, 
which  renders  their  teeth  of  a  golden  color;  which,  according 
•x>  my  judgment,  cannot  otherwise  proceed  than  from  the 


No  sooner  was  the  flowery  crown 

Placed  on  her  head  than  sleep  came  down, 

Gently  as  nights  of  summer  fall, 

Upon  the  lids  of  Nourmahal; — 

And  suddenly  a  tuneful  breeze, 

As  full  of  small,  rich  harmonies 

As  ever  wind  that  o'er  the  tents 

Of  Azab4  blew  was  full  of  scents, 

Steals  on  her  ear  and  floats  and  swells, 

Like  the  first  air  of  morning  creeping 
Into  those  wreathy,  Red  Sea  shells, 

Where  Love  himself,  of  old,  lay  sleeping  ;'— 
And  now  a  spirit,  form'd,  'twould  seem, 

Of  music  and  of  light,  so  fair, 
So  brilliantly  his  features  beam, 

And  such  a  sound  is  in  the  air 
Of  sweetness  when  he  waves  his  wings, 
Hovers  around  her,  and  thus  sings  : — 

"  From  Chindara's8  warbling  fount  I  come, 

Caft'd  by  that  moonlight  garland's  spell ; 
From  Chindara's  fount,  my  fairy  home, 

Where  in  music,  morn  and  night,  I  dwell 
Where  lutes  in  the  air  are  heard  about, 

And  voices  are  singing  the  whole  day  long, 
And  every  sigh  the  heart  breathes  out 

Is  turn'd,  as  it  leaves  the  lips,  to  song ! 
Hither  I  come 
From  my  fairy  home, 

And  if  there's  a  magic  in  music's  strain, 
I  swear  by  the  breath 
Of  that  moonlight  wreath 

Thy  lover  shall  sigh  at  thy  feet  again. 
For  mine  is  the  lay  that  lightly  floats, 
And  mine  are  the  murmuring,  dying  notes, 
That  fall  as  soft  as  snow  on  the  sea, 
And  melt  in  the  heart  as  instantly ! 
And  the  passionate  strain  that,  deeply  going, 

Refines  the  bosom  it  trembles  through, 
As  the  musk-wind,  over  the  water  blowing, 

Ruffles  the  wave,  but  sweetens  it  too  ! 

"  Mine  is  the  charm  whose  mystic  sway 
The  spirits  of  past  delight  obey ; — 
Let  but  the  tuneful  talisman  sound, 


mines  which  are  under  ground."— Dandini,  Voyage  to  Mount 
Libanus. 

«  The  myrrh  country. 

6  "This  idea  was  not  unknown  to  the  Greeks,  who  repre- 
sent the  young  Nerites,  one  of  the  Cupids,  as  living  in  shell* 
on  the  shores  of  the  Bed  Sea." 

•  "A  fabulous  fountain,  where  instrument!  are  said  to  b« 
constantly  playing." 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOOUK. 


153 


And  they  come,  like  genii,  hovi-ring  rouml. 
And  mine  is  the  gentle  song  that  bears 

From  soul  to  soul  the  wishes  of  love, 
As  a  bird  that  wafts  through  genial  airs 

The  cinnamon  seed  from  grove  to  grove.1 

*'  'Tis  I  that  mingle  in  one  sweet  measure 
The  past,  the  present,  and  future  of  pleasure  ;* 
When  memory  links  the  tone  that  is  gone 

With  the  blissful  tone  that's  still  in  the  ear ; 
And  hope  from  a  heavenly  note  flies  on 

To  a  note  more  heavenly  still  that  is  near ! 

"  The  warrior's  heart,  when  touch'd  by  me, 
Can  as  downy  soft  and  as  yielding  be 
As  his  own  white  plume,  that  high  amid  death 
Through  the  field  has  shone — yet  moves  with 

a  breath. 
And  oh,  how  the  eyes  of  beauty  glisten 

When  music  has  reach'd  her  inward  soul. 
Like  the  silent  stars  that  wink  and  listen 
While  Heaven's  eternal  melodies  roll! 
So,  hither  I  come 
From  my  fairy  home, 
And  if  there's  a  magic  in  music's  strain, 
I  swear  by  the  breath 
Of  that  moonlight  wreath, 
Thy  lover  shall  sigh  at  thy  feet  again." 

'Tis  dawn — at  least  that  early  dawn* 
Whose  glimpses  are  again  withdrawn, 
As  if  the  morn  had  waked,  and  then 
Shut  close  her  lids  of  light  again. 

1  "  The  Pompadour  pigeon,  by  carrying  the  fruit  of  the  cin- 
namon to  (litre-rent  places,  is  a  great  disseminator  of  this  vain- 
able  tree." 

*  "Whenever  onr   pleasure   arises  from  a  succession  of 
rounds,  it  is  a  perception  of  complicated  nature,  made  up  of  a 
teneation  of  the  present  eonnd  or  note,  and  an  idea  or  remem- 
brance of  the  foregoing,  while  their  mixture  and  concurrence 
produce  such  a  mysterious  delight  as  neither  could  have  pro- 
duced alone.    And  it  is  often  heightened  by  an  anticipation 
of  the  succeeding  noten.    Thus  sense,  memory,  and  imagina- 
tion arc-  conjurctively  employed."—  Gerard  on  Taste. 

Madame  de  Stael  accounts  upon  the  same  principle  for  the 
gratification  we  derive  from  rhyme: — "Elle  est  I'image  de 
l'e»perancu  et  dn  souvenir.  UH  son  nous  fait  dlsirercelui  qui 
doit  lui  rt'pondre,  et  quand  le  second  retentit,  il  nous  rappclle 
cclui  que  vient  de  nous  dchapper." 

*  "  The  Persians  have  two  mornings,  the  Soobhi  Kazim  and 
the  Soobhi  Sadig,  the  false  and  the  real  daybreak.    They  ac- 
count for  this  phenomenon  in  a  most  whimsical  manner. 
They  say  that  as  the  sun  rises  from  behind  the  Kohi  Qaf 
(Mount  Caucasus),  it  passes  a  hole  perforated  through  that 
mountain,  and  that  darting  its  rays  through  it,  it  is  the  cause 
of  the  Soobhi  Kazim,  or  this  temporary  appearance  of  day- 
break.   AK  it  ascends,  the  earth  is  again  veiled  in  darkness, 
until  the  sun  rises  above  the  mountain  and  brings  with  it  the 
Soobhi  Sadig,  or  real  morning."—  Scott  Waring. 


And  Nourmahal  is  up,  and  trying 

The  wonders  of  her  lute,  whose  strings — 
Oh,  bliss  ! — now  murmur  like  the  sighing 

From  that  ambrosial  spirit's  win- 
And  then,  her  voice — 'tis  more  than  human — 

Never,  till  now,  had  it  been  given 
To  lips  of  any  mortal  woman 

To  utter  notes  so  fresh  from  heaven ; 
Sweet  as  the  breath  of  angel  sighs, 

When  angel  sighs  are  most  divine. — 
"  Oh  !  let  it  last  till  night,"  she  cries, 
"  And  he  is  more  than  ever  mine-.'' 
And  hourly  she  renews  the  lay, 

So  fearful  lest  its  heavenly  sweetness 
Should,  ere  the  evening,  fade  away, — 

For  things  so  heavenly  have  such  fleetness  ! 
But,  far  from  fading,  it  but  grows 
Richer,  diviner  as  it  flows ; 
Till  rapt  she  dwells  on  every  string, 

And  pours  again  each  sound  along, 
Like  echo  lost  and  languishing 

In  love  with  her  own  wondrous  song. 

That  evening  (trusting  that  his  soul 

Might  be  from  haunting  love  release  1 
By  mirth,  by  music,  and  the  bowr) 

The  imperial  Selim  held  a  feast 
In  his  magnificent  Shaliraar  ;*t — 
In  whose  saloons,  when  the  first  star 
Of  evening  o'er  the  waters  trembled, 
The  valley's  loveliest  all  assembled, 
All  the  bright  creatures  that,  like  dreams, 
Glide  through  its  foliage,  and  drink  beams 
Of  beauty  from  its  founts  and  streams.* 
And  all  those  wandering  minstrel-maids, 
Who    leave — how     can    they    leave  ? — the 

shades 
Of  that  dear  valley,  and  are  found 

Singing  in  gardens  of  the  Soutn 
Those  songs  that  ne'er  so  sweetly  sound 

As  from  a  young  Cashmerian's  mouth. 


4  "  In  the  centre  of  the  plain,  as  it  approaches  the  Lake,  one 
of  the  Delhi  emperors.  I  believe  Shah  Jehan,  constructed  a 
spacious  garden  called  the  Shalimar,  which  is  abundantly 
stored  with  fruit-trees  and  flowering  shrub*.  Some  of  the  rlr- 
ulete  which  intersect  the  plain  are  led  into  a  canal  at  the  back 
of  the  garden,  and,  flowing  through  its  centre,  or  occasionally 
thrown  into  a  variety  of  water-works,  compete  the  chief  beau- 
ty of  the  Shalimar.  To  decorate  this  spot  the  Mogul  princis 
of  India  have  displayed  an  equal  magnificence  and  U<"« ;  es- 
pecially Julian  Gheer,  who,  with  the  enchanting  Noor  Mahl, 
made  Kashmire  his  usual  residence  during  the  summer 
months."— Forittr. 

•  "  It  is  supposed  that  th«  Caehmcrians  are  indebUd  fef 
their  beauty  lo  their  waters.' 


154 


POEMS   OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


There,  too,  the  Haram's  inmates  smile  ; — 

Maids  from  the  West,  with  sun-bright  hair, 
And  from  the  Garden  of  the  Nile, 

Delicate  as  the  roses  there  ;J 
Daughters  of  love  from  Cyprus  rocks, 
With  Paphian  diamonds  in  their  locks  ;9 
Like  Peri  forms,  stich  as  there  are 
On  the  gold  meads  of  Candahar  ;* 
And  they,  before  whose  sleepy  eyes, 

In  their  own  bright  Kathaian  bowers, 
Sparkle  such  rainbow  butterflies,* 

That  they  might  fancy  the  rich  flowers 
That  round  them  in  the  sun  lay  sighing 
Had  been  by  magic  all  set  flying  ! 

Everything  young,  everything  fair 
From  East  and  West  is  blushing  there, 
Except — except — 0  Nourmahal ! 
Thou  loveliest,  dearest  of  them  all, 
The  one,  whose  smile  shone  out  alone, 
Amidst  a  world  the  only  one  ! 
Whose  light,  among  so  many  lights, 
Was  like  that  star,  on  starry  nights, 
The  seaman  singles  from  the  sky, 
To  steer  his  bark  forever  by  ! 
Thou  wert  not  there — so  Selim  thought, 

And  everything  seem'd  drear  without  thee ; 
But  ah  !  thou  wert,  thou  wert — and  brought 

Thy  charm  of  song  all  fresh  about  ihee. 
Mingling  unnoticed  with  a  band 
Of  lutanists  from  many  a  land, 
And  veil'd  by  such  a  mask  as  shades 
The  features  of  young  Arab  maids,6 — 
A  mask  that  leaves  but  one  eye  free, 
To  do  its  best  in  witchery, — 
She  roved,  with  beating  heart,  around, 

And  waited,  trembling,  for  the  minute 
When  she  might  try  if  still  the  sound 

Of  her  loved  lute  had  magic  in  it. 

The  board  was  spread  \vith  fruits  and  wine, 
With  grapes  of  gold,  like  those  that  shine 

1  "  The  roses  of  the  Jinan  Nile,  or  Garden  of  the  Nile,  (at- 
tached to  the  Emperor  of  Morocco's  palace.)  are  nm'<|iiallcd, 
and  mattresse?  are  made  of  their  leaves  1'or  the  meii  of  rank  to 
recline  upon."' 

*  "  On  the  side  of  a  mountain  near  Paphos  there  is  a  cavern 
which  produces  the  most  beautiful  rock-crystal.    On  account 
of  its  brilliancy,  it  has  been  called  the  Paphian  diamond." 

*  ••  There  is  a  part  of  Caudahar  called  Peria,  or  Fairy-Land." 
4  "  Butterflies,  which  are  called,  in  the  Chinese  language, 

Flying  Leaves.' " 

*  "'  The  Arabian  women  wear  black  masks  with  little  clasps, 
prettily  ordered." — Carreri.    Niebuhr  mentions  their  showing 
•at  one  eye  in  conversation. 


On  Casbin's  hills  ; — pomegranates  full 

Of  melting  sweetness,  and  the  peara 
And  sunniest  apples  that  Cabul 

In  all  its  thousand  gardens  bears. 
Plantains,  the  golden  and  the  green, 
Malaya's  nectar'd  mangusteen  ;* 
Prunes  of  Bokara,  and  sweet  nuts 

From  the  far  groves  of  Samarcand, 
And  Basra  dates,  and  apricots, 

Seed  of  the  sun,7  from  Iran's  land  ; — 
With  rich  conserve  of  Visna  cherries,* 
Of  orange  flowers,  and  of  those  berries 
That,  wild  and  fresh,  the  young  gazelles 
Feed  on  in  Erac's  rocky  dells. 
All  these  in  richest  vases  smile, 

In  baskets  of  pure  sandal-wood, 
And  urns  of  porcelain  from  that  isle* 

Sunk  underneath  the  Indian  flood, 
Whence  oft  the  lucky  diver  brings 
Vases  to  grace  the  halls  of  kings. 
Wines  too,  of  every  clime  and  hue, 
Around  their  liquid  lustre  threw; 
Amber  Rosolli, — the  bright  dew 
From  vineyards  of  the  Green  feeagus'hing  ," 
And  Shiraz  wine,  that  richly  ran 

As  if  that  jewel,  large  and  rare. 
The  ruby  for  which  Kublai-Khan 
OfFer'd  a  city's  wealth,11  was  blushing, 

Melted  within  the  goblets  there  ! 

And  amply  Selim  quaffs  of  each, 

And  seems  resolved  the  floods  shall  reach 

His  inward  heart, — shedding  around 

A  genial  deluge  as  they  run, 
That  soon  shall  leave  no  spot  undrown'd, 

For  Love  to  rest  his  wings  upon. 
lie  little  knew  how  blest  the  boy 

Can  float  upon  a  goblet's  streams, 
Lighting  them  with  his  smile  of  joy ; — 

As  bards  have  seen  him  in  their  dreams 


•  "  The  mangusteen,  the  most  delicate  fruit,  in  the  world  ; 
the  pride  of  the  Malay  Islands." 

7  "A  delicious  kind  of  apricot,  called   by  the    Persian* 
'  Tokm-ek-shems,'  signifying  sun's  seed." 

8  "  Sweetmeats  in  a  crystal  cup,  consisting  of  rose-leaves  in 
conserve,  with  lemon  or  Visna  cherry,  orange  flowers,"  &c. 

*  "  Mauri-ga-Sima,  an  island  near  Formosa,  supposed  to 
have  been  sunk  in  the  sea  lor  the  crimes  of  its  inhabitants. 
The  vessels  which  the  fishermen  and  divers  bring  up  from  it 
are  sold  at  an  immense  price  in  China  and  Japan." 

i°  The  white  wine  of  Kishma. 

11  "  The  King  of  Zeilan  is  eaid  to  have  the  very  finest  rnby 
I  that  was  ever  seen.  Kublai-Khan  sent  and  offered  the  valu« 
!  of  a  city  for  it,  but  the  king  answered  he  would  not  give  it  for 
i  the  treasure  of  the  world."— Marco  Polo. 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  Moo  UK. 


155 


Down  the  blue  Ganges  laughing  glide 

Upon  a  rosy  lotus  wreath,1 
Catching  new  lustre  from  the  tide 

That  with  his  image  shone  beneath. 

But  what  are  cups  without  the  aid 
Of  song  to  speed  them  as  they  flow  ? 

And  see — a  lovely  Georgian  maid, 

With  all  the  bloom,  the  freshen'd  slow 

'  O 

Of  her  own  country  maidens'  looks, 
When  warm  they  rise  from  Teflis'  brooks:' 
And  with  an  eye  whose  restless  ray, 

Full,  floating,  dark — oh  he,  who  knows 
His  heart  is  weak,  of  Heaven  should  pray 

To  guard  him  from  such  eyes  as  those  ! — 
With  a  voluptuous  wildness  flings 
Her  Enowy  hand  across  the  strings 
Of  a  syrinda,1  and  thus  sings  : — 

"Come  hither,  come  hither — by  night  and. 

by  day 
We   linger   in   pleasures   that   never  are 

gone; 
Like  the  waves  of  the  summer,  as  one  dies 

away, 

Another  as  sweet  and  as  shining  comes  on. 
And  the  love  that  is  o'er,  in  expiring  gives 

birth 
To  a  new  one  as  warm,  as  unequall'd  in 

bliss ; 

And  oh  !  if  there  be  an  Elysium  on  earth, 
It  is  this,  it  is  this. 

Here   maidens  are   sighing,  and  fragrant 

their  sigh 
As  the  flower  of  the  Amra  just  oped  by  a 

bee; 
And  precious  their  tears  as  that  rain  from 

the  sky,4 
Which  turns  into  pearls  as  it  falls  in  the 

sea. 
Oh  !  think  what  the  kiss  and  the  smile  must 

be  worth, 
When  the  sigh  and  the  tear  are  so  perfect 

in  bliss; 

And  own,  if  there  be  an  Elysium  on  earth, 
It  is  this,  it  is  this. 


"Here  sparkles  the  nectar  that,  hallow'd  by 

love, 
Could  draw  down  those  angels  of  old  from 

their  sphere, 
Who  for  wine  of  this  earth  left  the  fountain! 

above, 
And  forgot  heaven's  stars  for  the  eyes  we 

have  here. 
And,  bless'd  with  the  odor  our  goblets  give 

forth, 
What  spirit  the  sweets  of  this  Eden  would 

miss? 

For  oh  !  if  there  be  an  Elysium  on  earth, 
It  is  this,  it  is  this."  * 

The  Georgian's  song  was  scarcely  mute, 

When     the     same    measure,    sound    for 

sound, 
Was  caught  up  by  another  lute, 

And  so  divinely  breathed  around, 
They  all  stood  hush'd,  and  wondering, 

And  turn'd  and  look'd  into  the  air, 
As  >f  they  thought  to  see  the  wing 

Of  Israfil,*  the  angel,  there  ; — 
So  powerfully  on  every  soul 
That  new  enchanted  measure  stole. 
While  now  a  voice,  sweet  as  the  note 
Of  the  charm'd  lute  was  heard  to  float 
Along  its  chords,  and  so  entwine 

Its   sound   with   theirs,  that   none   knew 

whether 
The  voice  or  lute  was  most  divine, 

So  wondrously  they  went  together: — 

"  There's  a  bliss  beyond  all  that  the  minstrel 

has  told, 
When  two  that  are  link'd  in  one  heavenly 

tie, 
With  heart  never  chanirinix  and  brow  never 

o       o 

cold, 
Love  on  through  all  ills,  and  love  on  till 

they  die  ! 

One  hour  of  a  passion  so  sacred  is  worth 
Whole  ages  of  heartless  and  wandering 

bliss ; 

And  oh  !  if  there  be  an  Elysium  on  eaith, 
It  is  this,  it  is  this." 


"The  Indians  feign  that  Cupid  was  first  seen  floating 
Sown  the  Ganges  on  the  Nymphtxa  Nelumbo." 

'  "Tcflii>  is  celebrated  for  itn  natural  warm  baths." 

*  "  The  Indian  syrlnda  or  guitar." 

4  "  The  Nisan.  or  drop*  of  spring  raui,  which  ttey  believe 
So  produce  pearls  if  they  full  Into  •belli." 


•  "  Around  the  exterior  of  the  Dewan  Khann  (a  building  of 
Shah  Allnm's)  in  the  cornice  arc  tin-  following  lines  in  letters 
of  L'old  upon  a  ground  of  white  marble— 'If  there  b«  a  par* 
diM'  upon  earth,  it  Ic  thK  it  IK  thlc.'  "—Franklin. 

*  "Tht-  An;,'pl  of  Mu-lr.  who  h»«  the  mod  nirlodlon*  \n\if 
of  all  Cixl'i.  rrfatlirri'."— Stt*«. 


156 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


'Twas  not  the  air,  'twas  not  the  words, 
But  that  deep  magic  in  the  chords 
And  in  the  lips  that  gave  such  power 
As  music  knew  not  till  that  hour. 
At  once  a  hundred  voices  said, 
"It  is  the  mask'd  Arabian  maid  !" 
While  Selim,  who  had  felt  the  same 
Deepest  of  any,  and  had  lain 
Some  minutes  rapt,  as  in  a  trance, 

After  the  fairy  sounds  were  o'er, 
Too  inly  touch'd  for  utterance, 

Now  motion'd  with  his  hand  for  more  : — 

"  Fly  to  the  desert,  fly  with  me, 
Our  Arab  tents  are  rude  for  thee ; 
But  oh  !  the  choice  what  heart  can  doubt 
Of  tents  with  love  or  thrones  without  ? 

"  Our  rocks  are  rough,  but  smiling  there 
The  acacia  waves  her  yellow  hair, 
Lonely  and  sweet,  nor  loved  the  less 
For  flowering  in  a  wilderness. 

"  Our  sands  are  bare,  but  down  their  slope 
The  silvery-footed  antelope 
As  gracefully  and  gayly  springs 
As  o'er  the  marble  courts  of  kings. 

"  Then  come — thy  Arab  maid  will  be 
The  loved  and  lone  acacia  tree, 
The  antelope,  whose  feet  shall  bless 
With  their  light  sound  thy  loneliness. 

"  Oh  !  there  are  looks  and  tones  that  dart 
An  instant  sunshine  through  the  heart, — 
As  if  the  soul  that  minute  caught 
Some  treasure  it  through  life  had  sought ; 

"  As  if  the  very  lips  and  eyes 
Predestined  to  have  all  our  sighs, 
And  never  be  forgot  again, 
Spai'kled  and  spoke  before  as  then ! 

"  So  came  thy  every  glance  and  tone, 
When  first  on  me  they  breathed  and  shone ; 
New,  as  if  brought  from  other  spheres, 
jTet  welcome  as  if  loved  for  years  ! 

u  Then  fly  with  me, — if  thou  hast  known 
No  other  flame,  nor  falsely  thrown 
A  gem  away,  that  thou  hadst  sworn 
Should  ever  in  thy  heart  be  worn. 


"  Come,  if  the  love  thou  hast  for  me 
Is  pure  and  fresh  as  mine  for  thee, — 
Fresh  as  the  fountain  under  ground, 
When  first  'tis  by  the  lapwing  found. ' 

"  But  if  for  me  thou  dost  forsake 
Some  other  maid,  and  rudely  break 
Her  worshipp'd  image  from  its  base, 
To  give  to  me  the  ruin'd  place ; — 

"  Then,  fare-thee-well ! — I'd  rather  make 
My  bower  upon  some  icy  lake 
When  thawing  suns  begin  to  shine, 
Than  trust  to  love  so  false  as  thine  !" 

There  was  a  pathos  in  this  lay, 

That,  even  without  enchantment's  art, 
Would  instantly  have  found  its  way 

Deep  into  Selim's  burning  heart ; 
But  breathing,  as  it  did,  a  tone 
To  earthly  lutes  and  lips  unknown ; 
With  every  chord  fresh  from  the  touch 
Of  music's  spirit, — 'twas  too  much  » 
Starting,  he  dash'd  away  the  cup, — 

Which,  all  the  time  of  this  sweet  air, 
His  hand  had  held,  untasted,  up, 

As  if  'twere  fix'd  by  magic  there, — 
And  naming  her,  so  long  unnamed, 
So  long  unseen,  wildly  exclaim'd, 
"  O  Nourmahal !  O  Nourmahal ! 

Hadst  thou  but  sung  this  witching  strain, 
I  could  forget — forgive  thee  all, 

And  never  leave  those  eyes  again." 

The  mask  is  off — the  charm  is  wrought — 
And  Selim  to  his  heart  has  caught, 
In  blushes,  more  than  ever  bright, 
His  Nourmahal,  his  Haram's  Light ! 
And  well  do  vanish'd  frowns  enhance 
The  charm  of  every  brighten'd  glance ; 
And  dearer  seems  each  dawning  smile 
For  having  lost  its  light  a  while ; 
And,  happier  now  for  all  her  sighs, 

As  on  his  arm  her  head  reposes, 
She  whispers  him,  with  laughing  eyes, 

"  Remember,  love,  the  Feast  of  Roses  !" 

Fadladeen,  at  the  conclusion  of  this  light 
rhapsody,  took  occasion  to  sum  up  his  opin- 


1  The  Hndhnd,  or  lapwing,  is  soppo* ed  to  have  the  powet 
of  discovering  water  under  ground. 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


161 


ion  of  the  young  Cashmerian's  poetry, — of 
which,  he  trusted,  they  had  that  evening 
heard  the  last.  Having  recapitulated  the 
epithets  "  frivolous"  —  "  inharmonious"  — 
"  nonsensical,"  he  proceeded  to  say  that, 
viewing  it  in  the  most  favorable  light,  it  re- 
sembled one  of  those  Maldivian  boats,  to 
which  the  princess  had  alluded  in  the  relation 
of  her  dream  (p.  130) — a  slight,  gilded  thing, 
sent  adrift  without  rudder  or  ballast,  and 
with  nothing  but  vapid  sweets  and  faded 
flowers  on  board.  The  profusion,  indeed,  of 
flowers  and  birds  which  this  poet  had  ready 
on  all  occasions, — not  to  mention  dews,  gems, 
&c., — was  a  most  oppressive  kind  of  opulence 
to  his  hearers ;  and  had  the  unlucky  effect 
of  giving  to  his  style  all  the  glitter  of  the 
flower-srarden  without  its  method,  and  all 

O  7 

the  flutter  of  the  aviary  without  its  song. 
In  addition  to  this,  he  chose  his  subjects 
badly,  and  was  always  most  inspired  by  the 
worst  part  of  them.  The  charms  of  pagan- 
ism, the  merits  of  rebellion, — these  were  the 
themes  honored  with  his  particular  enthusi- 
asm ;  and,  in  the  poem  just  recited,  one  of 
hi.<  most  palatable  passages  was  in  praise  of 
that  beverage  of  the  Unfaithful — wine; 
"  being,  perhaps,"  said  he,  relaxing  into  a 
smile,  as  conscious  of  his  own  character  in 
th»-  Haram  on  this  point,  "  one  of  those 
bards,  whose  fancy  owes  all  its  illumination 
to  the  grape,  like  that  painted  porcelain,1  so 
curious  and  so  rare,  whose  images  are  only 
visible  when  liquor  is  poured  into  it."  Upon 
the  whole  it  was  his  opinion,  from  the  speci- 
mens which  they  had  heard,  and  which,  he 
begged  to  say,  were  the  most  tiresome  part 
of  the  journey,  that — whatever  other  merits 
this  well-dressed  young  gentleman  might 
possess — poetry  was  by  no  means  his  proper 
avocation :  "  and  indeed,"  concluded  the 
critic,  "  from  his  fondness  for  flowers  and  for 
birds,  I  would  venture  to  suggest  that  a 
florist  or  a  bird-catcher  is  a  much  more  suit- 
able calling  for  him  than  a  poet." 

They  had  now  begun  to  ascend  those  bar- 
ren   mountains   which    separate    Cashmere 


1  "  The  Chinese  had  formerly  the  art  of  painting  on  the 
sides  of  porcelain  vessels  flan  and  other  animals,  which  were 
only  | n -rcejitiblc  whon  the  vessel  was  full  of  some  liquor. 
They  are  every  now  and  then  trying  to  recover  the  art  of  this 
inting,  but  to  no  purpose."— Dunn. 


from  the  rest  of  India;  and,  as  the  heaU 
were  intolerable,  and  the  time  of  their  en- 
campments limited  to  the  few  hours  neces- 
sary for  refreshment  and  repose,  there  was  an 
end  to  all  their  delightful  evenings,  and  Lalla 
Rookh  saw  no  more  of  Fwamorz.  She  now 
felt  that  her  short  drearu  of  happiness  was 
over,  and  that  she  had  nothing  but  the  recol- 
lection of  its  few  blissful  hours,  like  the  one 
draught  of  sweet  water  that  serves  the  camel 

o 

across  the  wilderness,  to  be  her  heart's  re- 
freshment during  the  dreary  waste  of  life 
that  was  before  her.  The  blight  that  had 
fallen  upon  her  spirits  soon  found  its  way  to 
her  cheek  ;  and  her  ladies  saw  with  regret — 
though  not  without  some  suspicion  of  the 
cause — that  the  beauty  of  their  mistress,  of 
which  they  were  almost  as  proud  as  of  their 
own,  was  fast  vanishing  away  at  the  very 
moment  of  all  when  she  had  most  need  of  it. 
What  must  the  King  of  Bucharia  feel,  when, 
instead  of  the  lively  and  beautiful  La)U 
Rookh,  whom  the  poets  of  Delhi  had  de- 
scribed as  more  perfect  than  the  divinest 
images  in  the  House  of  Azor,1  he  should  r« 
ceive  a  pale  and  inanimate  victim,  upon 
whose  cheek  neither  health  nor  pleasure 
bloomed,  and  from  whose  eyes  Love  had  fled, 
— to  hide  himself  in  her  heart ! 

If  anything  could  have  charmed  away  the 
melancholy  of  her  spirits,  it  would  have  been 
the  fresh  airs  and  enchanting  scenery  of  that 
valley,  which  the  Persians  so  justly  called 
the  "  Unequalled."  But  neither  the  coolness 
of  its  atmosphere,  so  luxurious  after  toiling 
up  those  bare  and  burning  mountains;  neither 
the  splendor  of  the  minarets  and  pagodas, 
that  shone  out  from  the  depths  of  its  woods, 
nor  the  grottos,  hermitages,  and  miraculous 
fountains,*  which  make  every  spot  of  that 
region  holy  ground;  neither  the  countless 
waterfalls  that  rush  into  the  valley  from  all 
those  high  and  romantic  mountains  that  en- 
circle it,  nor  the  fair  city  on  the  lake,  whose 


*  An  eminent  carver  of  idols.  Mid  in  the  Koran  to  be  father 
to  Abraham.  "  I  have  such  a  lovely  idol  a*  is  not  to  b«  met 
with  In  the  house  of  A*or."—//q/l*. 

»  "The  pardonable  superstition  of  the  sequestered  Inhabit- 
ant* has  multiplied  the  places  of  worship  of  Mahadeo,  of 
Bcschan.  and  of  Brama.  All  Cashmere  I*  holy  land,  and  mi 
racolous  fountains  •bound."— Jfn/or  R<nnti.$  Mrmovt  of  * 
M1^  "f  Hindottan. 


158 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


houses,  roofed  with  flowers,'  appeared  at  a 
distance  like  one  vast  and  variegated  par- 
terre : — not  all  these  wonders  and  glories  of 
the  most  lovely  country  under  the  sun  could 
steal  her  heart  for  a  minute  from  those  sad 
thoughts,  which  but  darkened  and  grew  bit- 
terer every  step  she  advanced. 

The  gay  pomps  and  processions  that  met 
her  upon  her  entrance  into  the  valley,  and 
the  magnificence  with  which  the  roads 
all  along  were  decorated,  did  honor  to  the 
taste  and  gallantry  of  the  young  king.  It 
was  night  when  they  approached  the  city, 
and  for  the  last  two  miles  they  had  passed 
under  arches,  thrown  from  hedge  to  hedge, 
festooned  with  only  those  rarest  roses  from 
which  the  Attar  Gul,  more  precious  than 
gold,  is  distilled,  and  illuminated  in  rich  and 
fanciful  forms  with  lanterns  of  the  triple- 
colored  tortoise-shell  of  Pegu.2  Sometimes, 
from  a  dark  wood  by  the  side  of  the  road,  a 
display  of  fire-works  would  break  out,  so 
sudden  and  so  brilliant,  that  a  Brahmin 
might  think  he  saw  that  grove,  in  whose 
purple  shade  the  god  of  battles  was  born, 
bursting  into  a  flame  at  the  moment  of  his 
birth.  While,  at  other  times,  a  quick  and 
playful  irradiation  continued  to  brighten  all 
the  fields  and  gardens  by  which  they  passed, 
forming  a  line  of  dancing  lights  along  the 
horizon ;  like  the  meteors  of  the  north  as 
they  are  seen  by  those  hunters  who  pursue 
che  white  and  blue  foxes  on  the  confines  of 
the  Icy  Sea. 

These  arches  and  fire-works  delighted  the 
ladies  of  the  Princess  exceedingly ;  and, 
with  their  usual  good  logic,  they  deduced 
from  his  taste  for  illuminations,  that  the 
King  of  Bucharia  would  make  the  most  ex- 
emplary husband  imaginable.  Nor,  indeed, 
could  Lalla  Rookh  herself  help  feeling  the 
kindness  and  splendor  with  which  the  young 
bridegroom  welcomed  her ; — but  she  also 


1  "  On  a  standing  roof  of  wood  is  laid  a  covering  of  fine  earth, 
which  shelters  the  building  from  the  great  quantity  of  snow 
that  falls  in  the  winter  season.  This  fence  communicates  an 
tqual  warmth  in  winter,  as  a  refreshing  coolness  in  the  sum- 
mer season,  when  the  tops  of  the  houses,  which  are  planted 
with  a  variety  of  flowers,  exhibit  at  a  distance  the  spacious 
view  of  a  beautifully  chequered  parterre." — Forster. 

a  "  Two  hundred  slaves  there  are  who  have  no  other  office 
than  to  hunt  the  woods  and  marshes  for  triple-colored  tortoises 
for  the  Kind's  Vivary.  Of  the  shells  of  these  also  lanterns  are 
•imde."—  Vincent  le  IHanc's  Travels. 


felt  how  painful  is  the  gratitude  which  kind- 
ness from  those  we  cannot  love  excites ;  and 
that  their  best  blandishments  come  over  the 
heart  with  all  that  chilling  and  deadly 
sweetness  which  we  can  fancy  in  the  cold, 
odoriferous  wind8  that  is  to  blow  over  this 
earth  in  the  last  days. 

The  marriage  was  fixed  for  the  morning 
after  her  arrival,  when  she  was,  for  the  first 
time,  to  be  presented  to  the  monarch  in  that 
imperial  palace  beyond  the  lake,  called  the 
Shalimar.  Though  a  night  of  more  wakeful 
and  anxious  thought  had  never  been  passed 
in  the  Happy  Valley,  yet,  when  she  rose  in 
the  morning,  and  her  ladies  came  round  her, 
to  assist  in  the  adjustment  of  the  bridal  or- 
naments, they  thought  they  had  never  seen 
her  look  half  so  beautiful.  What  she  had 
lost  of  the  bloom  and  radiancy  of  her  charms 
was  more  than  made  up  by  that  intellectual 
expression — that  soul  in  the  eyes — which  is 
worth  all  the  rest  of  loveliness.  When  they 
had  tinged  her  fingers  with  the  henna  leaf, 
and  placed  upon  her  brow  a  small  coronet 
of  jewels,  of  the  shape  worn  by  the  ancient 
Queens  of  Bucharia,  they  flung  over  her 
head  the  rose-colored  bridal  veil,  and  she 
proceeded  to  the  barge  that  was  to  convey 
her  across  the  lake; — first  kissing,  with  a 
mournful  look,  the  little  amulet  of  cornelian 
which  her  father  had  hung  about  her  neck  at 
parting. 

The  morning  was  as  fair  as  the  maid  upon 
whose  nuptials  it  rose,  and  the  shining  lake, 
all  covered  with  boats,  the  minstrels  playing 
upon  the  shoves  of  the  islands,  and  the 
crowded  summer-houses  on  the  green  hills 
around,  with  shawls  and  banners  waving 
from  their  roofs,  presented  such  a  picture  of 
animated  rejoicing,  as  only  she  who  was  the 
object  of  it  all  did  not  feel  with  transport. 
To  Lalla  Rookh  alone  it  was  a  melancholy 
pageant ;  nor  could  she  have  even  borne  to 
look  upon  the  scene,  wei'e  it  not  for  a  hope 
that,  among  the  crowds  around  she  might 
once  more  perhaps  catch  a  glimpse  of  Fera- 


'  This  wind,  which  is  to  blow  from  Syria  Dainasceua  is,  ac- 
cording to  the  Mohammedans,  one  of  the  signs  of  the  Last 
Day's  approach. 

Another  of  the  signs  is,  "  Great  distress  in  the  world,  so 
that  a  man  when  he  passes  by  another's  grave  shall  say. 
Would  to  God  I  were  in  his  place."— Sale's  Preliminary  Di#-  • 
course. 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOOUK. 


159 


morz.  So  much  was  her  imagination  haunted 
by  this  thought,  that  there  was  scarcely  an 
islet  or  boat  she  passed,  at  which  her  h'-art 
did  not  flutter  with  a  momentary  fancy  that 
he  was  there.  Happy,  in  her  eyes,  the  hum- 
blest slave  upon  whom  the  light  of  his  dear 
looks  fell !  In  the  barge  immediately  after 
the  Princess  was  Fadladeen,  with  his  silken 
curtains  thrown  widely  apart,  that  all  might 
iave  the  benefit  of  his  august  presence,  and 
with  his  head  full  of  the  speech  he  was  to 
deliver  to  the  king,  "  concerning  Feramor/., 
and  literature,  and  the  chabuk,  as  connected 
therewith." 

They  had  now  entered  the  canal  which 
leads  from  the  Lake  to  the  splendid  domes 
and  saloons  of  the  Shalimar,  and  glided  on 
through  gardens  ascendicg  from  each  bank, 
full  of  flowering  shrubs  that  made  the  air  all 
perfume  ;  while  from  the  middle  of  the  canal 
rose  jets  of  water,  smooth  and  unbroken,  to 
such  a  dazzling  height,  that  they  stood  like 
•pillars  of  diamond  in  the  sunshine.  After 
Bailing  under  the  arches  of  various  saloons, 
they  at  length  arrived  at  the  last  and  most 
magnificent,  where  the  monarch  awaited  the 
coming  of  his  bride ;  and  such  was  the  agita- 
tion of  her  heart  and  frame,  that  it  was  with 
difficulty  she  walked  up  the  marble  steps, 
which  were  covered  with  cloth  of  gold  for 
her  ascent  from  the  barge.  At  the  end  of 
the  hall  stood  two  thrones,  as  precious  as  the 
cerulean  throne  of  Koolburga,1  on  one  of 


1  "  Ou  Mohammed  Shaw'?  return  to  Koolburga,  (the  capital 
of  Dekkan,)  he  made  a  great  festival,  and  mounted  this  throne 
with  much  pomp  and  magnificence,  calling  it  Firo/eh  or  Ce- 
rulean. I  have  heard  t<ome  old  persons,  who  saw  the  throne 
Firozeh  in  the  mini  of  Sultan  Mamood  BNimcnee,  describe 
it.  They  say  that  it  was  in  length  nine  feet,  and  three  in 
breadth ;  made  of  ebony,  covered  with  plates  of  pure  gold,  and 
"set  with  precious  stones  of  immense  value.  Every  prince  of 
the  bouse  of  Bhamenee,  who  possessed  this  throne,  made  a 
point  of  adding  to  it  some  rich  stones,  so  that  when  in  the 
reign  of  Sultan  Mamotd  it  was  taken  to  pieces,  to  remove 
tome  of  the  jewels  to  be  set  in  vase*  and  CPUS,  the  iewellera 


which  sat  Aliris,  the  youthful  King  of 
Bucharia,  and  on  the  other  was,  in  a  few 
minutes,  to  be  placed  the  most  beautiful 
Princess  in  the  world.  Immediately  upon 
the  entrance  of  Lalla  Rookh  into  the  saloon, 
the  monarch  descended  from  his  throne  to 
meet  her ;  but  scarcely  had  he  time  to  take 
her  hand  in  his,  when  she  screamed  with 
surprise,  and  fainted  at  his  feet.  It  was 
Feramorz  himself  that  stood  before  her ! 
Feramorz  was,  himself,  the  sovereign  of 
Bucharia,  who  in  this  disguise  had  accom- 
panied his  young  bride  from  Delhi,  and  hav- 
ing won  her  love  as  an  humble  minstrel,  now 
amply  deserved  to  enjoy  it  as  a  king. 

The  consternation  of  Fadladeen  at  this 
discovery  was,  for  the  moment,  almost  piti- 
able. But  change  of  opinion  is  a  resource 
too  convenient  in  courts  for  this  experienced 
courtier  not  to  have  learned  to  avail  himself 
of  it.  His  criticisms  were  all,  of  course,  re- 
canted instantly:  he  was  seized  with  an 
admiration  of  the  king's  verses,  as  unbounded 
us,  lie  begged  him  to  believe,  it  was  disinter 
ested  ;  and  the  following  week  saw  him  in 
possession  of  an  additional  place,  swearing 
by  all  the  saints  of  Islam  that  never  had 
there  existed  so  great  a  poet  as  the  monarch 
Aliris,  and  ready  to  prescribe  his  favorite 
regimen  of  the  chabuk  for  every  man,  woman, 
and  child  that  dared  to  think  otherwise. 

Of  the  happiness  of  the  King  and  Queeu 
of  Bucharia,  after  such  a  beginning,  there 
can  be  but  little  doubt ;  and,  among  the 
lesser  symptoms,  it  is  recorded  of  Lalla 
Rookh,  that,  to  the  day  of  her  death,  iu 
memory  of  their  delightful  journey,  she 
never  called  the  king  by  any  other  name 
than  Feramorz. 


valued  it  at  one  corore  of  oons,  (nearly  four  millions  sterling. ) 
I  learned  also  that  it  was  called  Flrozeh  from  being  partly 
enamelled  of  a  sky-blue  color,  which  v».f»  in  time  totally  coo 
coaled  by  the  number  of  jewt»l»."— 


FRAGMENT  OF  COLLEGE  EXER- 
CISES. 

"  Nobiiitas  sola  eat  atque  unica  virtus."— Juv. 

MARK  those  proud  boasters  of  a  splendid 

line, 
Like  gilded    ruins,  mouldering   while  they 

shine, 

How  heavy  sits  that  weight  of  alien  show, 
Like  martial  helm  upon  an  infant's  brow ; 
Those  borrow'd  splendors,  whose  contrasting 

light 
Throws  back  the  native   shades   in  deeper 

night. 

Ask  the  proud  train  who  glory's  shade 
pursue, 

Where  are  the  arts  by  which  that  glory  grew  ? 

The  genuine  virtues  that  with  eagle  gaze 

Sought  young  Renown  in  all  her  orient  blaze ! 

Where  is  the  heart  by  chemic  truth  refined, 

The  exploring  soul,  whose  eye  had  read 
mankind  ? 

Where  are  the  links  that  twined  with  heav- 
enly art 

His  country's  interest  round  the  patriot's 
heart  ? 

Where  is  the  tongue  that  scatter'd  words  of 
fire? 

The  spirit  breathing  through  the  poet's  lyre  ? 

Do  these  descend  with  all  that  tide  of  fame 

Which  vainly  waters  an  unfruitful  name  ? 


THE  SAME. 

*  Jo? tern  bellnm  quibus  ueceesarium,  et  pia  anna  quibus  nnlla 
nisi  in  armia  relinquitur  spes."— Livy. 

Is  there  no  call,  no  consecrating  cause, 
Approved  by  Heaven,  ordain'd  by  nature's 
laws, 


Where  justice  flies  the  herald  of  our  way, 
And  truth's  pure  beams  upon  the   bannert 
play? 

Yes,  there's  a  call  sweet  as  an  angel's  breath 
To  slumbering  babes,  or  innocence  in  death ; 
And  urgent  as  the  tongue  of  heaven  within. 

~  O 

When  the  mind's  balance  trembles  up©n  sin. 

Oh  !   'tis  our  country's   voice,  whose  claim 

should  meet 

An  echo  in  the  soul's  most  deep  retreat ; 
Along  the  heart's  responding  string  should 

run, 
Nor  let  a  tone  there  vibrate — but  the  one ! 


SONG.1 

MAKY,  I  believed  thee  true, 

And  I  was  blest  in  thus  believing ; 

But  now  I  mourn  that  e'er  I  knew 
A  girl  so  fair  and  so  deceiving ! 

Fare  thee  weii ! 

Few  have  ever  loved  like  me, — 

Oh  !  I  have  loved  thee  too  sincerely  ! 

And  few  have  e'er  deceived  like  thee, — 
Alas  !  deceived  me  too  severely  ! 

Fare  thee  well ! 

Fare  thee  well !  yet  think  a  while 

On  one  whose  bosom  bleeds  to  doubt  thee ; 

Who  now  would  rather  trust  that  smile, 
And  die  with  thee  than  live  without  thee ! 

Fare  thee  well ! 

Fare  thee  well !  I'll  think  of  thee, 
Thou  leav'st  me  many  a  bitter  token ; 

For  see,  distracting  woman  !  see, 

My  peace  is  gone,  my  heart  is  broken ! 

Fare  thee  well ! 


1  To  the  Scotch  air,  "  Gala  Water.' 


POK.MS  OF  THOMAS  MOO  I:K. 


1G1 


TO  THE  LARGE  AND  BEAUTIFUL 

MISS . 

IN   ALLUSION   TO   SOME    PARTNERSHIP   IN   A 
LOTTERY  SHARE. 

IN  wedlock  a  species  of  lottery  lies, 

Where  in  blanks  and  in  prizes  we  deal : 
But  how  comes  it  that  yon,  such  u  capital 

prize 

Should   so   long   have    remained  on   the 
wheel ! 

If  ever,  by  fortune's  indulgent  decree, 
To  me  such  a  ticket  should  roll, 

A  sixteenth,  Heaven  knows !  were  sufficient 

for  me  ; 
For  what  could  I  do  with  the  whole  ? 


INCONSTANCY. 

AND  do  I  then  wonder  that  Julia  deceives  me, 
When   surely  there's   nothing   in   nature 

more  common  ? 
She  vows  to  be  true,  and  while  vowing  she 

leaves  me — 

But  coald    I    expect  any  more   from   a 
woman  ? 

O  woman  !  your  heart  is  a  pitiful  treasure  ; 
And   Mohammed's  doctrine  was  not  too 

severe, 
When  he  thought  you  were  only  materials 

of  pleasure, 

And  reason  and  thinking  were  out  of  your 
sphere. 

By  your  heart,  when  the  fond  sighing  lover 

can  win  it, 

He  thinks  that  an  age  of  anxiety's  paid ; 
But,  oh  !  while  he's  blest,  let  him  die  on  the 

minute — 

If  he  live  but  a  day,  he'll  be  surely  be- 
tray'd. 


TO  JULIA. 

THOUGH  Fate,  my  girl,  may  bid  us  part, 
Our  sonls  it  cannot,  shall  not  sever 


The  heart  will  seek  its  kindred  heart, 
And  cling  to  it  as  close  as  ever. 

But  must  we,  must  we  part  indeed  ? 

Is  all  our  dream  of  rapture  over  ? 
And  does  not  Julia's  bosom  bleed 

To  leave  so  dear,  so  fond  a  lover  'i 

Does  she  too  mourn  ? — Perhaps  she  may , 
Perhaps  she  weeps  our  blisses  fleeting  ; 

But  why  is  Julia's  eye  so  gay, 

If  Julia's  heart  like  mine  is  beating  ? 

I  oft  have  loved  the  brilliant  glow 

Of  rapture  in  her  blue  eye  streaming — 

But  can  the  bosom  bleed  with  woe, 
While  joy  is  in  the  glances  beaming  ? 

No,  no  ! — Yet,  love,  I  will  not  chide, 

Although  your  heart  were  fond  of  roving  : 

Nor  that,  nor  all  the  world  beside, 

Could  keep  your  faithful  boy  from  loving. 

You'll  soon  be  distant  from  his  eye, 

And,  with  you,  all  that's  worth  possessing. 

Oh  !  then  it  will  be  sweet  to  die, 
When  life  has  lost  its  only  blessing  ! 


TO    ROSA. 

DOES  the  harp  of  Rosa  slumber? 
Once  it  breathed  the  sweetest  number  I 
Never  does  a  wilder  song 
Steal  the  breezy  lyre  along, 
When  the  wind,  in  odors  dying, 
Woos  it  with  enamor'd  sighing. 

Does  the  harp  of  Rosa  cease  ? 
Once  it  told  a  tale  of  peace 
To  her  lover's  throbbing  breast — 
Then  he  was  divinely  blest ! 
Ah  !  but  Rosa  loves  no  more, 
Therefore  Rosa's  song  is  o'er ; 
And  her  harp  neglected  lies ; 
And  her  boy  forgotten  sighs. 
Silent  harp — forgotten  lover — 
Rosa's  love  and  song  are  over! 


162 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


WRITTEN  IN  THE  BLANK  LEAF  OF 
A  LADY'S  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK. 

HERE  is  one  leaf  reserved  for  me, 
From  all  thy  sweet  memorials  free ; 
And  here  my  simple  song  might  tell 
The  feelings  thou  must  guess  so  well. 
But  could  I  thus,  within  thy  mind, 
One  little  vacant  corner  find, 
Where  no  impression  yet  is  seen, 
Where  no  memorial  yet  has  been, 
Oh  !  it  should  be  my  sweetest  care 
To  write  my  name  forever  there  I 


ANACREONTIC. 

"  in  lachrymas  verterat  omne  merum." — Tib.,  lib.  1.,  eleg.  5. 

PRESS  the  grape,  and  let  it  pour 
Around  the  board  its  purple  shower : 
And  while  the  drops  my  goblet  steep, 
I'll  think — in  woe  the  clusters  weep. 

Weep  o'/i,  weep  on,  my  pouting  vine  : 
Heaven  grant  no  tears,  but  tears  of  wiiie. 
Weep  oi> :  and,  as  thy  sorrows  fiow, 
I'll  ti^e  the  luxury  of  woe. 


ANACREONTIC. 

FRIEND  of  my  soul !  this  goblet  sip, 

'Twill  chase  that  pensive  tear ; 
*Tis  not  so  sweet  as  woman's  lip, 
But,  oh  !  'tis  more  sincere. 
Like  her  delusive  beam, 

'Twill  steal  away  thy  mind : 
But,  like  affection's  dream, 
It  leaves  no  sting  behind  ! 

Come,  twine  the  wreath,  thy  brows  to  shade ; 

These  flowers  were  cull'd  at  noon ; — 
Like  woman's  love  the  rose  will  fade, 
But,  ah  !  not  half  so  soon ! 

For  though  the  flower's  decay'd, 

Its  fragrance  is  not  o'er ; 
But  once  when  love's  betray'd, 
The  heart  can  bloom  no  more  ! 


ELEGIAC  STANZAS. 

How  sweetly  could  I  lay  my  head 
Within  the  cold  grave's  silent  breast ; 

Where  sorrow's  tears  no  more  are  shed, 
No  more  the  ills  of  life  molest. 

For,  ah  !  my  heart,  how  very  soon 

The  glittering  dreams  of  youth  are  past 

And  long  before  it  reach  its  noon, 
The  sun  of  life  is  overcast. 


"  Neither  do  I  condemn  thee ;  go,  and  sin  no  more  I" 
St.  John,  viii.  11. 

O  WOMAN  !  if  by  simple  wile 

Thy  soul  has  stray 'd  from  honor's  traek,. 
'Tis  mercy  only  can  beguile, 

By  gentle  ways,  the  wanderer  back. 

The  stain  that  on  thy  virtue  lies, 

Wash'd  by  thy  tears,  may  yet  decay ; 

As  clouds  that  sully  morning  skies 
May  all  be  wept  in  showers  away. 

Go,  go — be  innocent,  and  live — 

The  tongues  of  men  may  wound  thee  sore 
But  Heaven  in  pity  can  forgive, 

And  bids  thee  "  go,  and  sin  no  more  I" 


TO    ROSA. 

AND  are  you  then  a  thing  of  art, 
Enslaving  all,  and  loving  none ; 

And  have  I  strove  to  gain  a  heart 

Which  every  coxcomb  thinks  his  own? 

Do  you  thus  seek  to  flirt  a  number, 
And  through  a  round  of  danglers  run, 

Because  your  heart'?  ineimd  slumbpr 
Could  never  wake  to  feel  lor  one  f 

Tell  me  at  once  if  this  be  true, 

And  I  shall  calm  my  jealous  breast, 

Shall  learn  to  join  the  dangling  crew, 
And  share  your  simpers  with  the  rest*. 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MooKK. 


103 


But  if  your  heart  be  not  so  free, — 
Oh  !  if  another  share  that  heart, 

Tell  not  the  saddening  tale  to  me, 
But  mingle  mercy  with  your  art. 


THE  SURPRISE. 

CHLORIS,  I  swear,  by  all  I  ever  swore, 
That  from  this  hour  I  shall  not  love  thee 

more. — 
"  What !   love   no   more  ?     Oh  !    why   this 

alter'd  vow?" 
Because  I  cannot  love  thee  more  than  now! 


A  DREAM. 

I  THOUGHT  this  heart  consuming  lay 
On  Cupid's  burning  shrine  : 

I  thought  he  stole  thy  heart  away, 
And  placed  it  near  to  mine. 

I  saw  thy  heart  begin  to  melt, 

Like  ice  before  the  sun ; 
Till  both  a  glow  congenial  felt, 

And  mingled  into  one ! 


WRITTEN  IN  A  COMMON-PLACE 
BOOK, 

CALLED  "  THE  BOOK  OP  FOLLIES ;" 

To  which  every  one  that  opened  it  sJiould  contribute 
iomething. 

TO   THE   BOOK    OF    FOLLIES. 

THIS  tribute's  from  a  wretched  elf, 
Who  hails  thee,  emblem  of  himself ! 
The  book  of  life,  which  I  have  traced, 
Has  been,  like  thee,  a  motley  waste 
Of  follies  scribbled  o'er  and  o'er, 
One  folly  bringing  hundreds  more. 
Some  have  indeed  been  writ  so  neat, 
In  characters  so  fair,  so  sweet, 
That  those  who  judge  not  too  severely, 


Have  said  they  loved  such  follies  dearly! 
Yet  still,  0  book  !  the  allusion  stands : 
For  these  were  penn'd  by  femalf  hands; 
The  rest, — alas  !  I  own  the  trntlj, — 
Have  all  been  scribbled  so  uncouth, 
That  Prudence,  with  a  withering  look, 
Disdainful  flings  away  the  book. 
Like  thine,  its  pages  here  and  there 
Have  oft  been  stain'd  with  blots  of  care ; 
And  sometimes  hours  of  peace,  I  own, 
Upon  some  fairer  leaves  have  shown, 
White  as  the  snowings  of  that  heaven 
By  which  those  hours  of  peace  were  give*. 
But  now  no  longer — such,  oh  !  such 
The  blast  of  Disappointment's  touch  ! — 
Xo  longer  now  those  hours  appear  ; 
Each  leaf  is  sullied  by  a  tear  : 
Blank,  blank  is  every  page  with  care, 
Not  even  a  folly  brightens  there. 
Will  they  yet  brighten? — Never,  never  I 
Then  shut  the  book,  alas  !  forever  ! 


THE  BALLAD. 

THOU  hast  sent  me  a  flowery  band, 

And  told  me  'twas  fresh  from  the  field  ; 

That  the  leaves  were  untouch'd  by  the  hand, 
And  the  purest  of  odors  would  yield. 

And  indeed  it  was  fragrant  and  fair ; 

But,  if  it  were  handled  by  thee, 
It  would  bloom  with  a  livelier  air, 

And  would  surely  be  sweeter  to  me  ! 

Then  take  it,  and  let  it  entwine 

Thy  tresses,  so  flowing  and  bright ; 

And  each  little  floweret  will  shine 
More  rich  than  a  gem  to  my  sight. 

Let  the  odorous  gale  of  thy  breath 

Embalm  it  with  many  a  sigh ; 
Nay,  let  it  be  withcr'd  to  death, 

Beneath  the  warm  noon  of  thine  eye. 

And,  instead  of  the  dew  that  it  bean, 
The  dew  dropping  fresh  from  the  tree  ; 

On  its  leaves  let  me  number  the  tears 
That  affection  has  stolen  from  thee  1 


164 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


THE  TEAR. 

ON  beds  of  snow  the  moonbeam  slept, 
And  chiJly  was  the  midnight  gloom, 

When  by  the  damp  grave  Ellen  wept — 
Sweet  maid  !  it  was  her  Lindor's  tomb  ! 

A  warm  tear  gush'd,  the  wintry  air 
Congeal'd  it  as  it  fiow'd  away  : 

All  night  it  lay  an  ice- drop  there, 
At  morn  it  glitter'd  in  the  ray  ! 

An  angel  wandering  from  her  sphere, 
Who  saw  this  bright,  this  frozen  gem, 

To  dew-eyed  Pity  brought  the  tear, 
And  hung  it  on  her  diadem  ! 


SONG. 

HAVE  you  not  seen  the  timid  tear 

Steal  trembling  from  mine  eye  ? 
Have  you  not  mark'd  the  flush  of  fear, 

Or  caught  the  murmur'd  sigh  ? 
And  can  you  think  my  love  is  chill, 

Nor  fix'd  on  you  alone  ? 
And  can  you  rend,  by  doubting  still, 

A  heart  so  much  your  own  ? 

To  you  my  soul's  affections  move 

Devoutly,  warmly,  true ; 
My  life  has  been  a  task  of  love, 

One  long,  long  thought  of  you. 
If  all  your  tender  faith  is  o'er, 

If  still  my  truth  you'll  try  ; 
Alas  !  I  know  but  one  proof  more — 

I'll  bless  your  name,  and  die  ! 


ELEGIAC  STANZAS. 

"Sicjuvat  perire." 

WHEN  wearied  wretches  sink  to  sleep, 
How  heavenly  soft  their  slumbers  lie  ! 

How  sweet  is  death  to  those  who  weep, 
To  those  who  weep  and  long  to  die  ! 

Saw  you  the  soft  and  grassy  bed, 
Where  flowerets  deck  the  green  earth's 
breast  ? 


'Tis  there  I  wish  to  lay  my  head, 
'Tis  there  I  wish  to  sleep  at  rest ! 

Oh  !  let  not  tears  emoalm  my  tomb — 
None  but  the  dews  by  twilight  given  ! 

Oh  !  let  not  sighs,  disturb  the  gloom — 
None  but  the  whispering  winds  of  heaven ! 


A  NIGHT  THOUGHT. 

How  oft  a  cloud,  with  envious  veil, 
Obscures'yon  bashful  light, 

Which  seems  so  modestly  to  steal 
Along  the  waste  of  night ! 

o  o 

'Tis  thus  the  world's  obtrusive  wrong* 

Obscure  with  malice  keen 
Some  timid  heart,  which  only  longs 

To  live  and  die  unseen  ! 


SONG. 

SWEETEST  love  !  I'll  not  forget  thee ; 

Time  shall  only  teach  my  heart, 
Fonder,  warmer,  to  regret  thee, 

Lovely,  gentle  as  thou  art  ! 
Farewell,  Bessy  ! 

Yet,  oh  !  yet  again  we'll  meet,  love, 
And  repose  our  hearts  at  last : 

Oh  !  sure  'twill  then  be  sweet,  love, 
Calm  to  think  on  sorrows  past. 
Farewell,  Bessy  ' 

Still  I  feel  my  heart  is  breaking, 
When  I  think  I  stray  from  thee, 

Round  the  world  that  quiet  seeking, 
Which  I  fear  is  not  for  me  ! 
Farewell,  Bessy  ! 

Calm  to  peace  thy  lover's  bosom  - 
Can  it,  dearest !  mast  it  be  ? 

Thou  within  an  hour  shalt  lose  him. 
He  forever  loses  thee  ! 
Farewell,  Bessy  ! 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


166 


THE  GENIUS  OF  HAK.MoNV 

AN  IRREGULAR  ODE. 

"Ad  harmoniam  cancre  mnndum."—  Victro,  De  fiat. 
Dear.,  lib.  iii. 

THERE  lies  a  shell  beneath  the  waves, 
In  many  a  hollow  winding  wreathed, 

Such  as  of  old 

Echo'd  the  breath  that  warbling  sea-maids 
breathed : 

This  magic  shell 

From  the  white  bosom  of  a  syren  loll, 
As  once  she  wander'd  by  the  tide  that  laves 
Sicilia's  sands  of  gold. 

It  bears 
Upon  its  shining  side,  the  mjstic  notes 

Of  those  entrancing  airs 
The  genii  of  the  deep  were  wont  to  swell 
When  heaven's  eternal  orbs  tneir  midnight 

music  roll'd  ! 
Oh  !  seek  it  wheresoe'er  it  floats ; 

And  if  the  power 

Of  thrilling  numbers  to  thy  soul  be  dear, 

Go,  bring  the  bright  shell  to  my  bower, 

And  I  will  fold  thee  in  such  downy  dreams 

As  lap  the  spirit  of  the  seventh  sphere 

When  Luna's  distant  tone  falls  faintly  on  his 

ear, 

And  thou  shalt  own 

That,  through  the  circle  of  creation's  zone, 
SVhere   matter   darkles   or    where    spirit 

beams ; 

From  the  pellucid  tides  that  whirl 
The  planets  through  their  maze  of  song, 
To  the  small  rill  that  weeps  along, 
Murmuring  o'er  beds  of  pearl ; 

From  the  rich  sigh 
Of  the  sun's  arrow  through   an    evening 

o  o 

sky,' 
To  the  faint  breath  the  tuneful  osier  yields 

On  Afric's  burning  fields ;' 
Oh  !  thou  shalt  own  this  universe  divine 

Is  mine  ! 

That  I  respire  in  all  and  all  in  me, 
One  mighty  mingled  soul  of  boundless  har- 
mony ! 


1  Heraclidcs,  upon  the  allegories  of  Homer,  conjecture*  that 
the  idea  of  the  harmony  of  the  spheres  originated  with  this 
poet,  who,  in  representing  the  solar  beams  as  arrows,  snppos es 
them  to  emit  a  peculiar  sonnd  in  the  air. 

3  In  the  account  of  Africa  which  d'Ablanconrt  has  translated, 
there  is  mention  of  a  tree  in  that  country  whose  branches, 
when  shaken  by  the  hand,  produce  very  sweet  sounds. 


,  welcome,  mystic  shell ! 
Many  a  star  has  ceased  to  burn,' 
Many  a  tear  has  Saturn's  urn 
O'er  the  cold  bosom  of  the  ocean  wept, 
Since  thy  aerial  spell 
Hath  in  the  waters  slept ! 

I  fly 
With   the  bright  treasure  to  my  choral 

sky, 

Where  she,  who  waked  its  early  swell, 
The  syren  with  a  foot  of  fire, 
Walks  o'er  the  great  string  of  my  Orphic 

Lyre,' 

Or  guides  around  the  burning  pole 
The  winged  chariot  of  so,nie  blissful  soul ! 

While  thou, 
O  sou  of  earth !  what  dreams  shall  rise  for 

thee! 

.Beneath  Hispania's  sun 
Thou'lt  see  a  streamlet  run, 
Which  I  have  warm'd  with  dews  of  melody. 

Listen  ! — when  the  night  wind  dies 
Down  the  still  current,  like  a  harp  it  sighs ! 
A  liquid  chord  is  every  wave  that  flows, 
An  airy  plectrum  every  breeze  that  blows ! 

There,  by  that  wondrous  stream, 
Go  lay  thy  languid  brow, 
And  I  will  send  thee  such  a  godlike  dream, 
Such — mortal !  mortal !  hast  thou  heard  of 

him," 
Who,  many  a   night,  with   his   primordial 

lyre, 

Sate  on  the  chill  Pangsean  mount, 
And  looking  to  the  orient  dim, 
Watch'd  the  first  flowing  of  that  sacred 

fount, 

From  which  his  soul  had  drunk  its  fire ! 
Oh !  think  what  visions,  in  that  lonely  hour, 
Stole  o'er  his  musing  breast ! 

What  pious  ecstasy 
Wafted  his  prayer  to  that  eternal  Power, 

Whose  seal  upon  this  world  imprest' 
The  various  forms  of  bright  divinity ! 


*  Alluding  to  the  extinction,  or  at  least  the  disappearance, 
of  some  of  those  died  stars  which  we  are  taught  to  consider 
as  KIIIIH  attended  each  by  its  system. 

*  Porphyry  says  that  Pythagoras  held  the  sea  to  be  a  tear. 

'  The  system  of  the  harmonized  orb*  was  styled  by  the  an- 
cients "  The  Great  Lyre  of  Orpheus." 

*  Orpheus. 

7  In  one  of  the  Hymns  of  Orpheus,  he  attribute*  a  figured 
seal  to  Apollo,  with  which  he  imagines  that  deity  to  hart 
stamped  a  variety  of  forma  npon  the  universe. 


166 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


Or,  dost  thou  know  what  dreams  I  wove, 
'Mid  the  deep  horror  of  that  silent  bower,1 
Where    the    rapt    Samian    slept    his    holy 
slumber ! 

When,  free 

From  every  earthly  chain, 
From  wreaths  of  pleasure  and  from  bonds  of 

pain, 

His  spirit  flew  through  fields  above, 
Drank    at    the    source    of   nature's    fontal 

number," 

And  saw,  in  mystic  choir,  around  him  move 
The  stars  of  song,  Heaven's  burning   min- 
strelsy ! 
Such  dreams,  £O  heavenly  bright, 

I  swear 

By  the  great  diadem  that  twines  my  hair, 
And  by  the  seven  gems  that  sparkle  there,* 
Mingling  their  beams 

~  O 

In  a  soft  iris  of  harmonious  light, 

O  mortal !    such    shall    be    thy    radiant 
dreams ! 


SONG. 

WHEN  Time,  who  steals  our  years  away, 
Shall  steal  our  pleasures  too, 

The  memory  of  the  past  will  stay, 
And  half  our  joys  renew. 

Then,  Chloe,  when  thy  beauty's  flower 

Shall  feel  the  wintry  air, 
Remembrance  will  recall  the  hour 

When  thou  alone  wert  fair  ! 

Then  talk  no  more  of  future  gloom  ; 

Our  joys  shall  always  last ; 
For  hope  shall  brighten  days  to  come, 

And  memory  gild  the  past ! 

Come,  Chloe,  fill  the  genial  bowl, 
I  drink  to  love  and  thee  : 


1  Alluding  to  the  cave  near  Samos,  where  Pythagoras  de- 
TOted  the  greater  part  of  his  days  and  nights  to  meditation, 
and  the  mysteries  of  his  philosophy. 

3  The  Tetractys,  or  Sacred  Number  of  the  Pythagoreans, 
on  which  they  solemnly  swore,  and  which  they  called 
nayav  ct.tva.ov  $v6£GO$,  "The  Fountain  of  Perennial 
Nature." 

*  This  diadem  is  intended  to  represent  the  analogy  between 
the  notes  of  music  and  the  prismatic  colors. 


Thou  never  canst  decay  in  soul, 
Thou'lt  still  be  young  for  me. 

And  as  thy  lips  the  tear-d^op  chase, 
Which  on  thy  cheek  they  find, 

So  hope  shall  steal  away  the  trace 
Which  sorrow  leaves  behind  ! 

Then  fill  the  bowl — away  with  gloom! 

Our  joys  shall  always  last ; 
For  hope  shall  brighten  days  to  come, 

And  memory  gild  the  past ! 

But  mark,  at  thought  of  future  years 

When  love  shall  lose  its  soul, 
My  Chloe  drops  her  timid  tears, 

They  mingle  with  my  bowl ! 

How  like  the  bowl  of  wine,  my  fair, 

Our  loving  life  shall  fleet ; 
Though  tears  may  sometimes  mingle  there, 

The  draught  will  still  be  sweet ! 

Then  fill  the  bowl ! — away  with  gloom  ! 

Our  joys  shall  always  last; 
For  hope  will  brighten  days  to  come> 

And  memory  gild  the  past ! 


PEACE  AND   GLORY. 

WRITTEN  AT  THE  COMMENCEMENT  OP  THB 
PRESENT  WAR. 

WHERE  is  now  the  smile  that  lighten'd 

Every  hero's  couch  of  rest  ? 
Where  is  now  the  hope  that  brighten'd 

Honor's  eye  and  pity's  breast  ? 
Have  we  lost  the  wreath  we  braided 

For  our  weary  warrior  men  ? 
Is  the  faithless  olive  faded, 

Must  the  bay  be  pluck'd  again  ? 

Passing  hour  of  sunny  weather, 

Lovely  in  your  light  a  while, 
Peace  and  Glory,  wed  together, 

Wander'd  through  the  blessed  isle. 
And  the  eyes  of  peace  would  glisWn, 

Dewy  as  a  morning  sun, 
When  the  timid  maid  would  listen 

To  the  deeds  her  chief  had  done. 

Is  the  hour  of  meeting  over  ? 

Must  the  maiden's  trembling  feet 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MooKK. 


1G7 


Waft  her  from  her  warlike  lover 
To  the  desert's  still  retreat  ? 

Fare  you  well !  with  sighs  we  banish 
Nymph  so  fair  and  guest  so  bright ; 

Fet  the  smile  with  which  you  vanish 
Leaves  behind  a  soothing  light ! 

Soothing  light!  that  long  shall  sparkle 

O'er  your  warrior's  sanguine  way 
Through  the  field  where  horrors  darkle, 

Shedding  Hope's  consoling  ray  ! 
Long  the  smile  his  heart  will  cherish, 

To  its  absent  idol  true ; 
While  around  him  myriads  perish, 

Glory  still  will  sigh  for  you  ! 


TO  CLOE. 

IMITATED  FROM  MARTIAL. 

I  COULD  resign  that  eye  of  blue, 

Howe'er  it  burn,  howe'er  it  thrill  me ; 

And  though  your  lip  be  rich  with  dew, 
To  lose  it,  Cloe,  scarce  would  kill  me. 

Phat  snowy  neck  I  ne'er  should  miss, 
However  oft  I've  raved  about  it ; 

And  though  your  heart  can  beat  with  bliss, 
I  think  my  soul  could  live  without  it. 

In  short,  I've  learn'd  so  well  to  fast, 
That,  sooth  my  love,  I  know  not  whither 

I  might  not  bring  myself  at  last 
To — do  without  you  altogether  ! 


LYING. 

{  DO  confess,  in  many  a  sigh 

My  lips  have  breathed  you  many  a  lie, 

And  who,  with  such  delights  in  view, 

Would  lose  them  for  a  lie  or  two  ? 

Nay,  look  not  thus,  with  brow  reproving; 

Lies  are,  my  dear,  the  soul  of  loving  ! 

If  half  we  tell  the  girls  were  true, 

If  half  we  swear  to  think  and  do, 

Were  aught  but  lying's  bright  illusion, 

The  world  would  be  in  strange  confusion  1 


If  ladies'  eyes  were,  every  one, 
As  lovers'  swear,  a  radiant  sun, 
Astronomy  should  leave  the  skies, 
To  learn  her  lore  in  ladies'  eyes  ! 
Oh,  no  ! — believe  me,  lovely  girl, 
When  Nature  turns  your  teeth  to  pearl, 
Your  neck  to  snow,  your  eyes  to  fire, 
Your  yellow  locks  to  golden  wire, 
Then,  only  then,  can  Heaven  decree, 
That  you  should  live  for  only  me. 

And  now,  my  gentle  hints  to  clear, 
For  once,  I'll  tell  you  truth,  my  dear  ! 
Whenever  you  may  chance  to  meet 
A  loving  youth  whose  love  is  sweet, 
Long  as  you're  false  and  he  believes  you, 
Long  as  you  trust  and  he  deceives  you, 
So  long  the  blissful  bond  endures : 

o  * 

And  while  he  lies,  his  heart  is  yours  : 
But,  oh  !  you've  wholly  lost  the  youth 
The  instant  that  he  tells  you  truth  ' 


WOMAN. 

AWAY,  away,  you're  all  the  same, 
A  fluttering,  smiling,  jilting  throng ! 

Oh !  by  my  soul,  I  burn  with  shame, 
To  think  I've  been  your  slave  so  long! 

Still  panting  o'er  a  crowd  to  reign, 
More  joy  it  gives  to  woman's  breast 

To  make  ten  frigid  coxcombs  vain, 
Than  one  true  manly  lover  blest  ! 

Away,  away — your  smile's  a  curse — 
Oh  !  blot  me  from  the  race  of  men, 

Kind,  pitying  Heaven  !  by  death  or  worse, 
Before  I  love  such  things  again  ! 


A  VISION  OF  PHILOSOPHY. 

'TWAS  on  the  Hed  Sea  coast,  ut  morn,  we  met 
The  venerable  man;  a  virgin  bloum 
Of  softness  mingled  with  the  vigorous  thought 
That  tower'd  upon  his  brow  ;  as  when  \\ 
The  gentle  moon  and  tin-  full  radiant  sun 


168 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


Shining  in  heaven  together.  When  he  spoke, 
'Twas  language  sweeten'd  into  song — such 

holy  sounds 

As  oft  the  spirit  of  the  good  man  hears 
Prelusive  to  the  harmony  of  heaven 
When  death  is  nigh  !  and  still,  as  he  unclosed 
His  sacred  lips,  an  odor  all  as  bland 
As  ocean  breezes  gather  from  the  flowers 
That  blossom  in  Elysium,  breathed  around  ! 
With  silent  awe  we  listen'd,  while  he  told 
Of  the  dark  veil  which  many  an   age  had 

hung 

O'er  Nature's  form,  till  by  the  touch  of  time 
The  mystic  shroud  grew  thin  and  luminous, 
And  half  the  goddess  beam'd  in  glimpses 

through  it ! 
Of  magic   wonders   that   were  known  and 

taught 

By  him  (or  Cham  or  Zoroaster  named) 
Who  mused,  amid  the  mighty  cataclysm, 
O'er  his  rude  tablets  of  primeval  lore,1 
Nor  let  the  living  star  of  science  sink 
Beneath    the    waters   which    ingulf'd    the 

world ! — 

Of  visions,  by  Calliope  reveal'd 
To  him,2  who  traced  upon  his  typic  lyre 
The  diapason  of  man's  mingled  frame, 
And  the  grand  Doric  heptachord  of  heaven  ! 
With  all  of  pure,  of  wondrous  and  arcane, 
Which  the  grave  sons  of  Mochus  many  a 

night 

Told  to  the  young  and  bright-hair'd  visitant 
Of  Carmel's  sacred  mount  !s — Then,  in  a  flow 
Of  calmer  converse,  he  beguiled  us  on 
Through  many  a  maze  of  garden  and  of  porch, 
Through  many  a  system  where  the  scatter'd 

light 

Of  heavenly  truth  lay  like  a  broken  beam 
From  the  pure  sun,  which,  though  refracted 

all 
Into  a  thousand  hues,  is  sunshine  still, 


1  Cham,  the  son  of  Noah,  is  supposed  to  have  taken  with 
nim  into  the  ark  the  principal  doctrines  of  magical,  or  rather 
of  natural  science,  which  he  had  inscribed  upon  some  very 
durable  substances,  in  order  that  they  might  resist  the  ravages 
of  the  deluge,  and  transmit  the  secrets  of  antediluvian  knowl- 
edge to  his  posterity. 

2  Orpheus. 

*  Pythagoras  is  represented  in  Jamblichus  as  descending 
with  great  solemnity  from  Mount  Carmel,  for  which  reason 
the  Carmeiitcs  have  claimed  him  as  one  of  their  fraternity. 
This  Mochus  or  Moschns,  with  the  descendants  of  whom 
Pythagoras  conversed  in  Phoenicia,  and  from  whom  he  derived 
tne  doctrines  of  atomic  philosophy,  is  supposed  by  some  to  be 
the  same  with  Moses. 


And    bright    through    every    change ! — he 

spoke  of  Him, 

The  lone,  eternal  One,  who  dwell*  above, 
And  of  the  soul's  untraceablc  descent 
From  that  high  fount  of  spirit,  through  the 

gi'ades 

Of  intellectual  being,  till  it  mix 
With  atoms  vague,  corruptible,  and  dark : 
Nor  even  then,  though  sunk  in  earthly  dross, 
Corrupted  all,  nor  its  ethereal  touch 
Quite  lost,  but  tasting  of  the  fountain  still ! 
As  some  bright  river,  which  has  rpll'd  along 
Through  meads  of  flowery  light  and  mines 

of  gold, 

When  pour'd  at  length  into  the  dusky  deep, 
Disdains  to  mingle  with  its  briny  taint, 
But  keeps  a  while  the  pure  and  golden  tinget 
The  balmy  freshness  of  the  fields  it  left ! 
And  here  the  old  man  ceased — a  winged  train 
Of  nymphs  and  genii  led  him  from  our  eyes. 
The  fair  illusion  fled  !  and.  as  I  waked, 
I  knew  my  visionary  soul  had  been 
Among  that  people  of  aerial  dreams 
Who  live  upon  the  burning  galaxy  !* 


A  BALLAD. 
THE  LAKE  OF  THE  DISMAL  SWAMP. 

WRITTEN  AT  NORFOLK,  IN  VIRGINIA. 

"  They  tell  of  a  young  man  who  lost  his  mind  upon  the  death 
of  a  girl  he  loved,  and  who,  suddenly  disappearing  from  his 
friends,  was  never  afterward  heard  of.  As  he  had  frequently 
said  in  his  ravings,  that  the  girl  was  not  dead,  but  gone  to  the 
Dismal  Swamp,  it  is  supposed  he  had  wandered  into  that 
dreary  wilderness,  and  had  died  of  hunger,  or  been  lost  in 
some  of  its  dreadful  morasses."— Anon. 

"  La  poesie  a  ses  monstres  comme  la  nature."— D'Alemberi. 

"  THEY  made  her  a  grave  too  cold  and  damp 

For  a  soul  so  warm  and  true ; 
And  she's  gone  to  the  Lake  of  the  Dismal 

Swamp,* 
Where,  all  night  long,  by  a  fire-fly  lamp, 

She  paddles  her  white  canoe. 

"  And  her  fire-fly  lamp  I  soon  shall  see, 
And  her  paddle  I  soon  shall  hear ; 


4  According  to  Pythagoras,  the  people  of  dreams  are  soul* 
collected  together  in  the  galaxy. 

6  The  Great  Dismal  Swamp  is  ten  or  twelve  miles  diftan. 
from  Norfolk,  ani  the  lake  in  the  middle  of  it  (about  se^ en 
miles  long)  is  called  Drummond's  Pond. 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOO  I  IK. 


Long  and  loving  our  life  shall  be, 

And  I'll  hide  the  maid  in  a  cypress-tree, 

Wlu'ii  the  footstep  of  death  is  m-.-ir  !" 

Away  to  the  Dismal  Swamp  he  speeds — 

His  path  was  rugged  and  sore, 
Through  tangled  juniper,  beds  of  reeds, 
Through  many  a  fen  where  the  serpent  feeds, 

And  man  never  trod  before  ! 

And  when  on  the  earth  he  sunk  to  sleep, 

If  slumber  his  eyelids  knew, 
He  lay  where  the  deadly  vine  doth  weep 
Its  venomous  tear  and  nightly  steep 

The  flesh  with  blistering  dew  ! 

And  near  him  the  she-wolf  stirr'd  the  brake, 
And  the  copper-snake  breathed  in  his  ear, 
Till  he  starting  cried,  from  his  dream  awake, 
"  Oh  !  when  shall  I  see  the  dusky  Lake, 
And  the  white  canoe  of  my  dear  ?" 

He  saw  th  e  Lake,  and  a  meteor  bright 

Quick  over  its  surface  play'd — 
"  Welcome,"  he  said,  "  my  dear  one's  light !" 
And  the  dim  shore  echo'd  for  many  a  night 
The  name  of  the  death-cold  maid  ! 

Till  he  hollow'd  a  boat  of  the  birchen  bark, 

Which  carried  him  off  from  the  shore  ; 
Far  he  follow'd  the  meteoY  spark, 
The  wind  was  high  arid  the  clouds  were  dark, 
And  the  boat  return'd  no  more. 

But  oft  from  the  Indian  hunter's  camp, 

This  lover  and  maid  so  true 
Are  seen  at  the  hour  of  midnight  damp, 
To  cross  the  Lake  by  a  fire-fly  lamp, 

And  paddle  their  white  canoe  ! 


AT  NIGHT. 

These  lines  allude  to  a  curious  lamp,  which  has  Tor  Its  de- 
ncea  Cupid,  with  the  words  "  At  Night"  written  ov«r  him. 

AT  night,  when  all  is  still  around, 
How  sweet  to  hear  the  distant  sound 
Of  footstep,  coming  soft  and  light ! 
What  pleasure  in  the  anxious  beat 


With  which  the  bosom  flies  to  meet 
That  foot  that  comes  so  soft  at  night ! 

And  then,  at  night,  how  sweet  to  say 
"  'Tis  late,  my  love  !"  and  chide  delay, 

Though  still  the  western  clouds  are  bright; 
Oh  !  happy,  too,  the  silent  press, 
The  eloquence  of  mute  caress, 

With  those  we  love  exchanged  at  night ! 


ODES  TO  NEA, 


WRITTEN    AT    BERMUDA. 


THE  SNOW-SPIRIT. 

No,  ne'er  did  the  wave  in  its  element  steep 

An  island  of  lovelier  charms ; 
It  blooms  in  the  giant  embrace  of  the  deep, 

Like  Hebe  in  Hercules'  arms  ! 
The  tint  of  your  bowers  is  balm  to  the  eye, 

Their  melody  bairn  to  the  ear ; 
But  the  fiery  planet  of  day  is  too  nigh, 

And  the  Snow-Spirit  never  comes  here  ! 

The  down  from  his  wing  is  as  white  as  the 

pearl 

Thy  lips  for  their  cabinet  stole, 
And  it  falls  on  the  green  earth  as  meltfog, 

my  girl, 

As  a  murmur  of  thine  on  the  soul ! 
Oh  !  fly  to  the  clime  where  he  pillows  the 

death 

As  he  cradles  the  birth  of  the  year  ; 
Bright  are   your  bowers   and   balmy  their 

breath, 
But  the  Snow-Spirit  cannot  come  here ! 

How  sweet  to  behold  him,  when  borne  on 
the  gale, 

And  brightening  the  bosom  of  morn, 
He  flings,  like  the  priest  of  Diana,  a  veil 

O'er  the  brow  of  each  virginal  thorn ! 
Yet  think  not,  the  veil  he  so  chillingly  casts, 

Is  the  veil  of  a  vestal  severe; 
No,  no,  thou  wilt  sec,  what  a  moment  it  laa*v 

Should  the  Snow-Spirit  ever  come  here 


170 


POEMS   OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


But  fly  to  his  region — lay  open  thy  zone, 

And  he'll  weep  all  his  brilliancy  dim, 
To  think  that  a  bosom  as  white  as  his  own 

Should  not  melt  in  the  day-beam  like  him 
Oh !  lovely  the  print  of  those  delicate  feet 

O'er  his  luminous  path  will  appear — 
Fiy !  my  beloved !  this  island  is  sweet, 

But  the  Snow-Spirit  cannot  come  here  ! 


II. 


THERE'S  not  a  look,  a  word  of  thine 

My  soul  has  e'er  forgot ; 
Thou  ne'er  hast  bid  a  ringlet  shine, 
iSTor  given  thy  locks  one  graceful  twine 

Which  I  remember  not ! 

There  never  yet  a  murmur  fell 
From  that  beguiling  tongue. 
Which  did  not,  with  a  lingering  spell, 
Upon  my  charmed  senses  dwell, 
Like  something  heaven  had  sung. 

Ah  !  that  I  could,  at  once,  forget 

All,  all  that  haunts  me  so — 
And  yet,  thou  witching  girl ! — and  yet 
To  die  were  sweeter  than  to  let 
The  loved  remembrance  go  ! 

No ;  if  this  slighted  heart  must  see 

Its  faithful  pulse  decay, 
Obi  let  it  die,  remembering  thee, 
Ana,  like  the  burnt  aroma,  be 

Consumed  in  sweets  away  ! 


LINES, 

WRITTEN  IN  A  STORM  AT  SEA. 

OH  !  there's  a  holy  calm  profound 
In  awe  like  this,  that  ne'er  was  given 

To  rapture's  thrill ; 
*Tis  as  a  solemn  voice  from  heaven, 
And  the  soul,  listening  to  the  sound, 

Lies  mute  and  still ! 


'Tis  true,  it  talks  of  danger  nigh, 

Of  slumbering  with  the  dead  to-morrow 

In  the  cold  deep, 

Where  pleasure's  throb  or  tears  of  sorrow 
No  more  shall  wake  the  heart  or  eye, 

But  all  must  sleep  ! 

Well ! — there  are  some,  thou  stormy  bed, 
To  whom  thy  sleep  would  be  a  treasure ; 

Oh  !  most  to  him 

Whose  lip  hath  drain'd  life's  cup  of  pleasure, 
Nor  left  one  honey-drop  to  shed 

Round  misery's  brim. 

Yes — he  can  smile  serene  at  death : 

Kind  Heaven  !  do  thou  but  chase  the  weeping 

Of  friends  who  love  him ; 
Tell  them  that  he  lies  calmly  sleeping 
Where  sorrow's  sting  or  envy's  breath 

No  more  shall  move  him. 


THE  STEERSMAN'S  SONG. 

WRITTEN  ABOARD  THE  BOSTON  FRIGATE, 
28-TH    APRIL. 

WHEN  freshly  blows  the  northern  gale, 

And  under  courses  snug  we  fly  ; 
When  lighter  breezes  swell  the  sail, 

And  royals  proudly  sweep  the  sky  ; 
'Longside  the  wheel,  unwearied  still 

I  stand,  and  as  my  watchful  eye 
Doth  mark  the  needle's  faithful  thrill, 

I  think  of  her  I  love,  and  cry, 

Port,  my  boy  !  port. 

When  calms  delay,  or  bi'eezes  blow 

Right  from  the  point  we  wish  to  stuer  t 
When  by  the  wind  close-haul'd  we  go, 

And  strive  in  vain  the  port  to  near ; 
I  think  'tis  thus  the  fates  defer 

My  bliss  with  one  that's  far  away, 
And  while  remembrance  springs  to  her, 

I  watch  the  sails,  and  sighing  say, 
Thus,  my  boy  !  thus. 

But  see,  the  wind  draws  kindly  aft; 

All  hands  are  up  the  yards  to  square, 
And  now  the  floating  stu'n-sails  waft 

Our  stately  ship  through  waves  and  air. 


FOEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOOKE. 


Oh !  then  I  think  that  yet  for  me 

Some  breeze  of  fortune  thus  may  spring, 

Some  breeze  to  waft  me,  love,  to  thee  ! 
And  in  that  hope  I  smiling  sing, 
Steady,  boy  !  so. 


LINES, 

WRITTEN  ON  LEAVING  PHILADELPHIA. 

AJJONE  by  the  Schuylkill  a  wanderer  roved, 
And  bright  were  its  flowery  banks  to  his 

eye; 
But  far,  very  far  were  the  friends  that  he 

loved, 

And  he  gazed  on  its  flowery  banks  with  a 
sigh  ! 

O  Nature  !  though  blessed  and  bright  are 

thy  rays, 
O'er  the   brow  of  creation  enchantingly 

thrown, 

Yet  faint  are  they  all  to  the  lustre  that  plays 
In  a  smile  from  the  heart  that  is  dearly 
our  own  ! 

N  or  long  did  the  soul  of  the  stranger  remain 
Unblest  by  the  smile  he  had  languish'd  to 

meet; 
Though  scarce  did  he  hope  it  would  soothe 

him  again, 

Till  the  threshold  of  home  had  been  kiss'd 
by  his  feet ! 

But  the  lays  of  his  boyhood  had  stolen  to 

their  ear, 
And   they  loved  what  they  knew  of  so 

humble  a  name, 
And  they  told  him,  with  flattery  welcome 

and  dear, 

That  they  found  in  his  heart  something 
sweeter  than  fame. 

Nor  did  woman — O  woman  !  whose  form 

and  whose  soul 

Are  the  spell  and  the  light  of  each  path 
we  pursue ; 


Whether  sunn'd  in  the  tropics  or  chill'd  at 

the  pole, 
If  woman  be  there,  there  is  happiness  too ! 

Nor  did  she  her  enamoring  magic  deny, 
That  magic  his  heart  had  relinquishM  so 

long, 

Like  eyes  he  had  loved  was  her  eloquent  eye 
Like  them  did  it  soften  and  weep  at  hia 
song! 

Oh  !  blest  be  the  tear,  and  in  memory  oft 
May  its  sparkle  be  shed  o'er  his  wandering 

dream  ! 
Oh !  blest  be  that  eye,  and  may  passion  as 

soli, 
As  free  from  a  pang,  ever  mellow  its  beam ! 

The  stranger  is  gone — but  he  will  not  forget, 
When  at  home  he  shall  talk  of  the  toil  he 

has  known, 

To  tell,  with  a  sigh,  what  endearments  he  met, 
As  he  stray'd  by  the  wave  of  the  Schuyl- 
kill alone ! 


LINES, 

WRITTEN  AT  THE  COHO8,  OR  FALL  OF  THB 
MOHAWK  RIVER. 

FROM  rise  of  morn  till  set  of  sun 
I've  seen  the  mighty  Mohawk  run, 
And  as  I  mark'd  the  woods  of  pine 
Along  his  mirror  darkly  shine, 
Like  tall  and  gloomy  forms  that  pass 
Before  the  wizard's  midnight  glass  ; 
And  as  I  view'd  the  hurrying  pace 
With  which  he  ran  his  turbid  race, 
Rushing,  alike  untired  and  wilil, 
Through  shades  that  frown'd  and  flo\\vr» 

that  smiled, 

Flying  by  every  green  recess 
That  woo'd  him  to  its  calm  cares*, 
Yet  sometimes  turning  with  the  win.. 
As  if  to  leave  one  look  behind  ! 
Oh  !  I  have  thought,  and  thinking  sigh'd— 
How  like  to  thee,  thon  In-art  U->s  tide, 
M:iy  be  the  lot,  the  life  of  him. 
Who  roams  along  thy  water's  brim  ! 


172 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


Through  what  alternate  shades  of  woe 
And  flowei'S  of  joy  my  path  may  go  ; 
How  many  an  humble,  still  retreat 
May  rise  to  court  my  weary  feet, 
While  still  pursuing,  still  unblest, 
I  wander  on,  nor  dare  to  rest ! 
But  urgent  as  the  doom  that  calls 
Thy  water  to  its  destined  falls, 
I  see  the  world's  bewildering  force 
Hurry  my  heart's  devoted  course 
From  lapse  to  lapse,  till  life  be  done, 
And  the  lost  current  cease  to  run  ! 
May  heaven's  forgiving  rainbow  shine 
Upon  the  mist  that  circles  me, 
As  soft  as  now  it  hangs  o'er  thee  ! 


BALLAD   STANZAS. 

by  the  smoke  that    so   gracefully 

curl'd 
Above  the  green  elms,  that  a  cottage  was 

near, 
And  I  said,  "  If  there's  peace  to  be  found  in 

the  world, 
A  heart  that  is  humble  might  hope  for  it 

here  !" 

It  was  noon,  and  on  flowers  that  languish'd 

around 

In  silence  reposed  the  voluptuous  bee ; 
Every  leaf  was  at  rest,  and  I  heard  not  a 

sound 

But  the  woodpecker  tapping  the  hollow 
beech-tree. 

And  "  Here  in  this  lone  little  wood,"  I  ex- 

claim'd, 
"  With  a  maid  who  was  lovely  to  soul  and 

to  eye, 
Who  would  blush  when  I  praised  her,  and 

weep  if  I  blamed, 

How  blest  could  I  live,  and   how  cairn 
could  I  die ! 

"  By  the  shade  of  yon  sumach,  whose  red 

berry  dips 

In  the  gush  of  the  fountain,  how  sweet  to 
recline, 


And  to  know  that  I  sigh'd  upon  innocent 

lips, 

Which  had  never  been  sigh'd  on  by  any 
but  mine !" 


A  CANADIAN  BOAT-SONG. 

WRITTEN  ON  THE  RIVER  ST.  LAWRENCE. 

FAIXTLY  as  tolls  the  evening  chime, 
Our  voices  keep  tune  and  our  oars  keep  time. 
Soon  as  the  woods  on  shore  look  dim, 
We'll  sing  at  St.  Ann's  our  parting  hymn. 
Row,  brothers,  row,  the  stream  runs  fast, 
The  rapids  are  near,  and  the  daylight's  past ! 

Why  should  we  yet  our  sail  unfurl  ? 
There  is  not  a  breath  the  blue  wave  to  curl  I 
But  when  the  wind  blows  off  the  shore, 
Oh  !  sweetly  we'll  rest  our  weary  oar. 
Blow,  breezes,  blow,  the  stream  runs  fast, 
The  rapids  are  near,  and  the  daylight's  past ! 

Utawas  tide  !  this  trembling  moon 
Shall  see  us  float  over  thy  surges  soon. 
Saint  of  this  green  isle  !  hear  our  prayers, 
Oh  !  grant  us  cool  heavens  and  favoring  airs. 
Blow,  breezes,  blow,  the  stream  runs  fast, 
The  rapids  are  near,  and  the  daylight's  past  I 


BLACK  AND  BLUE  EYES. 

THE  brilliant  black  eye 

May  in  triumph  let  fly 
All  its  darts  without  caring  who  feels  'em  > 

But  the  soft  eye  of  blue, 

Though  it  scatter  wounds  too, 
Is  much  better  pleased  when  it  heals  'em ' 

Dear  Fanny  ! 

The  soft  eye  of  blue, 

Though  it  scatter  wounds  too, 
Is  much  better  pleased  when  it  heals  'em. 

The  black  eye  may  say, 
"  Come  and  worship  my  ray — 
"  By  adoring,  perhaps,  you  may  move  me  (** 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


173 


But  the  blue  eye,  half  hid, 
Says,  from  under  its  lid — 

**  J  love,  and  am  yours,  if  you  love  me  !" 
Dear  Fanny  ! 
The  blue  eye,  half  hid, 
Says,  from  under  its  lid — 

**I  love,  and  am  yours,  if  you  love  me  I" 

Then  tell  me,  oh,  why, 

In  that  lovely  blue  eye, 
Not  a  charm  of  its  tint  I  discover ; 

Or  why  should  you  wear 

The  only  blue  pair 
That  ever  said  "  No"  to  a  lover  ? 

Dear  Fanny  ! 

Oh,  why  should  you  wear 

The  only  blue  pair 
That  ever  said  "  No"  to  a  lover  ? 


LOVE  AND  TIME. 

Tis  said — but  whether  true  or  not 

Let  bards  declare  who've  seen  'em — 
That  Love  and  Time  have  only  got 

One  pair  of  wings  between  'em. 
In  courtship's  first  delicious  hour, 

The  boy  full  well  can  spare  'em ; 
So,  loitering  in  his  lady's  bower, 

He  lets  the  srray-beard  wear  'em. 
Then  is  Time's  hour  of  play; 
Oh,  how  he  flies  away  ! 

Bat  short  the  moments,  short  as  bright, 

When  he  the  wings  can  borrow  ; 
If  Time  to-day  has  had  its  flight, 

Love  takes  his  turn  to-morrow. 
Ah  !  Time  and  Love,  your  change  is  then 

The  saddest  and  most  trying, 
When  one  begins  to  limp  again, 

And  t'other  takes  to  flying. 
Then  is  Love's  hour  to  stray  ; 
Oh,  how  he  flies  away  ! 

But  there's  a  nymph,  whose  chains  I  feel 

And  bless  the  silken  fetter, 
Who  knows,  the  dear  one,  how  to  deal 

With  Love  and  Time  much  better. 


So  well  she  checks  their  wanderings, 

So  peacefully  she  pairs  'em, 
That  Love  with  her  ne'er  thinks  of  wings, 
And  Time  forever  wears  'era. 
This  is  Time's  holiday  ; 
Oh,  how  he  flies  away ! 


DEAR  FANNY. 

"  SHE  has  beauty,  but  still  you  must  keep 

your  heart  cool ; 
She  has  wit,  but  you  mustn't  be  caught 

so:" 

Thus  Reason  advises,  but  Reason's  a  fool, 
And  'tis  not  the  first  time  I  have  thought 

so; 

Dear  Fanny, 
'Tis  not  the  first  time  I  have  thought  so. 

"She  is  lovely;  then  love  her,  nor  let  the 

bliss  fly; 
'Tis  the  charm  of  youth's  vanishing  s*^a- 

son :"    • 

Thus  Love  has  advised  me,  and  who  will  deny 
That  Love  reasons  much  better  than  Rea- 
son ? 

Dear  Fanny, 
Love  reasons  much  better  than  Reason. 


FROM  life  without  freedom,  oh,  who  would 

not  fly  ? 
For  one  day  of  freedom,  oh  !  who  would  not 

die? 
Hark  !  hark  !  'tis  the  trumpet  !  the  call  of 

the  brave, 
The  death-song  of  tyrants,  and  dirge  of  the 

slave. 

Our  country  lies  bleeding — oh,  fly  to  her  aid  ; 
One  arm  that  defends  is  worth  hosts  that 

invade. 

In  death's  kindly  bosom  our  last  hope  re- 
mains— 


174 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE 


The  dead  fear  no  tyrants,  the  grave  has  no 

chains. 

On,  on  to  the  combat;  the  heroes  that  bleed 
For  virtue  and  mankind  are  heroes  indeed. 
And  oh,  even  if  freedom  from  this  world  be 

di'iven, 
Despair  not — at  least  we  shall  find  her  in 

heaven. 


MERRILY  EVERY  BOSOM  BOUNDETH. 
THE  TYROLESE  SONG  OF  LIBERTY. 

MERRILY  every  bosom  boundeth, 

Merrily,  oh! 
Where  the  song  of  freedom  soundeth, 

Merrily,  oh ! 
There  the  warrior's  arms 

Shed  more  splendor ; 
There  the  maiden's  charms 

Shine  more  tender; 
Every  joy  the  land  surroundeth, 
Merrily,  oh !  merrily,  oh  ! 

Wearily  every  bosom  pineth, 

Wearily,  oh ! 
Where  the  bond  of  slavery  twineth, 

Wearily,  oh ! 
There  the  warrior's  dart 

Hath  no  fleetness ; 
There  the  maiden's  heart 
Hath  no  sweetness — 


Every  flower  of  life  declineth, 
Wearily,  oh  !  wearily,  oh ! 

Cheerily  then  from  hill  and  valley, 

Cheerily,  oh ! 
Like  your  native  fountains  sally, 

Cheerily,  oh ! 
If  a  glorious  death, 
Won  by  bravery, 
Sweeter  be  than  breath 

Sigh'd  in  slavery, 
Round  the  flag  of  freedom  rally, 
Cheerily,  oh  !  cheerily,  oh  ! 


SIGH  NOT  THUS. 

SIGH  not  thus,  oh,  simple  boy, 

Nor  for  woman  languish ; 
Loving  cannot  boast  a  joy 

Worth  one  hour  of  anguish. 
Moons  have  faded  fast  away, 

Stars  have  ceased  their  shining  j 
Woman's  love,  as  bright  as  they, 

Feels  as  quick  declining. 

Then,  love,  vanish  hence, 

Fye,  boy,  banish  hence 
Melancholy  thoughts  of  Cupid's  lore , 

Hours  soon  fly  away, 

Charms  soon  die  away, 
Then  the  silly  dream  of  the  heart  is  o'er 


0  H  0 


THOU  ART,  O   GOD. 

"The  day  is  thine,  the  night  also  is  thine :  thou  hast  pre 
pared  tne  light  and  the  sun.  Thou  hast  set  all  the  borders 
of  the  earth :  thou  hast  made  summer  and  winter  " — Psalrr 
Irxiv.  16,  17. 

THOU  art,  O  God,  the  life  and  light 
Of  all  this  wondrous  world  we  see; 

Its  glow  by  day,  its  smile  by  night, 
Are  but  reflections  caught  from  Thee. 

Where'er  we  turn  thy  glories  shine, 

And  all  things  fair  and  bright  are  Thine ! 

When  day,  with  farewell  beam,  delays 
Among  the  op'ning  clouds  of  even, 

And  we  can  almost  think  we  gaze 
Through  golden  vistas  into  heaven — 

Those  hues  that  made  the  sun's  decline 

Sq  soft,  so  radiant,  Lord  !  are  Thine ! 

When  night,  with  wings  of  starry  gloom, 
O'ershadows  all  the  earth  and  skies, 

Like  some  dark,  beauteous  bird,  whose  plume 
la  sparkling  with  unnumber'd  eyes — 

That  sacred  gloom,  thoie  fires  divine, 

So  grand,  so  countless,  Lord  !  are  Thine. 

When  youthful  spring  around  us  breathes, 
Thy  Spirit  warms  her  fragrant  sigh ; 

And  every  flower  the  summer  wreathes 
Is  born  beneath  that  kindling  eye. 

Where'er  we  turn,  Thy  glories  shine, 
>And  all  things  fair  and  bright  are  Thine ! 


THE  BIRD  LET  LOOSE. 

THE  bird  let  loose  in  eastern  skies,1 
When  hast'ning  fondly  home, 

Ne'er  stoops  to  earth  her  wing,  nor  flies 
Where  idle  warblers  roam. 


1  The  carrier-pigeon,  it  is  well  known,  flies  at  an  elerated 
pitch,  in  order  to  surmount  every  obstacle  between  her  and 
the  place  to  which  she  Is  destined. 


But  high  she  shoots  through  air  and  light, 

Above  all  low  delay, 
Where  nothing  earthly  bounds  her  flight, 

Nor  shadow  dims  her  way. 

So  grant  me,  God,  from  every  care 

And  stain  of  passion  free, 
Aloft,  through  Virtue's  purer  air, 

To  hold  my  course  to  Thee ! 
No  sin  to  cloud,  no  lure  to  stay 

My  soul,  as  home  she  springs ; — 
Thy  sunshine  on  her  joyful  way, 

Thy  freedom  in  her  wings. 


FALLEN  IS  THY  THRONE. 

FALLEN  is  thy  throne,  O  Israel ! 

Silence  is  o'er  thy  plains; 
Thy  dwellings  all  lie  desolate, 

Thy  children  weep  in  chains ! 
Where  are  the  dews  that  fed  thee 

On  Etham's  barren  shore  ? 
That  fire  from  heaven  which  led  the«, 

Now  lights  thy  path  no  more. 

Lord !  thou  didst  love  Jerusalem — 

Once  she  was  all  Thy  own ; 
Her  love  Thy  fairest  heritage,* 

Her  power  Thy  glory's  throne,' 
Till  evil  came  and  blighted 

Thy  long-^oved  olive-tree  ;4 — 
And  Salem's  shrines  were  lighted 

For  other  gods  than  Tlu-o. 

Then  sunk  the  star  of  Solyma — 
Then  pass'd  her  glory's  day, 


*  "I  have  left  mine  heritage;  I  have  given  the  dearly  b* 
oved  of  my  soul  into  the  hand  of  her  enemies."— Jer.  xil.  ?. 

•  "  Do  not  disgrace  the  throne  of  thy  glory."— Jer.  xiv  SI 

4  "  The  Lord  called  thy  name  a  green  olive-trot ;  Out  atx>  i 
goodly  fruit,-'  Sic.—Jer.  xi.  16 


176 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  MOORE. 


Like  heath  that  in  the  wilderness' 
The  wild  wind  whirls  away. 

Silent  and  waste  her  bowers, 
Where  once  the  mighty  trod, 

And  sunk  those  guilty  towers, 
Where  Baal  reign'd  as  God. 

4  Go" — said  the  Lord — "  ye  conquerors ! 

Steep  in  her  blood  your  swords, 
And  raze  to  earth  her  battlements,9 

For  they  are  not  the  Lord's. 
Till  Zion's  mournful  daughter 

O'er  kindred  bones  shall  tread, 
And  Hinnom's  vale  of  slaughter* 

Shall  hide  but  half  her  dead  !" 


O  THOU  WHO  DRY'ST  THE  MOURN- 
ER'S TEAR 

"He  healeth  the  broken  in  heart,  and  bindeth  up  their 
wounds."—  Psalm  cxlvii.  3. 

O  THOU  who.  dry'st  the  mourner's  tear, 

How  dark  this  world  would  be, 
If,  when  deceived  and  wounded  here, 

We  could  not  fly  to  Thee ! 
The  friends  who  in  our  sunshine  live, 

When  winter  comes,  are  flown ; 
And  he  who  has  but  tears  to  give, 

Must  weep  those  tears  alone. 
But  Thou  wilt  heal  that  broken  heart, 

Which,  like  the  plants  that  throw 
Their  fragrance  from  the  wounded  part, 

Breathes  sweetness  out  of  woe. 

When  joy  no  longer  soothes  or  cheers, 

And  even  the  hope  that  threw 
A  moment's  sparkle  o'er  our  tears 

Is  dimm'd  and  vanish'd  too, 
Oh,  who  would  bear  life's  stormy  doom, 

Did  not  Thy  wing  of  love 
Come,  brightly  wafting  through  the  gloom 

Our  Peace-branch  from  above  ! 


1  "For  he  shall  be  like  the  heath  in  the  desert."— Jer. 
ivii.  6. 

2  "  Take  away  her  battlements  ;  for  they  are  not  the  Lord's." 
-Jer.  v.  10. 

*  "  Thereioie,  behold,  the  clays  come,  saith  the  Lord,  that  it 
thai!  no  more  be  called  Tophet,  nor  the  Valley  of  the  Son  of 
flinnom.  but  the  Valley  of  Slaughter  ;  for  they  shall  bury  in 
Tophet  till  r,here  be  no  place."—  Jer.  vii.  32. 


Then  sorrow,  touch'd  by  Thee,  grows  bright 

With  more  than  rapture's  ray  ; 
As  darkness  shows  us  worlds  of  light 

We  never  saw  by  day  ! 


BUT  WHO  SHALL  SEE. 

BUT  who  shall  see  the  glorious  day 

When,  throned  on  Zion's  brow, 
The  Lord  shall  rend  that  veil  away 

Which  hides  the  nations  now  ?4 
When  earth  no  more  beneath  the  fear 

Of  His  rebuke  shall  lie!6 
When  pain  shall  cease,  and  every  tear 

Be  wiped  from  every  eye." 

Then,  Judah,  thou  no  more  shalt  mouro 

Beneath  the  heathen's  chain  ; 
Thy  days  of  splendor  shall  return, 

And  all  be  new  again.7 
The  fount  of  life  shall  then  be  quafl'M 

In  peace  by  all  who  come ;' 
And  every  wind  that  blows  shall  waft 

Some  lonsr-lost  exile  home. 


THIS    WORLD    IS   ALL  A  FLEETING 
SHOW. 

THIS  world  is  all  a  fleeting  show, 

For  man's  illusion  given  ; 
The  smiles  of  joy,  the  tears  of  woe, 
Deceitful  shine,  deceitful  flow — 

There's  nothing  true  but  Heaven  ! 

And  false  the  light  on  glory's  plume, 

As  fading  hues  of  even  ! 
And  love  and  hope  and  beauty's  bloom 
Are  blossoms  gather'd  for  the  tomb — 

There's  nothing  bright  but  Heaven  ! 


4  "  And  he  will  destroy  in  tliif  mountain  the  face  of  the  cov- 
ering cast  over  all  people,  and  the  veil  that  is  spread  over  all 
nations."— ha.  xxv.  7. 

6  "  The  rebuke  of  his  people  shall  he  take  away  from  off  all 
the  earth."—  Isa.  xxv.  8. 

•  "  And  God  shall  wipe  away  all  tears  from  their  eyes ; 
neither  shall  there  be  any  more  pain."— Rev.  xxi.  4. 

7  "  And  he  that  sat  upon  the  throne  said,  Behoid,  I  make 
all  things  new." — Rev.  xxi.  5. 

*  "And  whosoever  will,  let  him  take  the   water  of  lif« 
freely."—  Rev.  xxii.  17. 


POK.MS  OF  TlIo.MAS  MOOKE 


177 


Poor  wand'rers  of  a  stormy  day  ! 

From  wave  to  wave  we're  driven, 
And  fancy's  flash  and  reason's  ray 
Serve  but  to  light  the  troubled  way — 

There's  nothing  calm  but  Heaven  ! 


ALMIGHTY   GOD! 

CHORUS  OP  PRIESTS. 

ALMIGHTY  God !  when  round  Thy  shrine 
The  palm-tree's  heavenly  branch  we  twine,1 
(Emblem  of  life's  eternal  ray, 
And  love  that  "fadeth  not  away,") 
We  bless  the  flowers,  expanded  all," 
We  bless  the  leaves  that  never  fall, 
And  trembling  say — "  In  Eden  thus 
The  tree  of  life  may  flower  for  us  !" 

When  round  Thy  cherubs — smiling  calm, 
Without  their  flames3 — we  wreathe  the  palm, 
O  God  !  we  feel  the  emblem  true — 
Thy  mercy  is  eternal  too. 
Those  cherubs,  with  their  smiling  eyes, 
That  crown  of  palm  which  never  dies, 
Are  but  the  types  of  Thee  above — 
Eternal  Life,  and  Peace,  and  Love  ! 


SOUND  THE  LOUD  TIMBREL. 

MIRIAM'S  SONG. 

"  Aid  Miriam  the  prophetess,  the  sister  of  Aaron,  took  a 
timbrel  in  her  hand ;  and  all  the  women  went  oat  after  her 
with  timbrels  and  with  dances.'1— Exod.  xv.  20. 

SOUND  the  loud  timbrel  o'er  Egypt's  dark  sea! 
Jehovah  has  triumph'd — His  people  are  free  ! 
Sing — for  the  pride  of  the  tyrant  is  broken, 
His  chariots,  his   horsemen,   all  splendid 
:ui<l  brave — 


1  "  The  Scriptures"  having  declared  that  the  Temple  of  Jeru- 
salem was  a  type  of  the  Messiah,  it  is  natural  to  conclude  that 
the  Pahiif.  which  made  so  conspicuous  a  figure  in  that  struc- 
ture, represented  that  Life  and  Immortality  which  were 
orouirht  to  light  by  the  Gospel."—  Observations  on  the  Palm,  as 
a  sacrtd  Emblem,  by  W.  Tight. 

*  "  And  he  carved  nil  the  walls  of  the  nounc  round  about 
with  carved  figures  of  cherubim*,  and  palm-trees,  and  open 
tou'trf."—\  Kings,  vi.  2!l. 

'  "When  the  passover  of  the  tabernacles  wan  revealed  to 
the  great  lawgiver  on  the  mount,  then  the  cherubic  imau-e* 
which  appeared  in  that  structure  were  no  longer  surrounded 
by  flame*  ;  for  the  tabernacle  was  a  type  of  the  dispensation 
of  mercy,  oy  which  JEHOVAH  confirmed  His  gracious  covenant 
v>  redeem  mankind."—  Observations  on  the  Palm. 


How  vain  was  their  boasting,  the  Lord  hath 

but  spoken, 
And  chariots  and  horsemen  are  sunk  in  the 

wave. 

Sound  the  loud  timbrel  o'er  Egypt's  dark  sea ; 
Jehovah  has  triumph'd — His  people  are  free  ! 

Praise  to  the  conqueror,  praise  to  the  Lord  ! 
His  word  was  our  arrow,  His  breath  was  our 

sword. 

Who  shall  return  to  tell  Egypt  the  story 
Of  those  she  sent  forth  in  the  hour  of  her 

pride  ? 
For  the  Lord  hath  look'd  out  from  his  pillar 

of  glory,4 
And  all  her  brave  thousands  are  dash'd  in 

the  tide. 

Sound  the  loud  timbrel  o'er  Egypt's  dark  sea ! 
Jehovah  has  triumph'd — His  people  are  free ! 


O  FAIR  !  O  PUREST  ! 

SAINT  AUGUSTINE  TO  HIS  SISTER.* 

O  FAIR  !  O  purest !  be  thou  the  dove 
That  flies  alone  to  some  sunny  grove, 
And  lives  unseen,  and  bathes  her  wing, 
All  vestal  white,  in  the  limpid  spring  : 
There,  if  the  hovering  hawk  be  near, 
That  limpid  spring  in  its  mirror  clear 
Reflects  him,  ere  he  can  reach  his  prey, 
And  warns  the  timorous  bird  away. 

Oh,  be  like  this  dove ; 
O  fair  !  O  purest !  be  like  this  (lore. 

The  sacred  pages  of  God's  own  Book 
Shall  be  the  spring,  the  eternal  brook, 
In  whose  holy  mirror,  night  and  day, 
Thou'lt  study  Heaven's  reflected  ray  ; — 
And  should  the  foes  of  virtue  dare, 
With  gloomy  wing,  to  seek    \ee  there, 
Thou  wilt  see  how  dark  their  shadows  lie 
Between  Heaven  and  thee,  and  trembling  fly ! 

Oh,  be  like  this  dove  ; 
(.)  fair  !  O  purest !  be  like  this  dove. 


«  "  And  it  came  to  pa**,  that  in  the  morning  watch  the  Lord 
looked  unto  the  host  of  the  Egyptians  through  the  pillar  of  ftn 
and  of  the  cloud,  and  troubled  the  host  of  the  Egyptian*."— 
Erod.  xlv.  24. 

•  In  St.  Atiguxttne's  Treatise  upon  the  Advantage*  of  a  Soil 
tnry  Life,  addressed  to  his  sister,  there  is  a  pudge  from  which 
the  tin  m-lit  of  this  Kong  was  taken. 


THE  POEMS  OF  SAMUEL  LOVER. 


THE  ANGEL'S  WHISPER.1 

lAsaperstition  of  great  beauty  prevails  in  Ireland,  that  wnen 
•  child  smiles  in  its  Bleep,  it  is  "  talking  with  angels."] 

A  BABY  was  sleeping, 
Its  mother  was  weeping, 
For  her  husband  was  far  on  the  wild  raging 

O         O 

sea; 

Arid  the  tempest  was  swelling 
Round  the  fisherman's  dwelling, 
And  she  cried,  "Dermot,  darling,  oh  come 
back  to  me !" 

Her  beads  while  she  number'd, 

The  baby  still  slumber'd, 
Ar.d  smiled  in  her  face  as  she  bended  her  knee; 

"  Oh  blest  be  that  warning, 

My  child,  thy  sleep  adorning, 
For  I  know  that  the  angels  are  whispering 
with  tb^e. 

"  And  while  they  are  keeping 
Bright  watch  o'er  thy  sleeping, 


1  The  beautiful  superstition  on  which  this  gong  has  been 
founded,  has  an  Oriental  as  well  as  u  Western  prevalence  ;  and, 
In  all  probability  reached  the  Irish  by  being  borrowed  from 
the  Phoenician?.  Amongst  the  Rabbinical  traditions  which 
are  treasured  by  the  Jews,  is  the  belief,  that  before  the  crea- 
tion of  Eve,  another  companion  WHB  assigned  to  Adam  in  Para- 
dise, who  bore  the  name  of  Lilith.  But  proving  arrogant  and 
disposed  to  contend  for  superior.ty,  a  quarrel  ensued  ;  Lilith 
pronounced  the  name  of  Jehovah,  which  it  is  forbidden  to  utter, 
ind  fled  to  conceal  herself  \i  tn«>  sea.  Three  angels,  Sennoi, 
Sansennoi,  and  Sammangelypk,  were  despatched  by  the  Lord 
of  the  Universe  toer.mpe'.  her  to  return  ;  but  on  her  obstinate 
refusal,  » he  was  traaefonnea  Jnto  a  demon,  whose  delight  is  In 
debilitai  ing  and  destroying  1'ifanta.  On  condition  that  she  was 
not  to  be  forced  to  go  back  to  Paradise,  she  bound  herself  by 
»n  oath  to  refrain  from  inluring  such  children  as  might  be  pro- 
tected by  having  lusoribrd  on  them  the  name  of  the  mediating 
ingels—  hence  the  p.-ao',ice  of  the  Eastern  Jews  to  write  the 
names  of  Scnn&l,  Snnsennoi,  and  Sammangcloph,  on  slips  of 
paper  and  bind  ihe-n  on  their  infants  to  protect  them  from 
Lilith.  The  ecory  will  be  found  In  BUXTOW'S  Synagoga 
Jiidoica.  in.  iv.  p.  81 ;  and  in  BEN  SIBA,  as  edited  by  BARTO- 
torci.  In  I  lie  fi-n  volume  of  his  ItMiotheca  Rabbinlca,  p.  00. 

Etni-'.c  Ilvjnick-ch,  a  Rabbinical  writer,  quoted  by  STKUE- 
LI.N.  aays,  "  tvhen  a  child  laughs  in  U»  iltep.  In  the  night  of  the 
i.  or  the  uo\\  moon,  that  Lilith  laughs  and  toys  with  it. 


Oh,  pray  to  them  softly,  my  baby,  with  me  i 
And  say  thou  wouldst  rather 
They'd  watch  o'er  thy  father! — 

For  I  know  that  the  angels  are  whispering 
with  thee." 

The  dawn  of  the  morning 
Saw  Dermot  returning, 
And   the   wife  wept   with    joy   her   babe'a 

father  to  see ; 
And  closely  caressing 
Her  child,  with  a  blessing, 
Said,  "  I  knew  that  the  angels  where  whis- 
pering with  thee." 


THE  FAIRY  BOY. 


[When  a  beautiful  child  pines  and  diet,  the  Irish  peasant  b«- 
lii-vcs  thu  healthy  infant  has  been  stolen  by  the  fairies,  and  a 
sickly  elf  left  in  its  place.] 


A  MOTHER  came  when  stars  were  paling, 

Wailing  round  a  lonely  spring  ; 
Thus  she  cried,  while  tears  were  falling, 

Calling  on  the  Fairy  King  : 
"  Why,  with  spells  my  child  caressing, 

Courting  him  with  fairy  joy, 
Why  destroy  a  mother's  blessing, — 

Wherefore  steal  my  baby-boy  ? 

"  O'er  the  mountain,  through  the  wild-wood, 
Where  his  childhood  loved  to  play, 

Where  the  flowers  are  freshly  springing, 
There  I  wander  day  by  day  ; 


and  that  it  is  proper  for  tin-  mother,  or  any  one  that  •«•••  tb« 
infant  laugh,  to  tap  it  on  the  no»e.  and  say  '  Lilith.  iM-^ont : 
thy  abode  if  not  here.'  This  should  bo  raid  throe  time*,  and 
each  repetition  accompanied  by  a  gentle  tap."  See  Ailtn'n  Ac- 
count of  the  Tradition,  Rite*,  and  Certmonitt  of  Uu  Jticr,  ch, 
x.  p.  1G8-0— ch.  xvl.  p.  991. 


180 


^OEMS  OF  SAMUEL  LOVER. 


There  I  wander,  growing  fonder 
Of  the  child  that  made  my  joy, 

On  the  echoes  wildly  calling 
To  restore  my  fairy  boy. 

"But  in  vain  my  plaintive  calling, — 

Tears  are  falling  all  in  vain, — 
He  now  sports  with  fairy  pleasure, 

He's  the  treasure  of  their  train  ! 
Fare  thee  well !  my  child,  forever, 

In  this  world  I've  lost  my  joy, 
But  in  the  next  we  ne'er  shall  sever, 

There  I'll  find  my  angel  boy." 


TRUE   LOVE    CAN    NE'ER    FORGET. 

[It  IB  related  of  Carolan,  the  Irish  bard,  that  when  deprived 
of  sight,  and  after  a  lapse  of  twenty  years,  he  recognized  his 
first  love  by  the  touch  of  her  hand.  The  lady's  name  was 
Bridget  Cruise ;  and  though  not  a  pretty  name,  it  deserves  to 
be  recorded,  as  belonging  to  the  woman  who  could  inspire 
inch  a  passion.] 

"  TRUE  love  can  ne'er  forget ; 
Eondly  as  when  we  met, 
Dearest,  I  love  thee  yet, 

My  darling  one  !" 
Thus  sung  a  minstrel  gray 
His  sweet  impassion'd  lay, 
Down  by  the  Ocean's  spray, 

At  set  of  sun. 

But  wither'd  was  the  minstrel's  sight, 
Morn  to  him  was  dark  as  night, 
Yet  his  heart  was  full  of  light, 

As  thus  the  lay  begun  : 
"  True  love  can  ne'er  forget ; 
Fondly  as  when  we  met, 
Dearest,  I  love  thee  yet, 

My  darling  one  !" 

"  Long  years  are  past  and  o'er, 
Since  from  this  fatal  shore 
Cold  hearts  and  cold  winds  bore 

My  love  from  me." 
Scarcely  the  minstrel  spoke, 
When  forth,  with  flashing  stroke, 
A  boat's  light  oar  the  silence  broke, 

Over  the  sea. 

Soon  upon  her  native  strand 
Doth  a  lovely  lady  land, 


While  the  minstrel's  love-taught  hand 
Did  o'er  his  wild  harp  run : 

"  True  love  can  ne'er  forget ; 

Fondly  as  when  we  met, 

Dearest,  I  love  thee  yet, 
My  darling  one !" 

"Where  the  minstrel  sat  alone, 
There  that  lady  fair  had  gone, 
Within  his  hand  she  placed  her  own. 

The  bard  dropp'd  on  his  knee ; 
From  his  lips  soft  blessings  came, 
He  kiss'd  her  hand  with  truest  flame, 
In  trembling  tones  he  named — her  name, 

Though  her  he  could  not  see ; 
But  oh ! — the  touch  the  bard  could  tell 
Of  that  dear  hand,  remember'd  welL 
Ah  ! — by  many  a  secret  spell 

Can  true  love  find  his  own  ; 
For  true  love  can  ne'er  forget ; 
Fondly  as  when  they  met, 
He  loved  his  lady  yet, 

His  darling  one ! 


NYMPH  OF  NIAGARA. 

NYMPH  OF  NIAGARA  !  Sprite  of  the  mist ! 
With  a  wild  magic  my  brow  thou  hast  kiss'd ; 
I  am  thy  slave,  and  my  mistress  art  thou, 
For  thy  wild  kiss  of  magic  is  yet  on  my  brow.1 

I  feel  it  as  first  when  I  knelt  before  thee, 
With  thy  emerald  robe  flowing  brightly  and 

free,8 
Fringed  with  the  spray-pearls,  and  floating 

in  mist — 
Thus  'twas  my  brow  with  wild  magic  you 

kiss'd. 

Thine  am  I  still ; — and  I'll  never  forget 
The  moment  the  spell  on  my  spirit  was  set ; — 
Thy  chain  but  a  foam-wreath — yet  stronger 

by  far 
Than  the  manacle,  steel- wrought,  for  captive 

of  war ; 


»  Written  immediately  after  leaving  the  Falls. 
*  The  water  in  the  centre  of  the  groat  fall  is  'ntPtisely  greea 
and  of  aem  like  brilliancy. 


Pt 

- 

IX 


en 

~ 
W 
O 


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POEMS  OF  SAMUEL  LOVER. 


181 


For  the  steel  it  will  rust,  and  the  war  will  be 

o'er, 

And  the  manacled  captive  be  free  as  before ; 
While  the  foam- wreath  will  bind  me  forever 

to  thee ! — 
I  love  the  enslavement — and  would  not  be 

free ! 

Nymph  of  Niagara!  play  with  the  breeze, 
Sport  with  the  fauns  'mid  the  old  forest  trees ; 
Blush  into  rainbows  at  kiss  of  the  sun, 
From  the  gleam  of  his  dawn  till  his  bright 
course  be  run  ; 

I'll  not  be  jealous — for  pure  is  thy  sporting, 
Heaven-born  is  all  that  around  thee  is  court- 
ing— 

Still  will  I  love  thee,  sweet  Sprite  of  the  mist, 
As  first  when  my  brow  with  wild  magic  you 
kiss'd ! 


HOW  TO  ASK  AND  HAVE. 

u  On,  'tis  time  I  should  talk  to  your  mother, 

Sweet  Mary,"  says  I ; 
"  Oh,  don't  talk  to  my  mother,"  says  Mary, 

Beginning  to  cry : 
"  For  my  mother  says  men  are  deceivers, 

And  never,  I  know,  will  consent ; 
She  says  girls  in  a  hurry  who  marry 

At  leisure  repent." 

"  Then,  suppose  I  would  talk  to  your  father, 

Sweet  Mary,"  says  I ; 
"  Oh,  don't  talk  to  my  father,"  says  Mary, 

Beginning  to  cry  : 
"  For  my  father,  he  love»  me  so  dearly, 

He'll  never  consent  I  should  go — 
If  you  talk  to  my  father,"  says  Mary, 

"He'll  surely  say  'No.1'" 

"  Then  how  .ihall  I  get  you,  my  jewel  ? 

Sweet  Mary,"  says  I ; 
"  If  your  father  :m<l  mother's  so  cruel, 

Most  surely  I'll  die!" 
"  Oh,  never  say  die,  dear,"  says  Mary ; 

"  A  way  now  to  save  you,  I  see  : 
Since  my  parents  are  both  so  contrary — 

You'd  better  ask  me." 


THE  LAND  OF  THE  WEST. 

OH  !    come  to  the  West,  love, — oh,   come 

there  with  me ; 
'Tis  a  sweet  land  of  verdure  that  springs 

from  the  sea, 
Where  fair  plenty  smiles  from  her  emerald 

throne ; 
Oh,  come  to  the  West,  and  I'll  make  thee 

my  own  ! 
I'll  guard  thee,  I'll  tend  thee,  I'll  love  thee 

the  best, 
And  you'll  say  there's  no  land  like  the  land 

of  the  West. 

The  South  has  its  roses  and  bright  skies  of 

blue, 
But  ours  are  more  sweet  with  love's  OWE 

changeful  hue — 
Half  sunshine,  half  tears, — like   the  girl  I 

love  best, 

Oh !  what  is  the  South  to  the  beautiful  West ! 
Then  come  to  the  West,  and  the  rose  on  thy 

mouth 
Will  be  sweeter  to  me  than  the  flowers  of  the 

South ! 

The  North  has  its  snow-towers  of  dazzling 

array, 
All  sparkling  with  gems  in  the  ne'er-setting 

day; 
There  the  Storm-King  may  dwell  in  the  halls 

he  loves  best, 
But  the  soft-breathing  Zephyr  he  plays  in 

the  West. 
Then   come   there  with  me,  where  no  cold 

wind  doth  blow, 
And  thy  neck  will  seem  fairer  to  me  than  the 

snow  ! 

The  Sun  in  the  gorgeous  East  chaseth  the 

night 
When  he  risoth,  rct'resh'd,  in  his  glory  and 

might 
But  where  doth  he  go  when  he   seeks'  his 

sweet  rest  ? 

Oh  !  doth  he  not  haste  to  the  beautiful  W«-st  ? 
Then  come  there  with  me:    'tis  tin-  l:m<l    I 

love  best, 
Tis  the  land  of  my  sites! — 'tis  my  own  <lar 

I'm ir  WWt  ! 


182 


POEMS  OF  SAMUEL  LOVER. 


SWEET  HARP  OF  THE  DAYS  THAT 
ARE  GONE. 

TO  THE  IRISH  HARP. 

OH,  give  me  one  strain 
Of  that  wild  harp  again, 

In  melody  proudly  its  own  ! 
Sweet  harp  of  the  days  that  are  gone 
Time's  wide-wasting  wing 
Its  cold  shadow  may  fling 

Where  the  light  of  the  soul  hath  no 

part ; 

The  sceptre  and  sword 
Both  decay  with  their  lord — 

But  the  throne  of  the  bard,  is  the  heart. 

And  hearts,  while  they  beat 
To  thy  music  so  sweet, 

Thy  glories  will  ever  prolong, 
Land  of  honor  and  beauty  and  song  ! 
The  beauty,  whose  sway 
Woke  the  bard's  votive  lay, 

Hath  gone  to  eternity's  shade, 
While,  fresh  in  its  fame, 
Lives  the  song  to  her  name, 

Which   the   minstrel   immortal  hath 
made ! 


YIELD  NOT,  THOU  SAD  ONE,  TO 
SIGHS. 

OH  yield  not,  thou  sad  one,  to  sighs, 

Nor  murmur  at  Destiny's  will. 
Behold,  for  each  pleasure  that  flies, 

Another  replacing  it  still. 
Time's  wing,  were  it  all  of  one  feather, 

Far  slower  would  be  in  its  flight ; 
The  storm  gives  a  charm  to  fine  weather, 

And  day  would  seem  dark  without  night. 
Then  yield  not,  thou  sad  one,  to  sighs. 

When  we  look  on  some  lake  that  repeats 
The  loveliness  bounding  its  shore, 

A  breese  o'er  the  soft  surface  fleets, 
And  the  mirror-like  beauty  is  o'er  : — 

But  the  breeze,  ere  it  ruftled  the  deep, 
Pervading  the  odorous  bowers, 

Awaken'd  the  flowers  from  their  sleep, 


And  wafted  their  sweets  to  be  ours. 

Then  yield  not,  thou  sad  one,  to  sighs. 

Oh,  blame  not  the  change  nor  the  flight 

Of  our  joys  as  they're  passing  away, 
'Tis  the  swiftness  and  change  give  delight — 

They  would  pall  if  permitted  to  stay. 
More  gayly  they  glitter  in  flying, 

They  perish  in  lustre  still  bright, 
Like  the  hues  of  the  dolphin,  in  dying, 

Or  humming-bird's  wing  in  its  flight. 

Then  yield  not,  thou  sad  one,  to  sighs. 


WIDOW  MACHREE. 

WIDOW  Machree,  it's  no  wonder  you  frown, 

Och  hone  !  Widow  Machree ; 
Faith,  it  ruins  your  looks,  that  same  dirty 
black  gown, 

Och  hone  !  Widow  Machree; 
How  alter'd  your  air, 
With  that  close  cap  you  wear — 
'Tis  destroying  your  hair, 

Which  should  be  flowing  free  ; 
Be  no  longer  a  churl 
Of  its  black  silken  curl, 

Och  hone  !  Widow  Machree  ! 

Widow  Machree,  now  the  summer  is  come, 

Och  hone  !  Widow  Machree : 
When  everything  smiles,  should  a  beauty 
look  glum  ? 

Och  hone !  Widow  Machree. 
See  the  birds  go  in  pairs, 
And  the  rabbits  and  hares — 
Why  even  the  bears 

Now  in  couples  agree  ; 
And  the  mute  little  fish, 
Though  they  can't  spake,  they  wish, 

Och  hone !  Widow  Machree. 

Widow  Machree,  and  when  winter  comes  in, 

Och  hone  !  Widow  Machree, 
To  be  poking  the  fire  all  alone  is  a  sin, 

Och  hone  !  Widow  Machree  ; 
Sure  the  shovel  and  tongs 
To  each  other  belongs, 
And  the  kettle  sings  songs 


POEMS  OF  SAMUEL  LOVER. 


183 


Full  of  family  glee  ; 
While  alone  with  your  cup, 
Like  a  hermit,  you  sup, 

Och  hone !  Widow  Machree. 

And  how  do  you  know,  with  the  comforts 
I've  towld, 

Och  hone  !  Widow  Machree, 
But  you're  keeping  some  poor  fellow  out  in 
the  cowlH  ? 

Och  hone  !  Widow  Machree. 
With  such  sins  on  your  head 
Sure  your  peace  would  be  fled  . 
Could  you  sleep  in  your  bed 

Without  thinking  to  see 
Some  ghost  or  some  sprite, 
That  would  wake  you  each  night, 

Crying, "  Och  hone  !  Widow  Machree  ?" 

Then  take  my  advice,  darling  Widow  Ma- 
chree, 

Och  hone  !  Widow  Machree. 
And  with  my  advice,  faitli  I  wish  you'd  take 
me, 

Och  hone !  Widow  Machree. 
You'd  have  me  to  desire, 
Then  to  sit  by  the  fire, 
And  sure  Hope  is  no  liar 

In  whispering  to  me, 
That  the  ghosts  would  depart, 
When  you'd  me  near  your  heart, 

Och  hone  !  Widow  Machree. 


MOLLY  BAWN. 

O  !  MOLLY  BAWN,  why  leave  me  pining, 

All  lonely  waiting  here  for  you  ? 
The  stars  above  are  brightly  shining 

Because — they've  nothing  else  to  do. 
The  flowers,  late,  were  open  keeping, 

To  try  a  rival  blush  with  you, 
Hut  their  mother,  Nature,  set  them  sleeping, 

With  their  rosy  faces  wash'd — with  dew. 
O !  Molly,  <fcc. 

\<>w  the  pretty  flowers  were  made  to  bloom, 

dear, 

And  the  pretty  stars  were  made  to  shine, 
And  the  pretty  girls  were  made  for  the  boys, 

dear, 
And  maybe -you  were  made  for  mine  ! 


The  wicked  watch-dog  here  is  snarling — 
lie  takes  me  for  a  thief,  you  see ; 

For  he  knows  I'd  steal  you,  Molly  darling — 
And  then  transported  I  should  be. 

O !  Molly,  <ko. 


MOTHER,  HE'S  GOING  AWAY. 

Mother. 

Now  what  are  you  crying  for,  Nelly  ? 

Don't  be  blubbering  there  like  a  fool ; 
With  the  weight  o'  the  grief,  faith,  I  tell  you 

You'll  break  down  the  three-legged  stooL 
I  suppose  now  you're  crying  for  Barney, 

But  don't  b'lieve  a  word  that  he'd  say, 
He  tells  nothing  but  big  lies  and  blarney, — 

Sure  you  know  how  he  sarved  poor  Kat« 
Karney. 

Daughter. 
But,  mother ! 

Mother. 
Oh,  bother  ! 

Daughter. 

Oh,  mother,  he's  going  away, 

And  I  dreamt  the  other  niijht 

O 

Of  his  ghost — all  in  white  f 

[Mother  speaks  in  an  undertone. 
The  dirty  blackguard  !] 

Daughter. 
Oh,  mother,  he's  going  away. 

Mother. 

If  he's  going  away  all  the  betther, — 

Blessed  hour  when  he's  out  o'  your  sight 
There's  one  comfort — you  can't  get  a  letther— 

For  yiz1  neither  can  read  nor  can  write. 
Sure,  'twas  only  last  week  you  protested, 

Since  he  coorted  fat  Jinney  M'Cray, 
That  the  sight  o'  the  scamp  you  detested — 

With    abuse    sure    your    tongue     nerei 
rested — 


«  Te. 


184 


POEMS  OF  SAMUEL  LOVER. 


Daughter. 
But,  mother ! 

Mother. 
Oh,  bother ! 

Daughter. 
Oh,  mother,  he's  going  away ! 

[  Mother,  speaking  again  with  peculiar  paren- 
tal piety, 
May  he  never  come  back !] 

Daughter. 

And  I  dream  of  his  ghost 
Walking  round  my  bedpost — 
Oh,  mother,  he's  going  away  ! 


THE  QUAKER'S  MEETING. 

A  TRAVELLER  wended  the  wilds  among, 
With  a  purse  of  gold  and  a  silver  tongue  ; 
His  hat  it  was  broad  and  all  drab  were  his 

clothes, 

For  he  hated  high  colors — except  on  his  nose, 
And  he  met  with  a  lady,  the  story  goes. 

HeigTio  !  yea  thee  and  nay  thee. 

The  damsel  she  cast  him  a  beamy  blink, 
And  the  ti'aveller  nothing  was  loth,  I  think ; 
Her   merry  black   eye    beam'd  her  bonnet 

beneath, 
And  the  Quaker  he  grinn'd — for  he'd  very 

good  teeth. 
And  he  ask'd,  "  Art  thee  going  to  ride  on 

the  heath  ?" 

Heigho  !  yea  thee  and  nay  thee. 

"I  hope  you'll  protect    me,  kind  sir,"  said 

the  maid, 

"  As  to  ride  this  heath  over  I'm  sadly  afraid ; 
For   robbers,    they    say,    here    in    numbers 

abound, 
And  I  wouldn't  '  for  anything'  I  should  be 

found, 
For — between    you   and   me — I    have    five 

hundred  pound." 

Heigho  !  yea  thee  and  nay  thee. 


"If  that  is  thee1  own,  dear,"  the  Quaker  he 

said, 

"  I  ne'er  saw  a  maiden  I  sooner  would  wed  ; 
And  I  have  another  five  hundred  just  now, 
In  the  padding  that's  under  my  saddle-bow. 
And  I'll  settle  it  all  upon  thee,  I  vow  !" 

Heigho  !  yea  thee  and  nay  thee. 

The  maiden  she  smiled,  and  her  rein  she  drew, 
"  Your  offer  I'll  take— though  I'll  not  take 

you." 

A  pistol  she  held  at  the  Quaker's  head — 
"  Now  give  me  your  gold^-or  I'll  give  you 

my  lead — 
'Tis  under  the  saddle  I  think  you  said." 

Heigho !  yea  thee  and  nay  thee. 

The  damsel  she  ripp'd  up  the  saddle-bow, 
And  the  Quaker  was  never  a  Quaker  till  now, 
And  he  saw,  by  the  fair  one  he  wish'd  for  a 

bride, 
His   purse   borne   away  with  a  swaggering 

stride, 
And  the  eye  that  shamm'd  tender,  now  only 

defied. 

Heigho  !  yea  thee  and  nay  thee. 

"  The   spirit   doth  move  me,   friend  Broad- 
brim," quoth  she, 

"  To  take  all  this  filthy  temptation  from  thee, 

For  Mammon  deceiveth — and  beauty  is  fleet- 
ing ; 

Accept   from   thy  maaid'n   a   right  loving 
greeting, 

For  much  doth  she  profit  by  this  Quaker's 
meeting." 

Heigho  !  yea  thee  and  nay  thee. 

"And  hark  !  jolly  Quaker,. so  rosy  and  sly, 
Have  righteousness,  more  than  a  wench,  in. 

thine  eye, 

Don't  go  again  peeping  girls'  bonnets  beneath, 
Remember  the   one   that   you  met  on  the 

heath, — 
Her  name's  Jimmy  Barlow — I  tell  to  your 

teeth !"  * 

Heigho  !  yea  thee  and  nay  thee. 


1  The  inferior  class  of  Quakers*  make  tfoe  serve  not  only  in 
HP  true  grammatical  nSK^  but  alto  to  do  the  duty  of  Ciou,  thy, 
and  tfiine. 


POEMS  OF  SAMUEL  LOVER 


"Friend  James,"  quoth  the  Quaker,  "pray 

listen  to  me, 

For  thou  canst  confer  a  great  favor,  d'ye  see ; 
The  gold  thou  hast  taken  is  not  mine,  my 

friend, 

But  my  master's — and  truly  on  thee  I  depend, 
To  make  it  appear  I  my  trust  did  defend." 
Heigho  !  yea  thee  and  nay  thee. 

"So   fire  a   few  shots  through  my  clothes, 

here  and  there, 

To  make  it  appear  'twas  a  desp'rate  affair.'' — 
So  Jim  he  popp'd  first  through  the  skirt  of 

his  coat, 
And  then  through  his  collar — quite  close  to 

his  throat ; 
"  Now  one  through  my  broadbrim,"  quoth 

Ephraim,  "  I  vote." 

Heigho  !  yea  thee  and  nay  thee. 

"  I  have  but  a  brace,"  said  bold  Jim,  "  and 
they're  spent, 

And  I  won't  load  again  for  a  make-believe 
rent."— 

"  Then" — said  Ephraim,  producing  his  pis- 
tols— "just  give 

My  five  hundred  pounds  back — or  as  sure  as 
you  live 

I'll  make  of  your  body  a  riddle  or  sieve." 

Heigho  !  yea  thee  and  nay  thee. 

Jim  Barlow  was  diddled— -and,  though   he 

was  game, 

He  saw  Ephraim's  pistol  so  deadly  in  aim, 
That  he  gave  up  the  gold,  and  he  took  to 

his  scrapers ; 
And   when   the   whole   story  got   into   the 

papers, 
They  said  that  "  the  thieves  were  no  match 

for  the  Quakers.'1'' 

Heigho  !  yea  thee  and  nay  thee. 


NATIVE  MUSIC. 

OH  !  native  music  !  beyond  comparing 
The  sweetest  far  on  the  ear  that  falls, 

Thy  gentle  numbers  the  heart  remembers, 
Thy  strains  enchain  us  in  tender  thralls. 


Thy  tones  endearing, 

Or  sad  or  cheering, 
The  absent  soothe  on  a  foreign  strand; 

Ah  !  who  can  tell 

What  a  holy  spell 
I»  in  the  song  of  our  native  land  ? 

The  proud  and  lowly,  the  pilgrim  holy, 

The  lover,  kneeling  at  beauty's  shrine, 
The    bard    who    dreams    by   the    haunted 

streams, — 

All,  all  are  touch'd  by  thy  power  divine  ! 
The  captive  cheerless, 
The  soldier  fearless ; 
The  mother — taught  by  Nature's  hand — 
Her  child  when  weeping, 
Will  lull  to  sleeping, 
With  some  sweet  song  of  her  native  land  ! 


THE  CHARM. 

[They  say  that  a  flower  may  be  found  in  a  valley  opening  to 
the  West,  which  bestows  on  the  finder  the  power  of  winning 
the  affection  of  the  person  to  whom  it  is  presented.  Hence, 
it  is  supposed,  has  originated  the  custom  of  presenting  a. 
bouquet.] 

THEY  say  there's  a  secret  charm  which  lies 

In  some  wild  floweret's  bell, 
That  grows  in  a  vale  where  the  west  wind 
sighs, 

And  where  secrets  best  may  dwell ; 
And  they  who  can  find  the  fairy  flower, 

A   treasure   possess   that   might   grace  a 

throne ; 
For,  oh !  they  can  rule  with  the  softest  power 

The  heart  they  would  make  their  own. 

The  Indian  has  toil'd  in  the  dusky  mine, 

For  the  gold  that  has  made  him  a  slave  ; 
Or,   plucking  the   pearl   from  the  sea-god's 
shrine, 

Has  tempted  the  wrath  of  the  wave; 
But  ne'er  lias  he  sought,  with  a  love  like  mine, 

The  flower  that  holds  the  heart  in  thrall : 
Oh  !  rather  I'd  win  that  charm  divine, 

Than  their  gold  and  their  pearl  and  all. 

I've  sought  it  by  day,  from  morn  till  eve 
I've  won  it — in  dreams  at  night; 


Ibb 


POEMS  OF  SAMUEL  LOVER. 


And  then  how  I  grieve  my  couch  to  leave, 
And  sigh  at  the  morning's  light  : 

Yet  sometimes  I  think  in  a  hopeful  hour, 
The  blissful  moment  I  yet  may  see 

TJ  win  the  fair  flower  from  the  fairy's  bower 
And  give  it,  love — to  thee. 


THE  FOUR-LEAVED  SHAMROCK. 

[A  four-leaved  Shamrock  is  of  such  rarity  that  it  is  supposed 
to  endue  the  finder  with  magic  power.] 

I'LL  seek  a  four-leaved  shamrock  in  all  the 
fairy  dells, 

And  if  I  find  the  charmed  leaves,  oh,  how 
I'll  weave  my  spells  ! 

I  would  not  waste  my  magic  might  on  dia- 
mond, peai'l,  or  gold, 

For  treasure  tires  the  weary  sense, — such 
triumph  is  but  cold  ; 

But  I  would  play  the  enchanter's  part,  in 
casting  bliss  around, — 

Oh  !  not  a  tear,  nor  aching  heart,  should  in 
the  world  be  found  ! 

To  worth  I  would  give  honor  ! — I'd  dry  the 
mourner's  tears, 

And  to  the  pallid  lip  recall  the  smile  of  hap- 
pier years, 

And  hearts  that  had  been  long  estranged, 
and  friends  that  had  grown  cold, 

Should  meet  again — like  parted  streams — 
and  mingle  as  of  old  ; 

Oh  !  thus  I'd  play  the  enchanter's  part,  thus 
scatter  bliss  around, 

And  not  a  tear,  nor  aching  heart,  should  in 
the  world  be  found  ! 

The  heart  that  had  been  mourning  o'er  van- 

ish'd  dreams  of  love, 
Should  see  them  all  returning — like  Noah's 

faithful  dove, 
And  Hope  should  launch  her  blessed  bark 

on  Sorrow's  darkening  sea, 
And   Misery's    children    have    an   ark$  and 

saved  from  sinking  be ; 
OL  !  thus  I'd  play  the  enchanter's  part,  thus 

scatter  bliss  around, 
Ai  J  not  a  tear,  nor  aching  heart,  should  in 

the  world  be  found ! 


OH!    WATCH   YOU  WELL 
DAYLIGHT. 


BY 


[The  Irish  peasant  says,  "  Watch  well  by  daylight,  for  then 
your  own  senses  are  awake  to  guard  you  :  but  keep  no  watch 
in  darkness,  for  then  God  watches  over  you."  This,  however, 
can  hardly  be  called  a  superstition,  there  is  so  much  of  rightful 
reverence  in  it :  for  though,  iu  perfect  truth,  we  are  as  depend- 
ent on  God  by  day  as  by  night,  yet  some  allowance  ma?  b« 
made  for  the  poetic  fondness  of  the  saying.] 

On,  watch  you  well  by  daylight, 

By  daylight  may  you  fear, 
But  take  no  watch  in  darkness — 

The  angels  then  are  near : 
For  Heaven  the  gift  bestoweth 

Our  waking  life  to  keep, 
But  tender  mercy  showeth 

To  guard  us  in  our  sleep. 

Then  watch  you  well  by  daylight 

Oh,  watch  you  well  in  pleasure, 

For  pleasure  oft  betrays, 
But  take  no  watch  in  sorrow, 

When  joy  withdraws  its  rays  : 
For  in  the  hour  of  sorrow, 

As  in  the  darkness  drear, 
To  Heaven  intrust  the  morrow — 

The  angels  then  are  near. 

Then  watch  you  well  by  daylight. 


UORY    O'MORE;   OR,  GOOD   OMENS. 

YOUNG   RORY    O'MoiiE    courted    Kathleen 

Bawn, 
He  was  bold  as  a  hawk, — she  as  soft  as  the 

dawn  ; 
He  wish'd  in  his  heart  pretty  Kathleen  to 

please, 
And  he  thought  the  best  way  to  do  that  was 

to  tease. 
"  Now,   Rory,    be    aisy,"    sweet    Kathleen 

would  cry, 

(Reproof  on  her  lip,  but  a  smile  in  her  eye,) 
"  With  your  tricks  I  don't  know,  in  troth, 

what  I'm  about ; 
Faith  you've  teased  till  I've  put  on  my  cloak 

inside  out." 
"  Oh  !  jewel,"  says  Rory,  "  that  same  is  the 

way 
You've  thrated  my  heart  this  many  a  day  ; 


POEMS  OF  SAMUEL  LOVKK. 


187 


And  'tis  plazed  that  I  am,  and  why  not  to  be 

sun-  ? 
For  'tis  all  for  good  luck,"  says  bold  Rory 

O'More. 

4;  Indeed  then,"  says  Kathleen,  "  don't  think 

of  the  like, 

For  I  half  gave  a  promise  to  soothering  Mike : 
The  ground  that  I  walk  on  he  loves,  I'll  be 

bound." 
"  Faith,"  says  Rory,  "  I'd  rather  love  you 

than  the  ground." 

"  Now,  Rory,  I'll  cry  if  you  don't  let  me  go ; 
Sure  I  drame  ev'ry  night  that  I'm  hating 

you  so !" 
"  Oh,"  says  Rory,  "  that  same  I'm  delighted 

to  hear, 
For  drain  ex  always  go  by  conthrairies,  my 

dear ; 
Oh !  jewel,  keep  draming  that  same  till  you 

•    die, 
And  bright  morning  will  give  dirty  night 

the  black  lie ! 
And  'tis  plazed  that  I  am,  and  why  not  to  be 

sure? 
Since  'tis  all  for  good  luck,"  says  bold  Rory 

O'More. 

"  Arrah,  Kathleen,  my  darlint,  you've  teased 

me  enough, 
Sure   IVe   thrash'd   for    your    sake   Dinny 

Grimes  and  Jim  Duff; 
And  I've  made  myself,  drinking  your  health, 

quite  a  baste, 

So  I  think,  after  that,  I  may  talk  to  the  priest™ 
Then  Rory,  the  rogue,  stole  his  arm  round 

her  neck, 

So  soft  and  so  white,  without  freckle  or  speck, 
And  he  look'd  in  her  eyes  that  were  beam- 
ing with  light, 
And   he   kiss'd  her  sweet  lips; — don't   you 

think  he  was  right  ? 
"Now,  Rory,  leave  off,  sir;  you'll  hug  me 

no  more, 
That's  eight  times  to-day  you  have  kiss'd  me 

before." 
"Then    here   goes   another,"   says   he,    "to 

make  sure, 
For  there's  luck  in  odd  numbers,"  says  Rory 

O'More. 


THE  BLARNEY. 

[There  i*  a  certain  cnlgn-ntnnc  on  the  summit  ol  Blarney 
Castle,  in  the  county  ol'  Cork,  the  kituiini;  of  which  is  uid  to 
impart  the  j,'ill  of  persuasion.  Hence  the  phrase,  applied  to 
there  who  make  a  flattering  speech — "  You've  kicked  the 
Blarney  Stone."] 

On  !  did  you  ne'er  hear  of  "  the  Blarney," 
That's  found  near  the  banks  of  Killarney  ? 
Believe  it  from  me, 
No  girl's  heart  is  free, 
Once  she   hears  the  sweet  sound  of  tne 

Blarney. 

For  the  Blarney's  so  great  a  deceiver, 
That  a  girl  thinks  you're  there,  though  yuo 
leave  her ; 

And  never  finds  out 
All  the  tricks  you're  about, 
Till  she's  quite  gone  herself, — with  your 
Blarney. 

Oh  !  say,  would  you  find  this  same  "  Blar- 
ney ?" 

There's  a  castle  not  far  from  Killarney, 
On  the  top  of  its  wall — 
(But  take  care  you  don't  fall)— 
There's  a  stone  that  contains  all  this  Blar- 
ney. 

Like  a  magnet,  its  influence  such  is, 
That  attraction  it  gives  all  it  touches ; 
If  you  kiss  it,  they  say, 
From  that  blesse'd  day, 
You  may  kiss  whom  you  please  with  your 
Blarney. 


Paddy's  mode  of  asking;  a  tfrl  to  name  the  day. 


THE  CHAIN  OF  GOLD. 

[The  Earl  of  Kildare,  Lord-Deputy  of  Ireland,  ruled  Jusllj. 
and  wax  hated  by  the  small  oppressors  whose  practices  he  dis- 
countenanced. They  accused  him  of  favoring  the  Irish  to  the 
Kin;;'*  detriment,  but  lie,  in  tin-  pp>fiii-i?  of  the  Kin-;,  rebnt- 
led  their  rahimnif*.  They  wild,  at  last.  "  Plunge  yonr  High- 
tic-ss.  all  Ireland  cannot  rule  this  Earl."— "  Then,"  wild  Hunry 
*'hc  i«  the  iniin  to  rule  all  Ireland."  and  he  took  tb"  golden 
chain  from  hif  neck  and  threw  it  over  the  ohoiildeu  ol  th« 
Knrl,  who  returned,  with  honor,  to  hi*  government.] 

On,  Moina,  I've  a  tale  to  tell 

Will  glad  thy  soul,  my  girl  : 
The  King  hath  given  a  chain  of  gold 

To  our  noble-heart  ril  Karl. 


188 


POEMS  OF  SAMUEL  LOVER. 


His  foes,  they  rail'd — the  Earl  ne'er  quail'd- 

But,  with  a  front  so  bold, 
Before  the  King  did  backward  fling 

The  slinderous  lies  they  told  : 
And  the  King  gave  him  no  iron  chain — 

No — he  gave  him  a  chain  of  gold  ! 

Oh,  'tis  a  noble  sig.ht  to  see 

The  cause  of  truth  prevail : 
An  honest  cause  is  always  proof 

Against  a  treacherous  tale. 
Let  fawning  false  ones  court  the  great, 

The  heart  in  virtue  bold 
Will  hold  the  right,  in  power's  despite, 

Until  that  heart  be  cold  : 
For  falsehood's  the  bond  of  slavery, 

But  truth  is  the  chain  of  gold. 

False  Connal  wed  the  rich  one 

With  her  gold  and  jewels  rare, 
But  Dermid  wed  the  maid  he  loved, 

And  she  clear'd  his  brow  from  care  : 
And  thus,  in  our  own  hearts,  love, 

We  may  read  this  lesson  plain, 
Let  outward  joys  depart,  love, 

So  peace  within  remain — 
For  falsehood  is  an  iron  bond, 

But  love  is  the  golden  chain  ! 


GIVE  ME  MY  ARROWS  AND  GIVE 
ME  MY  BOW. 

[In  the  Great  North  American  lakes  there  are  islands  bear- 
ing the  name  of  "  dlanitw"  which  signifies  "  THE  GREAT 
SPIRIT,"  and  Indian  tradition  declares  that  in  these  islands 
the  Great  Spirit  concealed  the  precious  metals,  thereby  show- 
ing that  he  did  not  desire  they  should  be  possessed  by  man  ; 
and  that  whenever  some  rash  mortal  has  attempted  to  obtain 
treasure  from  "  The  Manitou  Isle,"  his  canoe  was  always 
overwhelmed  by  a  tempest.  The  "  Palefaces,"  however,  fear- 
less of"  Manitou's"  thunder,  are  now  working  the  extensive 
-lineral  region  of  the  lakes.] 

TEMPT  me  not,  stranger,  with  gold  from  the 

mine, 

I  have  got  treasure  more  precious  than  thine, 
Freedom  in  forest,  and  health  in  the  chase, 
Where  the  hunter  sees  beauty  in  Nature's 

bright  face : 

Then  give  me  my  arrows  and  give  me  my  bow, 
In  the  wild-woods  to   rove  where  the  blue 

rapids  flow. 


If  gold  had  been  good,  THE  GREAT  S 
had  given 

That   gift,  like   his   othei-s,  as   freely   from 
heaven ; 

The  lake  gives  me  whitefish.  the  deer  gives 
me  meat, 

And  the  toil  of  the  capture  gives  slumber  so- 
sweet  : 

Then  give  me  my  arrows  and  give  me  ray  bow, 

In  the  wild-woods  to    rove  where  the  blue 
rapids  flow. 

Why  seek  you  death  in  the  dark  cave  to  nnd, 
While  there's  life  on  the  hill  in  the  health- 
breathing  wind? 
And  death  parts  you  soon  from  your  treasure 

so  bright — 

As  the  gold  of  the  sunset  is  lost  in  the  night  • 
Then  give  me  my  arrows  and  give  me  my  bow 
In  the  wild-woods  to  rove  where  the  blu» 
rapids  flow. 


THE  HOUR  BEFORE  DAY. 

[There  is  a  beautiful  saying  amongst  the  Irish  peasantry  to 
inspire  hope  under  adverse  circumstances : — "  Remember," 
they  say,  "  that  the  darkest  hour  of  all  is  the  hour  before  day.") 

BEREFT  of  his  love,  and  bereaved  of  his  fame, 
A  knight  to  the  cell  of  an  old  hermit  carae : 
"  My  foes,  they  have  slander'd  and  forced 

me  to  fly, 
Oh  !  tell  me,  good  father,  what's  left  but  to 

die?" 
"  Despair  not,  my  son  ; — thou'lt  be  righted 

ere  long — 

For  heaven  is  above  us  to  right  all  the  wrong ; 
Remember  the  words  the  old  hermit  doth 

say,— 
'  'Tis  always  the  darkest  the  hour  before  day  !' 

"  Then  back  to  the  tourney,  and  back  to  the 

court, 

And  join  thee,  the  bravest,  in  chivalry's  sport; 
Thy  foes  will  be  there — and  thy  lady-love  too, 
And  show  both  thou'rt  a  knight  that  is  gal- 

O  •ZJ 

lant  and  true  !" 
He  rode  in  the  lists — all  his  foes  he  o'erthrew, 


POEMS  OF  SAMUEL  LOVER. 


189 


And  u  sweet  glance  he  caught  from  a  soft 

eye  of  blue : 
And  he  thought  of  the  words  the  old  hermit 

did  say, 
For  her  glance  wan  as  bright  as  the  dawning 

of  day. 

The  feast  it  was  late  in  the  castle  that  night, 

O          * 

And  the  banquet  was  beaming  with  beauty 
and  light ; 

But  brightest  of  all  is  the  lady  who  glides 

To  a  porch  where  a  knight  with  a  fleet 
courser  bides. 

She  paused  'neath  the  arch,  at  the  fierce  ban- 
dog's bark, 

She  trembled  to  look  on  the  night — 'twas  so 
dark ; 

But  her  lover  he  whisper'd,  and  thus  did  he 
say  : 

"  Sweet  love,  it  is  darkest  the  hour  before 
day." 


MACARTHY'S  GRAVE. 

A  LEGEND  OF  KILLARNEY. 

THE  breeze  was  fresh,  the  morn  was  fair, 
The  stag  had  left  his  dewy  lair. 
To  cheering  horn  and  baying  tongue 
Killavney's  echoes  sweetly  rung. 
With  sweeping  oar  and  bending  mast, 
The  eager  chase  was  following  fast, 

^  O  t 

When  one  light  skiff  a  maiden  steer'd 
Beneath  the  deep  wave  disappear'd  : 
While  shouts  of  terror  wildly  ring, 
A  boatman  brave,  with  gallant  spring 
And  dauntless  arm,  the  lady  bore — 
But  he  who  saved — was  seen  no  more  ! 

Where  weeping  birches  wildly  wave, 

There  boatmen  show  their  brother's  grave, 

And  while  they  tell  the  name  he  bore, 

Suspended  hangs  the  lifted  oar. 

The  silent  drops  thus  idly  shed, 

Seem  like  tears  to  gallant  Ned  ; 

And  while  gently  gliding  by, 

The  tale  is  told  with  moistening  eye. 

No  ripple  on  the  slumb'ring  lake 

Unhallow'd  oar  doth  ever  make ; 

Ail  uiulisturb'd  the  placid  wave 

Plows  gentiy  o'er  Macarthy's  grave. 


ST.  KKV1X. 

A  LEGEND  OF  GLENDALOUGH 

AT  Glendalough  lived  a  young  saint, 

In  odor  of  sanctity  dwelling, 
An  old-fashion'd  odor,  which  now 

We  seldom  or  never  are  smelling ; 
A  book  or  a  hook  were  to  him 

The  utmost  extent  of  his  wishes ; 
Now,  a  snatch  at  the  "  Lives  of  the  SaintB  ;" 

Then,  a  catch  at  the  lives  of  the  fishes. 

There  was  a  young  woman  one  day, 

Stravaffin1  along  by  the  lake,  sir ; 
She  look'd  hard  at  St.  Kevin,  they  say, 

But  St.  Kevin  no  notice  did  take,  sir. 
When  she  found  looking  hard  wouldn't  do, 

She   look'd   soft — in  the   old  sheep's  eye 

fashion  ; 
But,  with  all  her  sheep's  eyes,  she  could  not 

In  St.  Kevin  see  signs  of  soft  passion. 

"  You're  a  great  hand  at  fishing,"  says  Kate , 
"'Tis  yourself  that  knows  how,  faith,  to 

hook  them  ; 

But,  when  you  have  caught  them,  agra, 
Don't  you  want  a  young  woman  to  cook 

them  ?" 
Says  the  saint,  "  I  am  '  sayrioiis  inclined? 

I  intend  taking  orders  for  life,  dear." 
"Only  marry,"  says  Kate,  "and  you'll  find 
You'll  get  orders  enough  from  your  wife, 
dear." 

"  You  shall  never  be  flesh  of  my  flesh," 

Says  the  saint,  with  an  anchorite  groaa, 

sir; 
"  I  see  that  myself,"  answer'd  Kate, 

"  I  can  only  be  *  bone  of  your  bone,'  sir. 
And  even  your  bones  are  so  scarce," 

Said  Miss  Kate,  at  her  answers  so  glib, 

sir, 
"  That  I  think  you  would  not  be  the  worse 

Of  a  little  additional  rib,  sir." 

The  saint,  in  a  rage,  seized  the  lass, — 

He  gave  her  one  twirl  round  his  head,  sir, 

And,  before  Doctor  Arnott's  invention, 
Prescribed  her  a  watery  bed,  sir. 


Sauntering. 


190 


POEMS  OF  SAMUEL  LOVER, 


Oh  ! — cruel  St.  Kevin ! — for  shame  ! 

When  a  lady  her  heart  came  to  barter, 
You  should  not  have  been  Knight  of  the  Bath, 

But  have  bow'd  to  the  order  of  Garter. 


THE  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

[The  brief  period  which  succeeds  the  autumnal  close,  called 
"  The  Indian  summer"— a  reflex,  as  it  were,  of  the  early  por- 
tion of  the  year— strikes  a  stranger  in  America  as  peculiarly 
beautiful,  and  quite  charmed  me.] 

WHEN  summer's  verdant  beauty  flies, 
And  Autumn  glows  with  richer  dyes, 
A  softer  charm  beyond  them  lies — 

It  is  the  Indian  summer. 
Ere  winter's  snows  and  winter's  breeze 
Bereave  of  beauty  all  the  trees, 
The  balmly  spring  renewal  sees 

In  the  sweet  Indian  summer. 

And  thus,  dear  love,  if  early  years 
Have  drown'd  the  germ  of  joy  in  tears, 
A  later  gleam  of  hope  appears — 

Just  like  the  Indian  summer : 
And  ere  the  snows  of  age  descend, 
Oh  trust  me,  dear  one,  changeless  friend, 
Our  falling  years  may  brightly  end — 

Just  like  the  Indian  summer. 


THE  WAR-SHIP  OF  PEACE. 

[The  Americans  exhibited  much  sympathy  toward  Ireland 
vhen  the  famine  raged  there  in  1847.  A  touching  instance 
was  then  given  how  the  better  feelings  of  our  nature  may 
employ  even  the  enginery  of  destruction  to  serve  the  cause  of 
humanity; — an  American  frigate  (the  Jamestown,  I  believe), 
was  dismantled  of  all  her  warlike  appliances,  and  placed  at  the 
disposal  of  the  charitable  to  carry  provisions.] 

SWEET  Land  of  Song!  thy  harp  doth  hang 

Upon  the  willows  now, 
While  famine's  blight  and  fever's  pang 

Stamp  misery  on  thy  brow  ; 
Vet  take  thy  harp,  and  raise  thy  voice, 

Though  faint  and  low  it  be, 
And  let  thy  sinking  heart  rejoice 

In  friends  still  left  to  thee  ! 


Look  out — look  out — across  the  sea 

That  girds  thy  emerald  shore, 
A  ship  of  war  is  bound  for  thee, 

But  with  no  warlike  store ; 
Her  thunder  sleeps — 'tis  Mercy's  breath 

That  wafts  her  o'er  the  sea ; 
She  goes  not  forth  to  deal  out  death, 

But  bears  new  life  to  thee  ! 

Thy  wasted  hand  can  scarcely  strike 

The  chords  of  grateful  praise  ; 
Thy  plaintive  tone  is  now  unlike 

Thy  voice  of  former  days  ; 
Yet,  even  in  sorrow,  tuneful  still, 

Let  Erin's  voice  proclaim 
In  bardic  praise,  on  every  hill, 

Columbia's  glorious  name  ! 


AN    HONEST  HEART  TO  GUIDE  US. 

As  day  by  day 

We  hold  our  way 
Through  this  wild  world  below,  boys, 

With  roads  so  cross, 

We're  at  a  loss 
To  know  which  way  to  go,  boys : 

With  choice  so  vex'd 

When  man's  perplex'd, 
And  many  a  doubt  has  tried  him, 

It  is  not  long 

He'll  wander  wrong, 
With  an  honest  heart  to  guide  him. 

When  rough  the  way, 

And  dark  the  day, 
More  steadfastly  we  tread,  boys, 

Than  when  by  flowers 

In  wayside  bowers 
We  from  the  path  are  led,  boys : 

Oh  !  then  beware — 

The  serpent  there 
Is  gliding  close  beside  us  ; 

'Twere  death  to  stay — 

So  speed  the  way, 
With  an  honest  heart  to  guide  us. 

If  fortune's  gale 
Should  fill  our  sail, 


POEMS  OF  SAMUEL  LOVKK'. 


While  others  lose  the  wind,  boys, 

Look  kindly  back 

Upon  the  trnck 
Of  luckless  mates  behind,  boys: 

II'  we  won't  heed 

A  friend  in  need, 
May  rocks  ahead  abide  us ! 

Let's  rather  brave 

Both  wind  and  wave, 
With  an  honest  heart  to  guide  us ! 


THE  BIRTH  OF  SAINT  PATRICK. 

ON  the  eighth  day  of  March  it  was,  some 

people  say, 
That  Saint  Pathrick  at  midnight  he  first  saw 

the  day ; 
While  others  declare  'twas  the  ninth  he  was 

born, 
And  'twas  all  a  mistake  between  midnight 

O 

and  morn  ; 

For  mistakes  will  occur  in  a  hurry  and  shock, 
And   some   blamed   the   babby — and    some 

blamed  the  clock — 
'Till  with  all  their  cross  questions  sure  no 

one  could  know, 
If  the  child  was  too  fast — or  the  clock  was 

too  slow. 

Now  the  first  faction  fight  in  owld  Ireland, 

they  say, 

Was  all  on  account  of  Saint  Pathrick's  birth- 
day, 
Some  fought  for  the  eighth — for  the  ninth 

more  would  die, 
And    who   wouldn't    see   right,   sure    they 

blacken'd  his  eye ! 

At  last,  both  the  factions  so  positive  grew, 
That  each  kept  a  birthday,  so  Pat  then  had 

two, 
Till  Father  Mulcahy,  who  show'd  them  their 

sins, 
Said  "  No  one  could  have  two  birthdays,  but 

a  twins" 

Says  he,  "  Boys,  don't  be  fightin'  for  eight  or 

for  nine, 
Don't   be   always   dividin' — but   sometimes 

combine ; 


Combine  eight  with  nine,  and  seventeen  is 
the  mark, 

So  let  that  be  his  birthday." — "Amen,"  says 
the  clerk. 

"  If  he  wasn't  a  twins,  sure  our  hist'ry  will 
show 

That,  at  least,  he's  worth  any  two  saints  that 
we  know !" 

Then  they  all  got  blind  dhrunk — which  corn- 
plated  their  bliss, 

And  we  keep  up  the  practice  from  that  day 
to  this. 


THE   ARAB. 

[The  intcrcuting  fact  on  which  this  ballad  IB  founded  occui- 
rcd  to  Mr.  Davidson,  the  celebrated  traveller,  between  Mount 
Sinai  and  Suez,  on  his  overland  return  from  India  in  1839.  He 
related  the  dory  to  me  shortly  before  his  leaving  England  on 
his  last  fatal  journey  to  Tinibuctoo.] 

THE  noontide  blaze  on  the  desert  fell, 
As  the  traveller  reach'd  the  wish'd-for  well ; 
But  vain  was  the  hope  that  cheerM  him  on, 
His  hope  in  the  desert — the   waters — were 
gone. 

Fainting,  he  call'd  on  the  Holy  Name, 
And  swift  o'er  the  desert  an  Arab  came, 
Arid  with  him  he  brought  of  the  blessed  thins: 

O  O 

That  fail'd  the  poor  traveller  at  the  spring. 

"Drink!"  said  the  Arab, — "though  I  must 

fast, 

For  half  of  my  journey  is  not  yet  past ; 
Tis  long  e'er  my  home  or  my  children  I 

see, 
But  the  crystal  treasure  I'll  share  with  thee." 

"  Nay,"  said  the  weary  one,  "  let  me  die, — 
For  thou  hast  even  more  need  than  I ; 
And  children  hast  thou  that  are  watching 

for  thee, 
And  lam  alone  one — none  watch  for  n.«." 

"Drink!"    said   the  Arab.— "My  children 

shall  see 

Their  father  returning — fear  not  for  me : — 
For  HE  who  hath  sent  me  to  thee  this 
Will  watch  o'er  me  on  my  desert  way  " 


192 


POEMS  OF  SAMUEL  LOVER. 


FAG-AN-BEALACH. ' 

[This  song  occurs  in  a  scene  of  political  excitement  de- 
scribed in  the  etory  of  "  He  would  be  a  Gentleman,"  but 
might  equally  belong  to  many  other  periods  of  the  history  of 
Ireland,— a  harassed  land,  which  has  been  forced  to  nurse  in 
cecret  many  a  deep  and  dread  desire.] 

FILL  the  cup,  my  brothers, 

To  pledge  a  toast, 
Which,  beyond  all  others, 

We  prize  the  most ; 
As  yet  'tis  but  a  notion 

Wv  <*are  not  name  ; 
But  soon  o'er  land  and  ocean 

'Twill  fly  with  fame  ! 
Then  give  the  game  before  us 

One  view  holla, 
Hip  !  hurra  !  in  chorus, 

Fag-an-Bealach. 

We  our  hearts  can  fling,  boys, 

O'er  this  notion, 
As  the  sea-bird's  wing,  boys, 

Dips  the  ocean. 
'Tis  too  deep  for  words,  boys, 

The  thought  we  know, 
So,  like  the  ocean  bird,  boys, 

We  touch  and  go  ; 
For  dangers  deep  surrounding, 

Our  hopes  might  swallow  ; 
So,  through  the  tempest  bounding, 
Fag-an-Bealach. 

This  thought  with  glory  rife,  boys, 

Did  brooding  dwell, 
'Till  time  did  give  it  life,  boys, 

To  break  the  shell ; 
'Tis  in  our  hearts  yet  lying, 

An  unfledged  thing, 
But  soon,  an  eaglet  flying, 

'Twill  take  the  wing  ! 
For  'tis  no  timeling  frail,  boys, — 

No  summer  swallow, — 
'Twill  live  through  wintei-'s  gale,  boys, 
Fag-an-Bealach. 

Lawyers  may  indite  us 

By  crooked  laws, 
Soldiers  strive  to  fright  us 

From  country's  cause  ; 


But  we  will  sustain  it 

Living — dying — 
Point  of  law  or  bay'net 

Still  defying  ! 
Let  their  parchment  rattle  - 

Drums  are  hollow  • 
So  is  lawyers'  prattle — 

Fag-an-Bealach. 

Better  early  graves,  boys — 

Dark  locks  gory, 
Than  bow  the  head  as  slaves,  boys, 

When  they're  hoary. 
Fight  it  out  we  must,  boys, 

Hit  or  miss  it, 
Better  bite  the  dust,  boys, 

Than  to  kiss  it ! 
For  dust  to  dust  at  last,  boys — 

Death  will  swallow — 
Hark  !  the  trumpet's  blast,  boys, 
Fasr-an-Bealach. 


Pronounced  Faug-a-bollagh,  meaning  "'c'.eur  the  road, 
"  dear  the  way." 


THE  BRIDGE  OF  SIGHS. 

[The  mystery  attendant  upon  the  Councils  of  Venice  tn 
cveased  the  terror  of  their  rule.  A  covered  bridge  between 
the  Ducal  palace  and  the  State  prison  served  as  a  private  pas- 
sage, by  which  suspected  or  condemned  persons  were  trans- 
ferred at  once  from  examination  to  the  dungeon  —hence  it  wai 
called  "  The  Bridge  of  Sighs."] 

ABOVE  the  sparkling  waters, 

Where  Venice  crowns  the  tide, 
Behold  the  home  of  sorrow 

So  near  the  home  of  pride  ; 
A  palace  and  a  prison 

Beside  each  other  rise, 
And,  dark  between,  a  link  is  seen — 

It  is  "  The  Bridge  of  Sighs." 

Row,  gondolier,  row  fast,  row  fast,. 
Until  that  fatal  bridge  be  past. 

But  not  alone  in  Venice 

Are  joy  and  grief  so  near ; 
To-day  the  smile  may  waken, 

To-morrow  wake  the  tear  ; 
'Tis  next  the  "House  of  mourning" 

That  Pleasure's  palace  lies, 
'Twixt  joy  and  grief  the  passage  brief — 

Just  like  "  The  Bridge  of  Sighs." 

o  o 

Row,  gondolier,  row  fast,  row  fast, 
Until  that  fatal  bridge  be  past 


POKMS  OF  SAMUEL  LOVF.K. 


Who  seeks  for  joy  unclouded, 

Must  never  seek  it  here  ; 
But  in  a  purer  region — 

And  in  a  brighter  sphere ; 
To  lead  the  way  before  us, 

Bright  hope  unfailing  flies  : — 
This  earth  of  ours,  to  Eden's  bowers 

Is  but  a  "  Bridge  of  Sighs." 

Fly,  fly,  sweet  hope,  fly  fast,  fly  fast, 
Until  that  bridge  of  sighs  be  past. 


THE  CHILD  AND  AUTUMN  LEAF. 


by  the  river's  bank  I  stray'd 

Upon  an  autumn  day  ; 
Beside  the  fading  forest  there, 

I  saw  a  child  at  play. 
She  play'd  among  the  yellow  leaves  — 

The  leaves  that  once  were  green, 
And  flung  upon  the  passing  stream, 

What  once  had  blooming  been  : 
Oh  !  deeply  did  it  touch  my  heart 

To  see  that  child  at  play  ; 
It  w«*s  the  sweet  unconscious  sport 

f'>f  childhood  with  decay. 

P  air  child,  if  by  this  stream  you  stray, 

When  after-years  go  by, 
The  scene  that  makes  thy  childhood's  sport, 

May  wake  thy  age's  sigh  : 
When  fast  you  see  around  you  fall 

The  summer's  leafy  pride, 
And  mark  the  river  hurrying  on 

Its  ne'er-returning  tide  ; 
Then  may  you  feel,  in  pensive  mood, 

That  life's  a  summer  dream  ; 
And  man,  at  last,  forgotten  falls  — 

A  leaf  upon  the  stream. 


FORGIVE,  BUT  DON'T  FORGET. 

I'M  going,  Jessie,  far  from  thee, 
To  distant  lands  beyond  the  sea  ; 
I  would  not,  Jessie,  leave  thee  now, 
"With  anger's  cloud  upon  thy  bn>\v. 
Remember  that  thy  mirthful  frieml 
Might  sometimes  teane,  but  ne'er  off  'end  ; 


That  mirthful  friend  is  sad  the  while, — 
Oh,  Jessie,  give  ;i  parting  smile. 

Ah,  why  should  friendship  .larshly  chide 
Our  little  faults  on  either  side  ? 
From  friends  we  love  we  bear  with  those, 
As  thorns  are  pardon'd  for  the  rose : — 
The  honey-bee,  on  busy  wing, 
Producing  sweets — yet  bears  a  sting; 
The  purest  gold  most  needs  alloy, 
And  sorrow  is  the  nurse  of  joy. 

Then,  oh !  forgive  me,  ere  I  part, 
And  if  some  corner  in  thy  heart 
For  absent  friend  a  place  might  be — 
Ah  !  keep  that  little  place  for  me  ! 
"  Forgive — Forget,"  we're  wisely  told, 
Is  held  a  maxim  good  and  old  ; 
But  half  the  maxim's  better  yet : 
Then,  oh  !  forgive,  but  don't  forget! 


THE  GIRL  I  LEFT  BEHIND  ME. 

TIIK  hour  was  sad  I  left  the  maid, 

A  lingering  farewell  taking, 
Her  sighs  and  tears  my  steps  delay'd — 

I  thought  her  heart  was  breaking ; 
In  hurried  words  her  name  I  bless'd, 

I  breathed  the  vows  that  bind  me, 
And  to  my  heart,  in  anguish,  press'd 

The  girl  I  left  behind  me. 

Then  to  the  East  we  bore  away 

To  win  a  name  in  story ; 
And  there,  where  dawns  the  sun  of  day, 

There  dawn'd  our  sun  of  glory ! 
Both  blazed  in  noon  on  ALMA'S  height. 

Where,  in  the  post  assign'd  me, 
I  shared  the  glory  of  that  fight, 

Sweet  girl  I  left  behind  me. 

Full  many  a  name  our  banners  bore 

Of  former  deeds  of  daring, 
But  they  were  of  the  days  of  yore, 

In  which  we  had  no  sharing ; 
But  now,  our  laurels,  freshly  won, 

With  the  old  ones  shall  entwined  be, 
Still  worthy  of  our  sires,  each  son, 

Sweet  girl  I  left  behind  me. 


194 


POEMS  OF  SAMUEL  LOVER. 


The  hope  of  final  victory 

Within  ray  bosom  burning, 
Is    mingling    with     sweet    thoughts     of 
thee 

And  of  my  fond  returning: 
But  should  I  ne'er  return  again, 

Still  worth  thy  love  thou'lt  find  me, 
Dishonor's  breath  shall  never  stain 

The  name  I'll  leave  behind  me  ! 


THE  FLAG  IS  HALF-MAST  HIGH. 

A  BALLAD  OF  THE  WALMER  WATCH.* 

A  GUARD  of  honor  kept  its  watch  in  Wal- 

mer's  ancient  hall, 
And  sad  and  silent  was  the  ward  beside  the 

Marshal's  pall ; 
The  measured  tread  beside  the  dead  through 

echoing  space  might  tell 
How   solemnly   the   round    was   paced    by 

lonely  sentinel ; 

But  in  the  guard-room,  down  below,  a  war- 
worn veteran  gray 
Recounted  all  THE  HERO'S  deeds,  through 

many  a  glorious  day  : 
How,  'neath  the  red-cross  flag  he  made  the 

foes  of  Britain  fly — 
'  Though  now,  for  him,"  the  veteran  said, 

"  that  flag  is  half-mast  high  !" 

"  I  mark  one  day,  when  far  away  the  Duke 

on  duty  went, 
That   Sou  It   came   reconnoitering  our  front 

with  fierce  intent ; 
But  when  ais  ear  caught  up  our  cheer,  the 

cause  he  did  divine, 
He   could    not  doubt  why  that  bold  shout 

was  ringing  up  the  line; 
He  felt  it  was  the  Duke  come  back,  his  lads 

to  reassure, 
And  our  position,  weak  before,  he  felt  was 

then  secure," 


>  Arthur.  Field-Marshal  the  Duke  of  Wellington,  died  on 
the  14th  of  September,  US52,  at  Walmer  Castle,  where  MB  body 
lay  in  state  under  a  guard  of  honor. 

*  This  incident,  which  occurred  in  the  Pyrenees,  ig  related 
In  Napier's  "  History  of  the  Peninsular  War." 


He  beat  retreat,  while  we  did  beat  adv&nce, 

and  made  him  fly 
Before   the   conquering   flag — that   now   is 

drooping  half-mast  bighij 

And  truly  might  the  soldier  say  HIS  presence 

ever  gave 
Assurance  to  the  most  assured,  and  bravery 

to  the  brave ; 

His    prudence-tempered    valor — his    eagle- 
sighted  skill, 
And  calm  resolves,  the  measure  of  a  hero 

went  to  fill. 
Fair  Fortune  flew  before  him ;  'twas  conquest 

where  he  came — 
For  Victory  wove  her  chaplet  in  the  magic 

of  his  name, 
But  while  his  name  thus  gilds  the  past,  the 

present  wakes  a  sigh, 
To  see  his  flag  of  glory  now — but  drooping 

half-mast  high ! 

In  many  a  bygone  battle,  beneath  an  Indian 
sun, 

That  flag  was  borne  in  triumph  o'er  the 
sanguine  plains  he  won  ; 

Where'er  that  flag  he  planted,  impregnable 
became, 

As  Torres  Vedras'  heights  have  told  in  glit- 
tering steel  and  flame. 

'Twas  then  to  wild  Ambition's  Chief  he  flung 
the  gauntlet  down, 

And  from  his  iron  grasp  retrieved  the  ancient 
Spanish  crown ; 

He  drove  him  o'er  the  Pyrenees  with 
Victory's  swelling  cry, 

Before  the  red-cross  flag — that  now  is  droop- 
ing half-mast  high  ! 

And  when  once  more  from  Elba's  shore  the 

Giant  Chief  broke  loose, 
And  startled  nations  waken'd  from  the  calm 

of  hollow  truce, 
In   foremost    post    the    British   host    soon 

sprang  to  arms  again, 
And  Fate  in  final  balance  held  the  world's 

two  foremost  men. 
The  Chieftains  twain  might  ne'er  again  have 

need  for  aught  to  do, 
So,  once  for  all,  we  won  the  fall  at  glorious 

Waterloo ; — 


1'OK.MS  OF  SA.Ml  KL   LO  V  JLlt 


105 


The   work   was  dune,  -»i:«l    Wellington   his 

savior-sword  laid  by, 
And  now,  in  grief,  to  mourn  our  Chief — the 

flat;  is  half-mast  hisjh  ! 


I  CAN  NE'ER  FORGET  TIIEE. 

IT  is  the  chime ;  the  hour  draws  near 

When  you  and  I  must  sever ; 
Alas  !  it  must  be  many  a  year, 

And  it  may  be  forever. 
How  long  till  we  shall  meet  again  ; 

How  short  since  first  I  met  thee ; 
How  brief  the  bliss — how  long  the  pain — 

For  I  can  ne'er  forget  thee ! 

You  said  my  heart  was  cold  and  stern, 

You  doubted  love  when  strongest ; 
In  future  years  you'll  live  to  learn 

Proud  hearts  can  love  the  longest. 
Oh  !  sometimes  think  when  press'd  to  hear, 

When  flippant  tongues  beset  thee, 
That  all  must  love  thee  when  thou'rt  near ; 

But  one  will  ne'er  forget  thee  ! 

The  changeful  sand  doth  only  know 

The  shallow  tide  and  latest ; 
The  rocks  have  mark'd  its  highest  flow 

The  deepest  and  the  greatest : 
And  deeper  still  the  flood-marks  grow ; — 

So  since  the  hour  I  met  thee, 
The  more  the  tide  of  time  doth  flow 

The  less  can  I  forget  thee ! 


LOVE  AND  HOME  AND  NATIVE 
LAND. 


o'er  the  silent  deep  we  rove, 

More  fondly  then  our  thoughts  will  stray 
To  those  we  leave  —  to  those  we  love, 

Whose  prayers  pursue  our  watery  way. 
When  in  the  lonely  midnight  hour 

The  sailor  takes  his  watchful  stand, 
His  heart  then  i'eels  the  holiest  power 

Of  love  and  home  and  native  land. 


In  vain  may  tropic  climes  display 

Their  glittering   shores — their    gorgeoui 

shells ; 
Though  bright  birds  wing  their  dazzling  way, 

And  glorious  flowers  adorn  the  dells, 
Though  Nature,  there  prolific,  pours 

The  treasures  of  her  magic  hand, 
The  eye,  but  not  the  heart,  adores  : 

The  heart  still  beats  for  native  land. 


MEMORY  AND  HOPE. 

OFT  have  I  mark'd,  as  o'er  the  sea 

We've  swept  before  the  wind, 
That  those  whose  hearts  were  on  the  shore 

Cast  longing  looks  behind  ; 
While  they  whose  hopes  have  elsewhere  been, 

Have  watch'd  with  anxious  eyes 
To  see  the  hills  that  lay  before 

Faint  o'er  the  waters  rise 

'Tis  thus  as  o'er  the  sea  of  life 

Our  onward  course  we  track, 
That  anxious  sadness  looks  before, 

The  happy  still  look  back  ; 
Still  smiling  on  the  course  they've  pass'd, 

As  earnest  of  the  rest : — 
'Tis  Hope's  the  charm  of  wretchedness, 

While  Mem'ry  woos  the  blest. 


MOLLY  CAREW. 

OCH  IIONK  !  and  what  will  I  do  ? 
Sure  my  love  is  all  crost 
Like  a  bud  in  the  frost ; 
And  there's  no  use  at  all  in  my  going  to  bed, 
For  'tis  dhrames  and  not  sleep  cornea  into 

my  head, 

And  'tis  all  about  you, 
My  sweet  Molly  Carew — 
And  indeed  'tis  a  sin  and  a  shame  ; 
You're  complater  than  Nature 
In  every  feature, 
The  snow  can't  compare 
With  your  forehead  so  fair, 


196 


POEMS  OF  SAMUEL  LOVER. 


And  I  rather  would  see  just  one  blink  of 

your  eye 
Than  the  purtiest  star  that  shines  out  of  the 

sky; 

And  by  this  and  by  that, 
For  the  matter  o'  that, 
You're   more  distant  by  far  than  that 

same ! 

Och  hone  !  weirasthru  ! 
I'm  alone  in  this  world  without  you. 

Och  hone  !  but  why  should  I  spake 
Of  your  forehead  and  eyes 
When  your  nose  it  defies 
Paddy  Blake,  the  schoolmaster,  to  put  it  in 

rhyme  ? 
Though    there's   one    Burke,    he    says,  that 

would  call  it  sm^lime. 
And  then  for  your  cheek  ! 
Throth,  'twould  take  him  a  week 
Its  beauties  to  tell,  as  he'd  rather. 
Then  your  lips  !  oh,  mac/tree  ! 
In  their  beautiful  glow, 
They  a  patthern  might  be 
For  the  cherries  to  grow. 
'Twas  an  apple  that  tempted  our  mother,  we 

know, 

For  apples  were  scarce,  I  suppose,  long  ago  ; 
But  at  this  time  o'  day, 
'Pon  my  conscience  I'll  say 
Such    cherries    might    tempt    a    man's 

father  ! 

Och  hone  !  weirasthru  ! 
I'm  alone  in  this  world  without  you. 

Och  hone  !  by  the  man  in  the  moon, 
You  tase  me  always 
That  a  woman  can  plaze, 
For  you  dance  twice  as  high  with  that  thief, 

Pat  Magee, 
As  when  you  take  share  of  a  jig,  dear,  with 

me, 

Though  the  piper  I  bate, 
For  fear  the  owld  chate 
Wouldn't  play  you  your  favorite  tune ; 
And  when  you're  at  mass 
My  devotion  you  crass, 
For  'tis  thinking  of  you 
I  am,  Molly  Carew, 

While  you  wear,  on  purpose,   a  bonnet  so 
deep, 


That  I  can't  at  your  sweet  purty  face  <jet  a 

peep : — 

Oh,  lave  off  that  bonnet, 
Or  else  I'll  lave  on  it 
The  loss  of  my  wandherin'  sowl ! 
Och  hone  !  wevrasthru  ! 
Och  hone  !  like  an  owl, 
Day  is  night,  dear,  to  me,  without  you  I 

Och  hone  !  don't  provoke  me  to  do  it ; 
For  there's  girls  by  the  score 
That  love  me — and  more, 
And  you'd  look  very  quare  if  some  morning 

you'd  meet 
My  weddin'  all  marchin'  in  pride  down  the 

sthreet ; 

Throth,  you'd  open  your  eyes, 
And  you'd  die  with  surprise, 
To  think  'twasn't  you  was  come  to  it '    / 
And  faith  Katty  Naile, 
And  her  cow,  I  go  bail, 
Would  jump  if  I'd  say, 
"  Katty  Naile,  name  the  day.w 
And  though  you're  fair  and  fresh  as  a  morn 

ing  in  May, 
While   she's   short   and   dark  like  a  cowld 

winther's  day, 
Yet  if  you  don't  repent 
Before  Easther,  when  Lent 
Is  over  I'll  marry  for  spite  ! 
Och  hone!  weirasthru! 
And  when  I  die  for  you, 
My  ghost  will  haunt  you  every  night. 


MY  DARK-HAIRED  GIRL. 

MY  dark-hair'd  girl,  thy  ringlets  deck, 

In  silken  curl,  thy  graceful  neck ; 

Thy  neck  is  like  the  swan,  and  fair  as  the 
pearl, 

And  light  as'  air  the  step  is  of  my  dark- 
haired  girl. 

My  dark-haired  girl,  upon  thy  lip 
The  dainty  bee  might  wish  to  sip ; 
For  thy  lip  it  is  the  rose,  and  thy  teeth  they 

are  pearl, 
And  diamond  is  the  eye  of  my  dark-haire-1 

girl ! 


POEMS  OF  SAMUEL  LOVER. 


My  dark-haired  girl,  I've  promised  thee, 

And  thou  thy  faith  hast  given  to  me, 

And  oh,  I  would  not  change  for  the  crown 

of  an  earl 
The  pride  of  being  loved  by  my  dark-hair'd 

girl! 


KORAN'S  LAMENT. 

OH,  I  think  I  must  follow  my   CujtMa-mar 

chree, 
For  I  can't  break  the  spell  of  his  words 

so  enthralling : 
Closer   the   tendrils   around   my   heart 

creep — 
I  dream  all  the  day,  and  at  night  1  can't 

tileep, 
For  I  hear  a  sad  voice  that  is  calling  me — 

calling — 
"  Oh  Nor&h,  my  darling,  come  over  the  sea !" 

For  my  bi  ive  and  my  fond  one  is  over  the 

•sta, 
He    fought    for    "  the    cause"    and    the 

troubles  came  o'er  him  ; 
He  fled  for  his  life  when  the  king  lost 

the  day, 
He  fled  for  his  life — and  he  took  mine 

away  ; 
For  'tis  death  here  without  him:  I,  dying, 

deplore  him, 

Ob  !    life   of  my  bosom ! — my    Cushla-ma- 
chree  ! 


THE  SILENT  FAREWELL. 

IN  silence  we  parted,  for  neither  could  speak, 
But  the  tremulous  lip   and   the  fast-fading 

cheek 
To  both  were  betraying  what  neither  could 

tell- 
How  deep  was  the  pang  of  that  silent  fare- 
well! 

There   are   signs — ah !    the  slightest — that 

love  understands, 

In  the  meeting  of  eyes— in  the  parting  of 

hands- - 


In  the  quick-breathing  sighs  that    of  deep 

passion  tell  : 
Oh,  such  were  the  signs  of  our  silent  farewell ! 

There's    a    language    more    glowing     love 

teaches  the  tongue 
Than    poet   e'er  dream'd,  or   than  minstrel 

e'er  sung, 
But  oh,  far  beyond  all  such  language  could 

tell, 
The  love  that  was  told  in  that  silent  farewell ! 


'TWAS  THE  DAY  OF  THE  FEAST. 

[When  the  annual  tribute  of  the  flag  of  Waterloo  to  the 
crown  of  England  was  made  to  William  the  Fourth,  a  few 
hours  before  his  Majesty'*  lamented  death,  the  King  on  re- 
ceiving the  banner,  pressed  it  to  his  heart,  saying,  "  It  was  a 
glorious  day  for  England ;"  and  expressed  a  wish  he  might 
survive  the  day,  that  the  Duke  of  Wellington's  commemoration 
fete  of  the  victory  of  Waterloo  might  take  place.  A  dying 
monarch  receiving  the  banner  commemorative  of  a  national 
conquest,  and  wishing  at  the  same  time  that  his  death  might 
not  disturb  the  triumphal  banquet,  is  at  once  so  heroic  and 
poetic,  that  it  naturally  suggests  a  poum.] 

TWAS  the  day  of  the  feast  in  the  chieftain's 

hall, 

'Twas  the  day  he  had  seen  the  foeman  fall, 
'Twas  the  day  that  his  country's  valor  stood 
'Gainst  steel  and  fire  and  the  tide  of  blood : 
And   the  day  was   mark'd  by  his   country 

well— 
For  they  gave  him  broad  valleys,  the  hill 

and  the  dell, 
And  they  ask'd,  as  a  tribute,  the  hero  should 

bring 
The  flag  of  the  foe  to  the  foot  of  the  king. 

'Twas  the  day  of  the  feast  in  the  chieftain's 

hall, 

And  the  banner  was  brought  at  the  chief- 
tain's call, 

And  he  went  in  his  glory  the  tribute  to  bring, 
To  lay  at  the  foot  of  the  brave  old  king : 
But  the  hall  of  the  king  was  in  silence  and 

grief, 

And  smiles,  as  of  old,  did  not  greet  the  chief. 
For  he  came  on  the  angel  of  victory's  wing, 
While  the  angel  of  death  was  awaiting  the 
king. 


198 


POEMS  OF  SAMUEL  LOVE R. 


The  chieftain  he  knelt  by  the  couch  of  the 

king; 
"I  know,"  said  the  monarch,  "the  tribute 

you  bring, 

Give  me  the  banner,  ere  life  depart ;" 
And  he  press'd  the  flag  to  his  fainting  heart. 
"  It  is  joy,  e'en  in  death,"  cried  the  monarch, 

"  to  say 
That  my  country  hath  known  such  a  glorious 

day  ! 
Heaven  grant  I  may  live  till  the  midnight's 

fall, 
That  my  chieftain  may  feast  in  his  warrior 

hall !" 


WHAT  WILL  YOU  DO,  LOVE? 

"WHAT  will  you  do,  love,  when  I  am  going, 
With  white  sail  flowing, 

The  seas  beyond? — 

What  will  you  do,  love,  when  waves  Divide  us, 
And  friends  may  chide  us 

For  being  fond  ?" 
"Though  waves  divide   us,  and  friends  be 

chiding, 
In  faith  abiding, 

I'll  still  be  true  ! 

And  I'll  pray  for  thee  on  the  stormy  ocean, 
In  deep  devotion — 

That's  what  I'll  do  !"    ' 

"  What  would  you  do,  love,  if  distant  tidings 
Thy  fond  confidings 

Should  undermine  ? — 
And  I,  abiding  'neath  sultry  skies, 
Should  think  other  eyes 

Were  as  bright  as  thine?" 
"  Oh,  name  it  not ! — though  guilt  and  shame 
Were  on  thy  name, 

I'd  still  be  true  : 
But   that   heart   of  thine — should    another 

share  it — 
I  could  not  bear  it ! 

What  would  I  do  ?" 

"  What  would  you  do,  love,  when  home  re- 
turning, 
With  hopes  high-burning, 


With  wealth  for  you, 

If  my  bark,  which  bounded  o'er  foreign  foam, 
Should  be  lost  near  home — 

Ah !  what  would  you  do  ?" 
"  So  thou  wert  spared — I'd  bless  the  morrow 
In  want  and  sorrow, 

That  left  me  you ; 
And  I'd  welcome  thee  from  the  wasting  bil 

low, 
This  heart  thy  pillow-  — 

That's  what  I'd  do !" 


WHO  ARE  YOU? 

["There  are  very  impudent  people  in  London,'11  said  a 
country  cousin  of  mine  hi  1837.  "As  I  walked  down  the 
Strand,  a  fellow  stared  at  me  and  shouted,  'Who  are  yon?' 
Five  minutes  after  another  passing  me,  cried,  '  Flare  np'— 
but  a  civil  gentleman,  close  to  his  heels,  politely  asked,  '  How 
is  your  mother  ?'  ' 

This  mere  trifle  is  almost  unintelligible  now,  but  when  first 
published  was  so  effective  and  popular,  as  illustrating  genteelly 
the  slang  cries  of  the  street,  that  it  was  honored  by  French 
a.nd  Italian  versions  from  the  sparkling  pen  of  the  renowned 
"  Father  Prout,"  in  Bentley's  Miscellany.} 

"  WHO  are  you  ?  who  are  you  ? 

Little  boy  that's  running  after 
Everybody,  up  and  down, 

Mingling  sighing  with  your  laughter  ?" 
"  I  am  Cupid,  lady  Belle  ; 

I  am  Cupid,  and  no  other." 
"  Little  boy,  then  pry  thee  tell 

How  is  Venus  ? — Hole's  your  mother  f 
Little  boy,  little  boy, 

I  desire  you  tell  me  true, 
Cupid — oh,  you're  altered  so, 

No  wonder  I  cry,  Who  are  you  ? 

"  Who  are  you  ?  who  are  you  ? 

Little  boy,  where  is  your  bow  ? 
You  bad  a  bow,  my  little  boy " 

"  So  had  you,  ma'am — long  ago." 
"  Little  boy,  where  is  your  torch  ?" 

"  Madam,  I  have  given  it  up  : 
Torches  are  no  use  at  all — 

Hearts  will  never  now  flare  up" 
"  Naughty  boy,  naughty  boy, 

Such  words  as  these  I  never  knew ; 
Cupid — oh,  you're  altered  so, 

No  wonder  I  say,  Who  are  you  .*'* 


THE  POEMS  OE  GERALD  GRIFEIN. 


FHE  BRIDAL  OF  MALAHIDE. 

AN  IRISH  LEGEND. 

THE  joy-bells  are  ringing 

In  gay  Malahide, 
The  fresh  wind  is  singing 

Along  the  sea-side ; 
The  maids  are  assembling 

O 

With  garlands  of  flowers, 
A.nd  the  harpstrings  are  trembling 
In  all  the  glad  bowers. 

Swell,  swell  the  gay  measure  1 

Roll  trumpet  and  drum  ! 
'Mid  greetings  of  pleasure 

In  splendor  they  come  ! 
The  chancel  is  ready, 

The  portal  stands  wide 
For  the  lord  and  the  lady, 

The  bridegroom  and  bride. 

What  years,  ere  the  latter, 

Of  earthly  delight 
The  future  shall  scatter 

O'er  them  in  its  flight ! 
What  blissful  caresses 

Shall  Fortune  bestow, 
fire  those  dark-flowing  tresses 

Fall  while  as  the  snow  ! 

Before  the  high  altar 

Young  Maud  stands  array'd; 
With  accents  that  falter 

Her  promise  is  made — 
From  father  and  mother 

Forever  to  part, 
For  him  and  no  other 

To  treasure  her  heart. 


The  words  are  repeated, 

The  bridal  is  done, 
The  rite  is  completed — 

The  two,  they  are  one  ; 
The  vow,  it  is  spoken 

All  pure  from  the  heart, 
That  must  not  be  broken 

Till  life  shall  depart 

Hark !  'mid  the  gay  clangor 
That  compass'd  their  car, 

Loud  accents,  in  anger 
*Come  mingling  afar! 

The  foe's  on  the  bordei, 
His  weapons  resound 

Where  the  lines  in  disorder 
Unguarded  are  found. 

As  wakes  the  good  shepherd, 

The  watchful  and  bold, 
When  the  ounce  or  the  leopard 

Is  seen  in  the  fold  ; 
So  rises  already 

The  chief  in  his  mail, 
While  the  new-married  lady 

Looks  fainting  and  pale. 

"  Son,  husband,  and  brother, 

Arise  to  the  strife, 
For  sister  and  mother, 

For  children  and  wife  ! 
O'er  hill  and  o'er  hollow, 

O'er  mountain  and  plain, 
Up,  true  mm,  and  follow  ! — 

Let  dastards  remain  !" 

Fan-all  I  to  the  battle  ! 

They  form  into  line — 
The  shields,  how  they  rattle  ! 

The  spears,  ho\v  they  shine t 


200 


THE  POEMS  OF   GERALD  GRIFFIN. 


Soon,  soon  shall  the  foeman 

His  treachery  rue — 
On,  burgher  and  yeoman, 

To  die,  or  to  do ! 

The  eve  is  declining 
In  ione  Malahide, 
The  maidens  are  twining 

O 

Gay  wreaths  for  the  bride  ; 
She  marks  them  unheeding — 

Her  heart  is  afar, 
Where  the  clansmen  are  bleeding 

For  her  in  the  war. 

Hark  !  loud  from  the  mountain, 

'Tis  Victory's  cry ! 
O'er  woodland  and  fountain 

It  rings  to  the  sky  ! 
The  foe  has  retreated  ! 

He  flies  to  the  shore  ; 
The  spoiler's  defeated — 

The  combat  is  o'er  ! 

With  foreheads  unruffled 

The  conquerors  come — 
But  why  have  they  muflk-d 

The  lance  and  the  drum  ? 
What  form  do  they  carry 

Aloft  on  his  shield  ? 
And  where  does  he  tarry, 

The  lord  of  the  field  ? 

Ye  saw  him  at  morning, 

How  gallant  and  gay  1 
In  bridal  adorning, 

The  star  of  the  day  : 
Now  weep  for  the  lover — 

His  triumph  is  sped, 
His  hope,  it  is  over  ! 

The  chieftain  is  dead  ! 

But,  oh  for  the  maiden 

Who  mourns  for  that  chief, 
With  heart  overladen 

Ard  rending  with  grief! 
She  sinks  on  the  meadow — 

fn  one  morning-tide, 
A  wife  and  a  widow, 

A  maid  and  a  bride  ! 

Ye  maidens  attending, 
Forbear  to  condole  ! 


Your  comfort  is  rending 

O 

The  depths  of  her  soul. 
True — true,  'twas  a  story 

For  ages  of  pride  ; 
He  died  in  his  glory — 

But,  oh,  h»'  has  died  ! 

The  war-cloak  she  raises 

All  mournfully  now, 
And  steadfastly  gazes 

Upon  the  cold  brow. 
That  glance  may  forever 

Unalter'd  remain, 
But  the  bridegroom  will  never 

Return  it  again. 

The  dead-bells  are  tolling 

In  sad  Malahide, 
The  death-wail  is  rolling 

Along  the  sea-side ; 
The  crowds,  heavy  hearted, 

Withdraw  from  the  green, 
For  the  sun  had  departed 

That  brighten'd  the  scene  ! 

Even  yet  in  that  valley, 

Though  years  have  roll'd  by, 
When  through  the  wild  sally 

The  sea-breezes  sigh, 
The  peasant,  with  sorrow, 

Beholds  in  the  shade, 
The  tomb  where  the  morrow 

Saw  Hussy  convey'd. 

How  scant  was  the  warning, 

How  briefly  reveal'd, 
Before  on  that  morning 

Death's  chalice  was  fill'd  ! 
The  hero  who  drunk  it 

There  moulders  in  gloom, 
And  the  form  of  Maud  Flunket 

Weeps  over  his  tomb. 

The  stranger  who  wanders 

Along  the  lone  vale, 
Still  sighs  while  he  ponders 

On  that  heavy  tale : 
"  Thus  passes  each  pleasure 

That  earth  can  supply — 
Thus  joy  has  its  measure — 

We  live  but  to  die  1" 


THE  POEMS  OF  GERALD  GRIFFIN. 


•Jo} 


HAKK!    HARK!  THE  SOFT  BUGLE. 

HARK  !  hark  !  the  soil  bugle  sounds  over  the 

wood, 

And  thrills  in  the  silence  of  even, 
Till  faint,  and  more  faint,  in  the  far  solitude, 

It  dies  on  the  portals  of  heaven  ! 
But  echo  springs  up,  from  her  home  in  the 

rock, 

And  seizes  the  perishing  strain  ; 
And  sends  th<?  gay  challenge,  with  shadowy 

mock, 
From  mountain  to  mountain  again  ! 

And  again  ! 
From  mountain  to  mountain  again. 

Oh,  thus  let  my  love,  like  a  sound  of  delight, 
Be   around    thee    while    shines   the   glad 

day, 
And  leave  thee,  unpain'd,  in  the  silence  of 

night, 

And  die  like  sweet  music  away. 
While  hope,  with  her  warm  light,  thy  glan- 
cing eye  tills, 

Oh,  say — "  Like  that  echoing  strain, 
Though  the  sound  of  his  love  has  died  over 

the  hills, 
It  will  waken  in  heaven  again." 

And  again  ! 
It  will  waken  in  heaven  again. 


A  SOLDIER— A   SOLDIER  TO-NIGHT 
IS  OUR  GUEST. 

FAN,  fan  the  gay  hearth,  and  fling  back  the 

barr'd  door, 
Strew,  strew  the  fresh  rushes  around  on  our 

floor, 

&nd  blithe  be  the  welcome  in  every  breast — 
For   a   soldier — a    soldier    to-night   is    our 

gUCHt. 

All  honor  to  him  who,  when  danger  afar 

Had  lighted  for  ruin  his  ominous  star, 

Left    pleasure,   and   country,   and    kindred 

behind, 
And  sped  to  the  shock  on  the  wings  of  the 

wind. 


If  you  value  the  blessings  that  shine  at  our 

hearth — 
The  wife's  smiling  welcome,  the  infant's  sweet 

mirth — 
While  they  charm  us  at  eve,  let  us  think 

upon  those 
Who   have    bought   with   their   blood   oui 

domestic  repose. 

Then  share  with  the  soldier  your  hearth  and 

your  home, 
And  warm   be  your  greeting  whene'er  he 

shall  come ; 

Let  love  light  a  welcome  in  every  breast — 
For  a  soldier — a  soldier  to-night  is  our  guett 


AILEEN  AROON. 

WHEN  like  the  early  rose, 

Aileen  aroon  ! 
Beauty  in  childhood  blows, 

Aileen  aroon ! 
When  like  a  diadem, 
Buds  blush  around  the  stem, 
Which  is  the  fairest  gem  ? 

Aileen  aioon ! 

Is  it  the  laughing  eye  ? 

Aileen  aroon ! 
Is  it  the  timid  sigh  ? 

Aileen  aroon  ! 
Is  it  the  tender  tone, 
Soft  as  the  string'd  harp's  moan  * 
Oh,  it  is  truth  alone, 

Aileen  aroon  ! 

When,  like  the  rising  day, 

Aileen  aroon ! 
Love  sends  his  early  ray, 

Aileen  aroon  ! 

What  makes  his  dawning  glow 
Changeless  through  joy  or  woe  ? 
Only  the  constant  know, 

Aileen  aroon  ! 

'I  know  a  valley  fair, 

Aileen  aroon  ! 

I  knew  a  cottage  there, 

Aileen  aroon  ! 


302 


THE   POEMS   OF  GERALD   GRIFFIN. 


Far  in  that  valley's  shade 
I  knew  a  gentle  maid, 
Flower  of  the  hazel  glade, 
Aileen  aroon  ! 

Who  in  the  song  so  sweet, 

Aileen  aroon  ! 
Who  in  the  dance  so  sweet, 

Aileen  aroon  ! 

Dear  were  her  charms  to  me, 
Dearer  her  laughter  free, 
Dearest  her  constancy, 
Aileen  aroon  ! 

Were  she  no  longer  true, 
Aileen  aroon  ! 

What  should  her  lover  do  ? 
Aileen  aroon  ! 

Fly  with  his  broken  chain 

Far  o'er  the  sounding  main, 

Never  to  love  again, 

Aileen  aroon  ! 

Youth  must  with  time  decay, 
Aileen  aroon  ! 

Beauty  must  fade  away, 
Aileen  aroon  ! 

©astles  are  sack'd  in  war, 

Chieftains  are  scatter'd  far, 

Truth  is  a  fixed  star, 

Aileen  aroon  ! 


KNOW    YE 


NOT    THAT 
RIVER.1 


LOVELY 


AIE — "  Roy's  wife  of  Aldivalloch." 

KNOW  ye  not  that  lovely  river  ? 
Know  ye  not  that  smiling  river  ? 
Whose  gentle  flood, 
By  cliff  and  wood, 
With  wildering  sound  goes  winding  ever. 

Oh  !  often  yet  with  feeling  strong, 
On  that  dear  stream  my  memory  ponders, 

And  still  I  prize  its  murmuring  song, 
For  by  my  childhood's  home  it  wanders. 
Know  ye  not,  &c. 


There's  music  in  each  wind  that  flows 

Within  our  native  woodland  breathing  ; 
There's  beauty  in  each  flower  that  blows 

Around  our  native  woodland  wreathing. 
The  memory  of  the  brightest  joy  3 

In  childhood's  happy  morn  that  found  us, 
Is  dearer  than  the  richest  toys 

The  present  vainly  sheds  around  us. 
Know  ye  not,  &c. 

Oh,  sister !  when  'mid  doubts  and  fears, 

That  haunt  life's  onward  journey  ever, 
I  turn  to  those  departed  years, 

And  that  beloved  and  lonely  river ; 
With  sinking  mind  and  bosom  riven, 

And  heart  with  lonely  anguish  aching  ; 
It  needs  my  long-taught  hope  in  heaven 

To  keep  this  weary  heart  from  breaking  ! 
Know  ye  not,  &c. 


1  These  verses  were  written  at  the  request  of  hip  tit  tor.  who 
wrote  to  him  from  America  for  new  wordr-  for  the  old  Scotch 
tlr  of  Roy'e  wife  of  Aldivalloch 


'TIS,  IT  IS  THE  SHANNON'S  STREAM 

'Tis,  it  is  the  Shannon's  stream 

Srightly  glancing,  brightly  glancing 
See,  oh,  see  the  ruddy  beam 

Upon  its  waters  dancing  ! 
Thus  return'd  from  travel  vain, 
Years  of  exile,  years  of  pain, 
To  see  old  Shannon's  face  again, 

Oh,  the  bliss  entrancing ! 
Hail  our  own  majestic  stream, 

Flowing  ever,  flowing  ever, 
Silent  in  the  morning  beam, 

Our  own  beloved  river  ! 

Fling  thy  rocky  portals  wide, 

Western  ocean,  western  ocean  ; 
Bend  ye  hills,  on  either  side, 

In  solemn,  deep  devotion; 
While  before  the  rising  gales 
On  his  heaving  surface  sails 
Half  the  wealth  of  Erin's  vales, 

With  undulating  motion. 
Hail,  our  own  beloved  stream, 

Flowing  ever,  flowing  ever, 
Silent  in  the  morning  beam, 

Our  own  majestic  river  ! 


THE   POEMS  OF  GERALD   (JU1KFIN, 


On  thy  bosom  deep  :unl  wide, 

Noble  river,  lordly  river, 
Royal  navies  sate  might  ride, 

Green  Erin's  lovely  river. 
Proud  nj)on  thy  banks  to  dwell, 
Let  me  ring  Ambition's  knell, 
Lured  by  hope's  illusive  spell 

Again  to  wander,  never. 
Hail,  our  ov/n  romantic  stream, 

Flowing  ever,  flowing  ever, 
Bilent  in  the  morning  beam, 

Our  own  majestic  river ! 

Let  me  from  thy  pla,id  course, 

Gentle  river,  mighty  river, 
Draw  such  truth  of  silent  force 

As  sophist  uttered  never. 
Thus,  like  thee,  unchanging  still, 
With  tranquil  breast  and  order'd  will, 
My  heaven-appointed  course  fulfil, 

Undeviating  ever ! 
Hail,  our  own  majestic  stream, 

Flowing  ever,  flowing  ever, 
Silent  in  the  morning  beam, 

Our  own  delightful  river ! 


LOVE  MY  LOVE  IN  THE  MORNING. 

I  IOVE  my  love  in  the  morning, 

For  she  like  morn  is  fair — 
Her  blushing  cheek,  its  crimson  streak, 

Its  clouds  her  golden  hair. 
Her  glance,  its  beam,  so  soft  and  kind  ; 

Her  tears,  its  dewy  showers  ; 
And  her  voice,  the  tender  whispering  wind 

That  stirs  the  early  bowers. 

i  love  my  love  in  tin*  morning, 

I  love  my  love  at  noon, 
For  she  is  bright  as  the  lord  of  light, 

Yet  mild  as  autumn's  moon  : 
Her  beauty  is  my  bosom's  sun, 

ITer  faith  my  fostering  shade, 
And  I  will  love  my  darling  one, 

Till  even  the  sun  shall  fade. 

I  low  my  love  in  the  morning, 
I  love  my  love  at  even ; 


Her  smile's  soft  play  is  like  the  ray 
That  lights  tin-  western  heaven: 

I  loved  her  when  the  sun  was  high, 
I  loved  her  when  he  rose; 

But  best  of  all  when  evening's  sigh 
Was  murmuring  at  its  close. 


ORANGE  AND  GREEN. 

"  Erin,  thy  silent  tear  never  shall  cease- 
Erin,  thy  languid  smile  ne'er  chilli  increase, 
Till,  like  the  rainbow's  light. 
Thy  various  tints  unite. 
And  form  in  heaven's  eight 
One  arch  of  peace  I" 

THOMAS  Moon 

THE  night  was  falling  dreary 

In  merry  Bandon  town, 
When  in  his  cottage,  weary, 

An  Orangeman  lay  down. 
The  summer  sun  in  splendor 

Had  set  upon  the  vale, 
And  shouts  of  "  No  surrender!" 

Arose  upon  the  gale. 

Beside  the  waters,  laving 

The  feet  of  aged  trees. 
The  Orange  banners  waving, 

Flew  boldly  in  the  breeze — 
In  mighty  chorus  meeting, 

A  hundred  voices  join, 
And  life  and  drum  were  beating 

The  n<it(le  of  the  Boyne. 

Ha!  toward  his  cottage  nieing, 

What  form  is  speedy  now, 
From  yonder  thicket  flying, 

With  blood  upon  his  brow  ! 
"Hide — hide  me,  worthy  stranger! 

Thc'igh  green  my  color  be, 
And  in  the  day  of  danger 

May  Heaven  remember  theo  ! 

"  In  yonder  vale  contending, 
Alone  against  that  rrew, 

My  life  and  limbs  defending, 
An  Orangeman  I  slew. 

Bark  !  hear  thai  fearful  warning 
There's  death  in  everv  tone — 


204 


THE   POEMS   OF  GERALD   GRIFFIN. 


Oh,  save  my  life  to  morning, 

And  Heaven  pi'olong  your  own  !" 

The  Orange  heart  was  melted, 

In  pity  to  the  Green  ; 
He  heard  the  tale,  and  felt  it, 

His  very  soul  within. 
"Dread  not  that  angry  warning, 

Though  death  be  in  its  tone — 
I'll  save  your  life  till  morning, 

Or  I  will  lose  my  own." 

Now,  round  his  lowly  dwelling 

The  augry  torrent  press'd, 
A  hundred  voices  swelling, 

The  Orangeman  address'd — 
**  Arise,  arise,  and  follow 

The  chase  along  the  plain  ! 
In  yonder  stony  hollow 

Your  only  son  is  slain  !" 

With  rising  shouts  they  gather 

Upon  the  track  amain, 
And  leave  the  childless  father 

Aghast  with  sudden  pain. 
He  seeks  the  righted  stranger 

o  o 

In  covert  where  he  lay — 
"  Arise  !"  he  said,  "  all  danger 
Is  gone  and  past  away  ! 

"  I  had  a  son — one  only, 

One  loved  as  my  life, 
Thy  hand  has  left  me  lonely 

In  that  accursed  strife. 
I  pledged  my  word  to  save  thee, 

Until  the  storm  should  cease ; 
I  keep  the  pledge  I  gave  thee — 

Arise,  and  go  in  peace  !" 

The  stranger  soon  departed 

From  that  unhappy  vale ; 
The  father,  broken-hearted, 

Lay  brooding  o'er  that  tale. 
Full  twenty  summers  after 

To  silver  turn'd  his  beard  ; 
And  yet  the  sound  of  laughtej 

From  him  was  never  heard. 

The  night  was  falling  dreary, 
In  men  y  Wexford  town, 


When  in  his  cabin,  weary, 
A  peasant  laid  him  down. 

And  many  a  voice  was  singing 
Along  the  summer  vale, 

And  Wexford  town  was  ringing 
With  shouts  of  "  Granua  Uile.w 

Beside  the  waters  laving 

The  feet  of  aged  trees, 
The  green  flag,  gayly  waving, 

Was  spread  against  the  breeze ; 
In  mighty  chorus  meeting, 

Loud  voices  fill'd  the  town, 
And  fife  and  drum  were  beating, 

"  Down,  Orangemen,  lie  down  P* 

Hark !  'mid  the  stirring  clangor, 

That  woke  the  echoes  there, 
Loud  voices,  high  in  anger, 

Rise  on  the  evening  air. 
Like  billows  of  the  ocean, 

He  sees  them  hurry  on — 
And,  'mid  the  wild  commotion. 

An  Orangeman  alone. 

"My  hair,"  he  said,  "is  hoary, 

And  feeble  is  my  hand, 
And  I  could  tell  a  story 

Would  shame  your  cruel  band. 
Full  twenty  years  and  over 

Have  changed  my  heart  and  brow, 
And  I  am  grown  a  lover 

Of  peace  and  concord  now. 

"  It  was  not  thus  I  greeted 
Your  brother  of  the  Green, 

When,  fainting  and  d&fcated, 
I  freely  took  him  iu, 

I  pledged  my  word  feo  save  him 
From  vengeance  /Uehing  on  ; 

o  o  * 

I  kept  the  pledge  I  gave  him, 
Though  he  had  kill'd  my  son.'* 

That  aged  peasant  heard  him, 

And  knew  him  as  he  stood  ; 
Remembrance  kindly  stirr'd  him, 

And  tender  gratitude. 
With  gushing  *ears  of  pleasure 

He  pierced  the  listening  train — 
I'm  here  to  pay  the  measure 

Of  kindness  back  again  !" 


T1IK    I'OK.MS   OF  GERALD   GRIFFIN. 


205 


Upon  his  bosom  falling, 

That  old  man's  tears  came  down, 
Deep  memory  recalling 

That  cot  and  fatal  town. 
"  The  hand  that  would  offend  thee 

My  being  first  shall  end — 
I'm  living  to  defend  thee, 

My  savior  and  my  friend  P* 

He  said,  and,  slowly  turning, 

Address'd  the  wondering  crowd ; 
With  fervent  spirit  burning, 

He  told  the  tale  aloud. 
X<»w  press'd  the  warm  beholders, 

Their  aged  foe  to  greet ; 
They  raised  him  on  their  shoulders, 

And  chair'd  him  through  the  street. 

As  he  had  saved  that  stranger 

From  peril  scowling  dim, 
So  in  his  day  of  danger 

Did  Heaven  remember  him. 
By  joyous  crowds  attended, 

'The  worthy  pair  were  seen, 
And  their  flags  that  day  were  blended 

Of  Orange  and  of  Green. 


SLEEP   THAT  LIKE  THE   COUCHED 
DOVE. 

SLEEP,  that  like  the  couched  dove, 

Broods  o'er  the  weary  eye, 
Dreams  that  with  soft  heavings  move 

The  heart  of  memory — 
Labor's  guerdon,  golden  rest, 
Wrap  thee  in  its  downy  vest ; 
Fall  like  comfort  on  thy  brain, 
And  S'IIIL^  the  hush-song  to  thy  pain  1 

Far  from  thee  be  startling  fears, 
And  dreams  the  guilty  dream; 
No  banshee  scare  thy  drowsy  ears 

With  her  ill-omen'd  scream. 
But  tones  of  fairy  minstrelsy 
Float  like  the  ghosts  of  sound  o'er  thee, 
Soft  as  the  chapel's  distant  bell, 
And  lull  thee  to  a  sweet  farewell. 


Ye,  for  whom  the  a>hy  hearth 

The  fearful  housewife  clears — 
Ye,  whose  tiny  sounds  of  mirth 
The  nighted  carman  hears — 
Ye,  whose  pigmy  hammers  make 
The  wonderers  of  the  cottage  wake— 
Noiseless  be  your  airy  flight, 
Silent  as  the  still  moonlight. 

Silent  go  and  harmless  come, 

Fairies  of  the  stream — 
Ye,  who  love  the  winter  gloom, 

Or  the  gay  moonbeam — 
Hither  bring  your  drowsy  store, 
Gather'd  from  the  bright  lusmore, 
Shake  o'er  temples — soft  and  deep — 
The  comfort  of  the  poor  man's  sleep. 


GILLI  MA  CHREE. 

Gilli  ma  chree, 

Sit  down  by  me, 
We  now  are  joiu'd,  and  ne'er  shall  sever 

This  hearth's  our  own, 

Our  hearts  are  one, 
And  peace  is  ours  forever  ! 

When  I  was  poor, 

Your  father's  door 
Was  closed  against  your  constant  lover ; 

With  care  and  pain 

I  tried  in  vain 
My  fortunes  to  recover. 
I  said,  "  To  other  lands  I'll  roam, 

Where  Fate  may  smile  on  me,  love ;" 
I  said,  "  Farewell,  my  own  old  home  !" 
And  I  said,  "Farewell  to  thee,  love  !" 

I  might  have  said, 
My  mountain  maid, 

"Come,  live  with  me,  your  own  true  lover; 
I  know  a  spot, 
A  silent  cot, 

Your  friends  can  ne'er  discover. 
Where  gently  flows  the  waveless  tide, 

By  one  small  garden  only  ; 
Where  the  heron  waves  his  wings  HO  wide. 
And  the  Jnnet  sings  so  lonely  !" 


206 


THE   POEMS   OF  GERALD   GRIFFIN. 


I  might  have  said, 
My  mountain  maid, 
"  A  father's  right  was  never  given 
True  hearts  to  curse 
With  tyrant  force 
That  have  been  blest  in  heaven." 
But  then,  I  said,  "In  after-years, 

When  thoughts  of  home  shall  find  her, 
My  love  may  mourn  with  secret  tears 
Her  friends  thus  left  behind  her." 

Oh  !  no,  I  said, 
My  own  dear  maid, 
For  me,  though  all  forlorn,  forever 
That  heart  of  thine 
Shall  ne'er  repine 

0  er  slighted  duty — never. 

From  home  and  thee,  though  wandering  far, 

A  dreary  fate  be  mine,  love ; 
I'd  rather  live  in  endless  war, 

Thau  buy  my  peace  with  thine,  love. 

Far,  far  away, 
By  night  and  day, 

1  toil'd  to  win  a  golden  treasure ; 

And  golden  gains 

Repaid  my  pains 
In  fair  and  shining  measure. 
I  sought  again  my  native  land, 

Thy  father  welcom'd  me,  love ; 
1  potir'd  my  gold  into  his  hand, 

And  my  guerdon  found  in  thee,  love? 

Sing  Gilli  ma  c/iree, 

Sit  down  by  me, 
We  now  are  join'd,  and  ne'er  shall  sever; 

This  hearth's  our  own, 

Our  hearts  are  one, 
And  peace  is  ours  forever. 


OLD  TIMES  !    OLD  TIMES  ! 

OLD  times  !  old  times  !  the  gay  old  times  1 

When  I  was  young  and  free, 
And  heard  the  merry  Easter  chimes 

Under  the  sally  tree. 
My  Sunday  palm  beside  me  placed — 

My  cross  upon  my  hand — 
A  heart  at  rest  within  my  breast, 

And  sunshine  on  the  land  ! 

Old  times  !  Old  times  ! 


It  is  not  that  my  fortunes  flee, 

Nor  that  my  cheek  is  pale — 
I  mourn  whene'er  I  think  of  thee, 

My  darling,  native  vale ! — 
A  wiser  head  I  have,  I  know, 

Than  when  I  loiter'd  there ; 
But  in  my  wisdom  there  is  woe, 

And  in  my  knowledge  care. 

Old  times  !  Old  times  1 

I've  lived  to  know  my  share  of  joy, 

To  feel  my  share  of  pain — 
To  learn  that  friendship's  self  can  cloy, 

To  love,  and  love  in  vain— 
To  feel  a  pang  and  wear  a  smile, 

To  tire  of  other  climes — 
To  like  my  own  unhappy  isle, 

And  sing  the  gay  old  times  ! 

Old  times  !  Old  times ! 

And  sure  the  land  is  nothing  changed,' 

The  birds  are  singing  still ; 
The  flowers  are  springing  where  we  ranged, 

There's  sunshine  on  the  hill  ! 
The  sally,  waving  o'er  my  head, 

Still  sweetly  shades  my  frame — 
But,  ah,  those  happy  days  are  fled, 

And  I  am  not  the  same ! 

Old  times !  Old  times ! 

Oh,  come  again,  ye  merry  times  ! 

Sweet,  sunny,  fresh,  and  calm — 
And  let  me  hear  those  Easter  chimes, 

And  wear  my  Sunday  palm. 
If  I  could  cry  away  mine  eyes, 

My  tears  would  flow  in  vain — 
If  I  could  waste  my  heart  in  sighs, 

They'll  never  come  again  ! 

Old  times  !  Old  times  1 


A    PLACE    IN    THY    MEMORY, 
DEAREST. 

A  PLACE  in  thy  memory,  dearest, 

Is  all  that  I  claim, 
To  pause  and  look  back  when  thou  hearest 

The  sound  of  my  name. 
Another  may  woo  thee,  nearer, 

Another  may  win  and  wear; 


T1IK    I'OEMS   OF  GEliALI)    (1UIFFIX. 


I  care  not  though  he  be  dearer, 
If  I  am  remember'd  there. 

Remember  me — not  as  a  lover 

Whose  hope  was  eross'd, 
Whose  bosom  can  never  recover 

The  light  it  hath  lost; 
As  the  young  bride  remembers  the  mother 

She  loves,  though  she  never  may  see; 
As  a  sister  remembers  a  brother, 

O  dearest  !  remember  me. 

Could  I  be  thy  true  lover,  dearest, 

Couldst  thou  smile  on  me, 
I  would  be  the  fondest  and  nearest 

That  ever  loved  thee  ! 
But  a  cloud  on  my  pathway  is  glooming, 

That  never  must  burst  upon  thine ; 
\nd  Heaven,  that  made  thee  all-blooming, 

Ne'er  made  thee  to  wither  on  mine. 

Remember  me,  then  ! — Oh,  remember, 

My  calm,  light  love ; 
Though  bleak  as  the  blasts  of  November 

My  life  may  prove. 
That  life  will,  though  lonely,  bo  sweet, 

If  its  brightest  enjoyment  should  be 
A  smile  and  kind  word  when  we  meet, 

And  a  place  in  thy  memory. 


FOR  I  AM  DESOLATE. 

TUB  Christmas  light1  is  burning  bright 

In  many  a  village  pane, 
And  many  a  cottage  rings  to-night 

With  many  a  merry  strain. 
Young  boys  and  girls  run  laughing  by, 

Their  hearts  and  eyes  elate — 
I  can  but  think  on  mine,  and  sigh, 

For  I  am  desolate. 

There's  none  to  watch  in  our  old  cot, 

Beside  the  holy  light, 
No  tongue  to  bless  the  silent  spot 

Against  the  parting  night.* 


1  The  Christmas — a  light  l>lusced  by  the  priest,  and  lighted 
it  eunsct,  on  ChrlMmat)  eve.  In  Irish  houses.  It  is  a  kind  of 
.mplety  to  snuff,  touch,  or  use  it  for  any  profane  parpoocb 
after. 

*  It  in  the  custom,  in  Irish  Catholic  families,  to  sit  up  till 


I've  closed  the  door,  and  hither  come 
To  mourn  my  lonely  fate  ; 

I  cannot  bear  my  own  old  home, 
It  is  so  desolate. 

I  saw  my  father's  eyes  grow  dim, 

And  clasp'd  my  mother's  knee; 
I  saw  my  mother  follow  him — 

My  husband  wept  with  me. 
My  husband  did  not  long  remain — 

His  child  was  left  me  yet, 
But  now  my  heart's  last  love  is  slain, 

And  I  am  desolate  ! 


THE  BRIDAL  WAKE. 

THE  priest  stood  at  the  marriage  board 

The  marriage  cake  was  made, 
With  meat  the  marriage  chest  was  st<  red, 

Deck'd  was  the  marriage  bed. 
The  old  man  sat  beside  the  tire, 

The  mother  sat  by  him, 
The  white  bride  was  in  gay  attire  ; 

But  her  dark  eye  was  dim. 

Ululah  !  Ululah  ! 

The  night  falls  quick — the  sun  is  set; 
Her  love  is  on  the  water  yet. 

I  saw  a  red  cloud  in  the  west, 

Against  the  morning  light — 
Heaven  shield  the  youth  that  she  loves  beet 

From  evil  chance  to-night. 
The  door  flings  wide!     Loud  moans  the  gale; 

Wild  fear  her  bosom  fills — 
It  is,  it  is  the  banshee's  wail ! 

Over  the  darken'd  hills. 

Ululah  !  Ululah  ! 

The  day  is  past  !  the  night  is  dark  ! 
The  waves  are  mounting  round  his  bark. 

The  guests  sit  round  the  bridal  bed, 

And  break  the  bridal  cake  : 
But  they  sit  by  the  dead  man's  head, 

And  hold  his  wedding  wake. 


midnight  on  Christmas  eve,  in  order  to  join  in  devotion  at 
that  hour.  Few  ceremonies  of  religion  have  a  more  t>plen- 
did  and  Imposing  effect  than  the  morning  ma**,  which.  IB 
cine*,  it>  celebrated  soon  after  the  nour  alluded  to,  and  Ions 
before  daybreak. 


208 


THE   POEMS   OF  GERALD   GRIFFIN. 


The  bride  is  praying  in  her  room, 

The  place  is  silent  all ! 
A  fearful  call !  a  sudden  doom  ! 

Bridal  and  funeral. 

Ululah!  Ululah! 
A  youth  to  Kilfieheras"  ta'en 
That  never  will  return  again. 


Where  graceful  droop  and  clustering  dani 
The  osier  bright  and  rustling  willow ; 

The  hawthorn  xcents  the  leafy  dale, 
In  thicket  lone  the  stag  is  belling, 

And  sweet  along  the  echoing  vale 
The  sound  of  vernal  joy  is  swelling. 


AD  ARE. 

O  SWEET  Adare,  O  lovely  vale, 

O  soft  retreat  of  sylvan  splendor  ! 
Nor  summer  sun  nor  morning  gale 

E'er  hail'd  a  scene  more  softly  tender. 
How  shall  I  tell  the  thousand  charms, 

Within  thy  verdant  bosom  dwelling, 
When  lull'd  in  Nature's  fostering  arms, 

Soft  peace  abides  and  joy  excelling  ! 

Ye  morning  airs,  how  sweet  at  dawn 

The  slumbering  boughs  your  song  awaken, 
Or  linger  o'er  the  silent  lawn, 

With  odor  of  the  harebell  taken  ! 
Thou  rising  sun,  how  richly  gleams 

Thy  smile  from  far  Knockfierna's  mountain, 
O'er  waving  woods  and  bounding  streams, 

And  many  a  grove  and  glancing  fountain ! 

Ye  clouds  of  noon,  how  freshly  there, 

When  summer  heats  the  open  meadows, 
O'er  parched  hill  and  valley  fair, 

All  coolly  lie  your  veiling  shadows  ! 
Ye  rolling  shades  and*  vapors  gray, 

Slow  creeping  o'er  the  golden  heaven, 
How  soft  ye  seal  the  eye  of  day, 

And  wreathe  the  dusky  brow  of  even  ! 

In  sweet  Adare  the  jocund  Spring 

His  notes  of  odorous  joy  is  breathing, 
The  wild-birds  in  the  woodland  sing, 

The  wild-flowers  in  the  vale  are  breathing. 
There  winds  the  Hague,  as  silver  clear, 

Among  the  elms  so  sweetly  flowing  ; 
There  fragrant  in  the  early  year 

Wild  roses  on  the  banks  are  blowing. 

The  wild-duck  seeks  the  sedgy  bank 
Or  dives  beneath  the  glistening  billow 


»  The  name  of  a  churchyard  near  Kilkee. 


THE  POET'S  PROPHECY. 

IN  the  time  of  my  boyhood  I  had  a  strange 
feeling, 

That  I  was  to  die  in  the  noon  of  my  day ; 
Not  quietly  into  the  silent  grave  stealir-g, 

But  torn,  like  a  blasted  oak,  sudden  away. 

That,  e'en  in  the  hour  when  enjoyment  was 

keenest, 
My  lamp  should  quench  suddenly  hissing 

in  gloom, 
That  e'en  when  mine  honors  were  freshest 

and  greenest, 

A  blight  should  rush   over   and   scatter 
their  bloom. 

It  might  be  a  fancy — it  might  be  the  gloom- 
ing 
Of  dark  visions  taking  the  semblance  of 

truth, 
1  And  it  might  be  the  shade  of  the  storm  that 

is  coming, 

Cast  thus  in  its  morn  through  the  sunshine 
of  youth. 

But  be  it  a  dream  or  a  mystic  revealing, 
The  bodement  has  haunted  me  year  after 

year, 
And  whenever  my  bosom  with  rapture  was 

filling, 
I  paused  for  the  footfall  of  fate  at  mine  ear. 

With  this  feeling  upon  me  all  feverish  and 

glowing, 
I  rush'd  up  the  rugged-  way  panting  to 

Fame. 
I  snatch'd  at  my  laurels  while  yet  they  were 

growing, 

And  won  for  my  guerdon  the  half  of  a 
name. 


THE   POEMS   OF  GERALD   GKIFFIN. 


209 


My  triumphs  I  view'd  from  the  least  to  the 

brightest, 
As  gay  flowers  pluck'd  from  the  fingers  of 

Death, 
And  whenever  Joy's  garments  flow'd  richest 

and  lightest, 
I  look'd  for  the  skeleton  lurking  beneath. 

Oh,  friend  of  my -heart !  if  that  doom  should 

fall  on  me, 
And  thou  shouldst  live  on  to  remember 

my  love — 
Come  oft  to  the  tomb  when  the  turf  lies  upon 

me, 
And  list  to  the  even  wind  mourning  above, 

Lie  down  by  that  bank  where  the  river  is 

creeping 

All  fearfully  under  the  still  autumn  tree, 
When  each  leaf  in  the  sunset   is   silently 

weeping, 

And  sigh  for  departed  days — thinking  of 
me. 

But  when,  o'er  the  minstrel,  thou'rt  lonelily 
sighing, 

Forgive,  if  his  failings  should  flash  on  thy 

brain, 
Remember  the  heart  that   beneath  thee  is 

iying 

Can  never  awake  to  oflend  thee  again. 

Remember  how   freely   that  heart   that  to 

others 
"Was  dark  as  the  tempest-dawn  frowning 

above, 

Burst  open  to  thine  with  the  zeal  of  a  broth- 
er's, 

And  show'd  all  its  hues  in  the  light  of  thy 
love. 


TWILIGHT  SONG. 

DEWY  twilight !  silent  hour ! 
Welcome  to  our  cottage  bower  ! 
See,  along  the  lonely  meadow, 
Ghost-like,  falls  the  lengthen'd  shadow, 
While  the  sun,  with  level  shine, 
Turns  the  stream  to  rosy  wine ; 


And  from  yonder  busy  town 
Homeward  hies  the  lazy  clown. 

Hark  !  along  the  dewy  ground 
Stc.-ils  the  sheep-bell's  drowsy  sound; 
While  the  ploughman,  late  returning, 
Sees  his  cheerful  fagot  burning, 
And  his  dame,  with  kindly  smile, 
Meets  him  by  the  rustic  stile  ; 
While  beneath  the  hawthorn  mute 
Swells  the  peasant's  merry  fiute. 

Lass,  from  market  homeward  speed ; 
Traveller,  urge  thy  lagging  steed — 
Fly  the  dark  wood's  larking  danger ; 
Churl,  receive  the  'nighted  stranger — 
He  with  merry  song  and  jest 
Will  repay  thy  niggard  feast, 
And  the  eye  of  Heaven  above 
Smile  upon  the  deed  of  love. 

Hour  of  beauty !  hour  of  peace  ! 
Hour  when  care  and  labor  cease  ; 
When  around  her  hush'd  dominion 
Nature  spi'eads  her  brooding  pinion, 
While  a  thousand  angel  eyes 
Wake  to  watch  us  from  the  skies, 
Till  the  reason  centres  there, 
And  the  heart  is  moved  to  prayer. 


THE  MOTHER'S  LAMENT. 

MY  darling,  my  darling,  while  silence  is  on 

the  moor, 
And  lone  in  the  sunshine,  I  sit  by  our  cabin 

door ; 
When  evening  falls  quiet,  and  calm  overland 

and  sea, 
My  darling,  my  darling,  I  think  of  past  times 

and  thee ! 

Here,  while  on  this  cold  shore,  I  wear  out  my 
lonely  hours, 

My  child  in  the  heavens  is  spreading  my  bed 
with  flowers; 

All  weary  my  bosom  is  grown  of  this  friend- 
less clime — 

Hut  I  long  not  to  leave  it ;  for  that  were  a 
shame  and  crime. 


210 


THE  POEMS   OF   GERALD  GRIFFIN. 


They  bear  to  the  churchyard  the  youth  in 

their  health  away — 
I  know  where  a  fruit  hangs  more  ripe  for  the 

grave  than  they — 
But  I  wish  not  for  death,  for  my  spirit  is  all 

resign'd, 
And  the  hope  that  stays  with  me  gives  peace 

to  my  aged  mind. 

My  darling,  my  darling,  God  gave  to  my 
feeble  age 

A  prop  for  my  faint  heart,  a  stay  in  my  pil- 
grimage ; 

My  darling,  my  darling,  God  takes  back  his 
gift  again — 

And  my  heart  may  be  broken,  but  ne'er  shall 
my  will  complain. 


YOU   NEVER  BADE  ME   HOPE,  'TIS 
TRUE. 

You  never  bade  me  hope,  'tis  true — 

I  ask'd  yon  not  to  swear ; 
But  I  look'd  in  those  eyes  of  blue, 

And  read  a  promise  there. 

The  vow  should  bind  with  maiden  sicjhs 

CJ 

That  maiden's  lips  have  spoken — 
But  that  which  looks  from  maiden's  eyes 
Should  last  of  all  be  broken  ! 


f  JKE  THE  OAK  BY  THE  FOUNTAIN. 

LIKE  the  oak  by  the  fountain, 

In  sunshine  and  storm ; 
Like  the  rock  on  the  mountain, 

Unchanging  in  form ; 
Like  the  course  of  the  river, 

Through  ages  the  same ; 
Like  the  mist,  mounting  ever 

To  heaven,  whence  it  came. 

So  firm  be  thy  merit, 

So  changeless  thy  soul ; 
So  constant  thy  spirit, 

While  seasons  shall  roll ; 


The  fancy  that  ranges, 

Ends  where  it  began  ; 
But  the  mind  that  ne'er  Changes 

Brings  glory  to  man. 


THE  PHANTOM  CITY. 

A  STORY  I  heard  on  the  cliffs  of  the  west, 

That  oft,  through  the  breakers  dividing, 
A  city  is  seen  on  the  ocean's  wild  breast 

In  turreted  majesty  riding. 
But  brief  is  the  glimpse  of  that  phantom  sa 
bright, 

Soon  close  the  white  waters  to  screen  it, 
And  the  bodement,  they  say,  of  the  wonder, 
ful  sight, 

Is  death  to  the  eyes  that  have  seen  it. 

I  said,  when  they  told  me  the  wonderful  taU? 

My  country,  is  this  not  thy  story  ? 
Thus  oft,  through  the  breakers  of  discord 
we  hail 

A  promise  of  peace  and  of  glory. 
Soon  gulphed  in  those  waters  of  hatred  again. 

No  longer  our  fancy  can  find  it, 
And  woe  to  our  hearts  for  the  vision  so  vain ;, 

For  ruin  and  death  come  behind  it. 


WAR!   WAR!   HORRID  WAR! 

WAR  !  War  !  Horrid  war ! 

Fly  our  lovely  plain, 
Guide  fleet  and  far 

Thy  fiery  car, 
And  never  come  again, 

And  never, 
Never  come  again  ! 

Peace  !  Peace !  smiling  Peace  ! 

Bless  our  lonely  plain, 
Guide  swiftly  here 

Thy  mild  career, 
And  never  go  again ! 

And  never, 
Never  go  again  ! 


TIIE   POEMS   OF  GERALD   GRIFFIN. 


211 


GONE!  GONE!  FOREVER  GONE. 

GONE,  gone,  forever  gone 
Are  the  hopes  I  cherish'd, 

Changed  like  the  sunny  dawn, 
In  sudden  showers  perish'd. 

Wither'd  is  the  early  flower, 
Like  a  bright  lake  broken, 

Faded  like  a  happy  hour, 
Or  Love's  secret  spoken. 

Life  !  what  a  cheat  art  thou  ! 

On  youthful  fancy  stealing, 
A  prodigal  in  promise  now ; 

A  miser  in  fulfilling  ! 


SONNETS. 

ADDRESSED   TO   FRIENDS  IN  AMERICA,   AND  PRE- 
FIXED TO  "  CARD-DRAWING,"  ONE  OF  THE 
TALES  OF  THE  MUNSTEK  FESTIVALS. 

FRIENDS  far  away — and  late  in  life  exiled — 
Whene'er  these  scatter'd  pages  meet  your 

gaze, 
Think  of  the   scenes  where  early  fortune 

smiled — 
The  land  that  was  your  home  in  happier 

days — 

The  sloping  lawn,  to  which  the  tired  rays 
Of  evening  stole  o'er  Shannon's   sheeted 

flood— 

The  hills  of  Clare,  that  in  its  softening  haze 
Look'd   vapor-like  and    dim — the   lonely 

wood — 

The  cliff-bound  Inch — the  chapel  in  the  glen, 
Where  oft,  with  bare  and  reverent  locks, 

we  stood, 
To  hear  the  Eternal  truths — the  small  dark 

maze 
Of  the  wild  stream  that  clipp'd  the  blossom'd 

plain, 

And  toiling  through  the  varied  solitude, 
Upraised  its  hundred  silver  tongues  and 
babbled  praise. 

That  home  is  desolate  !  our  quiet  hearth 
Is  ruinous  and  cold — and  many  a  sight 


And  many  a  sound  are  met  of  vulgar  mirth, 
Where  once  your  gentle  laughter  cheer'd 

the  night. 

It  is  as  with  your  country.     The  calm  light 
Of  social  peace  for  her  is  quenched  too — 
Rude  Discord  blots  her  scenes  of  old  de- 
light, 
Her    gentle    virtues    scared    away — like 

you. 

Remember  her  when  in  this  tale  you  meet 
The  story  of  a  struggling  right — of  ties 
Fast  bound  and  swiftly  rent — of  joy — of 

pain — 
Legends  which  by  the  cottage   fire  sound 

sweet ; 

Nor  let  the  hand  that  wakes  those  memo- 
ries 

(In  faint  but  fond  essay)  be  unremsmberM 
then. 


WAR  SONG  OF  O'DRISCOL. 

FROM  the  shieling  that  stands  by  the  lone 
mountain  river, 

Hurry,  hurry  down  with  the   axe  and  the 
quiver ; 

From  the  deep-seated  Coom,  from  the  storm- 
beaten  highland, 

Hurry,  hurry  down  to  the  shores  of  your 
island. 

Hurry  down,  hurry  down  ! 
Hurry,  hurry,  <fcc. 

Galloglach  and  Kern,  hurry  down  to  the 

sea — 
There  the  hungry  Raven's  beak  is  gaping 

for  a  prey ; 
Farrah  !    to  the  onset !      Farrah !    to  the 

shore ! 
Feast  him  with  the  pirate's  flesh,  the  bird  of 

gloom  and  gore  ! 

Hurry  down,  hurry  down  ! 
Hurry  down,  &c. 

Hurry,  for  the  slaves  of  Bel  are  mustering 

to  meet  ye ; 
Hurry  by  the  beaten  cliff,  the   Nordman 

longs  to  greet  yo ; 


212 


POEMS  OF  GERALD  GRIFFIN. 


Hurry   n^m   the   mountain !    hurry,    hurry 

from  the  plain  ! 

Welcome  him,  and  never  let  him  leave  our 
land  again ! 

Hurry  down,  hurry  down  ! 
Hurry  down,  &c. 

On  the  land  a  sulky  wolf,  and  in  the  sea  a 

shark, 
Hew  the  ruffian  spoiler  down,  and  burn  his 

gory  bark  ! 

Slayer  of  the  unresisting !  ravager  profane  ! 
Leave     the    White    sea-tyrant's    limbs    to 
moulder  on  the  plain. 

Hurry  down,  hurry  down  ! 
Hurry  down,  &c. 


MY  SPIRIT  IS  OF  PENSIVE  MOULD. 

MY  spirit  is  of  pensive  mould, 

I  cannot  laugh  as  once  of  old, 

When  sporting  o'er  some  woodland  scene, 

A  child  I  trod  the  dewy  green. 

I  cannot  sing  my  merry  lay, 
As  in  that  past  unconscious  day  ; 
For  time  has  laid  existence  bare, 
And  shown  me  sorrow  lurking  there. 

I  would  I  were  the  lonely  breeze 
That  mourns  among  the  leafless  trees, 
That  I  might  sigh  from  morn  till  night 
O'er  vanish'd  peace  and  lost  delight. 

I  would  I  were  the  heavy  shower 
That  falls  in  spring  on  leaf  arid  bower, 
That  I  might  weep  the  livelong  day 
For  erring  man  and  hope's  d^cay  : 

For  all  the  woe  beneath  the  sun, 
For  all  the  wrong  to  virtue  done, 
For  every  soul  to  falsehood  gain'd, 
For  every  heart  by  evil  ptain'd : 

For  man  by  man  in  durance  held, 
For  early  dreams  of  joy  dispell'd, 
For  all  the  hope  the  world  awakes 
In  youthful  he?vrts,  and  after  breaks. 


But  still,  though  hate,  and  fraud,  and  strife 
Have  stain'd  the  shining  web  of  life, 
Sweet  Hope  the  glowing  woof  renews, 
In  all  its  old,  enchanting  hues. 

Flow  on,  flow  on,  thou  shining  stream  ! 
Beyond  life's  dark  and  changeful  dream. 
There  is  a  hope,  there  is  a  joy, 
This  faithless  world  can  ne'er  destroy. 

Sigh  on,  sigh  on,  'ye  gentle  winds  , 
For  stainless  hearts  and  faithful  mind* 
There  is  a  bliss  abiding  true, 
That  shall  not  pass  and  die  like  you. 

Shine  on,  shine  on,  thou  glorious  sun  i 
When  Day  his  latest  course  has  run, 
On  sinless  hearts  shall  rise  a  light 
That  ne'er  shall  set  in  gloomy  night 


IMPROMPTU. 

ON   SEEING   AN    IRIS   FORMED  BY  THE    SPRAY  OF 
THE    OCEAN   AT  MILTOWN  MALBAY. 

On,  sun-color'd  breaker!    when  gazing  on 
thee 

I  think  of  the  Eastern  story, 
How  beauty  arose  from  the  foam  of  the  sea — 

A  creature  of  light  and  of  glory. 
But,  hark  !  a  hoarse  answer  is  sent  from  the 
wave, 

"  No — Venus  was  never  my  daughter — 
To  golden-hair'd  Iris  her  being  I  gave, 

Behold  where  she  shines  o'er  the  water." 


FRIENDSHIP. 

A   WEARY  time  hath  pass'd  since  last  we 

parted ; 

Thy  gentle  eye  was  fill'd  with  sorrow,  and 
I  did  not  speak,  but  press'd  thy  trembling 

hand, 

Even  in  that  hour  of  rapture,  broken  hearted. 
I  have   not   seen   thee   since — for  thou  art 

changed; 
There  sits  a  coldness  on  thy  iip  and  brow— 


POEMS  OF  GERALD  GRIFFIN. 


213 


The  look,  the  tone,  the  smile,  are  alter'd 

now, 

And  all  about,  within  thee,  quite  estranged. 
I  have  not  seen  thee  since — although  per- 
chance, 

Among  the  heartless  and  the  vain,  on  me 

All  coldly  courteous  lights  thy  lovely  glance. 

Yet  art  thou  happier  ?     Oh,  if  such  may  be 

The  love   that  Friendship   vows — give   me 

again 

My  heart,  my  days  of  peace,  my  lute,  and 
listening  plain. 


FAME. 

WHY  hast  thou  lured  me  on,  fond  muse,  to 

quit 

The  path  of  plain  dull  worldly  sense,  and  be 
A  wanderer  through  the  realms  of  thought 

with  thee ; 
While  hearts  that  never  knew  thy  visitings 

sweet, 

<  'old  souls  that  mock  thy  quiet  melancholy, 
Win  their  bright  way  up  Fortune's  glitter- 
ing wheel ; 

And  we  sit  lingering  here  in  darkness  still, 
Scorn'd  by  the  bustling  sons  of  wealth  and 

folly  ? 
Yet  still  thou  whisperest  in  mine  ear,  "  The 

day — 

The  day  may  be  at  hand  when  thou  and  I 
(The  season  of  expectant  pain  gone  by) 
Shall  tread  to  Joy's  bright  porch  a  smiling 

way, 

And  rising,  not  as  once  with  hurried  wincr, 
To  purer  skies  aspire,  and  hail   a   lovelier 
spring." 


WRITTEN  IN  ADARE  IN  1820. 

I  LOOK'D  upon  a  dark  and  sullen  sea 

Over  whose  slumbering  wave  the  night's 

mists  hung, 
Till  from  the  morn's  gray  breast  a  fresh 

wind  sprung 
And  sought  its  brightening  bosom  joyously ; 


Then   nYd    the   mi>ts    its   quickening  breath 

before ; 
The  glad  sea  rose  to  meet  it — and  each 

wave, 

Retiring  from  the  sweet  caress  it  gave, 
Made  summer  music  to  the  listening  shore. 
So  slept  my  soul,  unmindful  of  thy  reign  ; 
But  the  sweet  breath  of  thy  celestial  grace, 
I  lath   risen — oh,  let  its  quickening  spirit 

chase 
From  that  dark  seat,  each  mist  and  secret 

stain, 

Till,  as  yon  clear  water,  mirror'd  fair, 
Heaven  sees   its   own    calm   hues   reflected 
there. 


THE  WAKE  OF  THE  ABSENT.1 

THE  dismal  yew  and  cypress  tall, 

Wave  o'er  the  churchyard  lone, 
Where  rest  our  friends  and  fathers  all, 

Beneath  the  funeral  stone. 
Unvex'd  in  holy  ground  they  sleep : 

Oh,  early  lost !  o'er  thee 
No  sorrowing  friend  shall  ever  weep, 

Nor  stranger  bend  the  knee. 
Mo  chuma  !  lorn  am  I ! 
Hoarse  dashing  rolls  the  salt-sea  wave 
Over  our  perish'd  darling's  grave. 

The  winds  the  sullen  deep  that  tore 

His  death-song  chanted  loud, 
The  weeds  that  line  the  clifted  shore 

Were  all  his  burial-shroud ; 
For  friendly  wail  and  holy  dirge 

And  long  lament  of  love, 
Around  him  roar'd  the  angry  surge, 

The  curlew  scream'd  above. 
Mo  chuma  !  lorn  am  I, 
My  grief  would  turn  to  rapture  now, 
Might  I  but  touch  that  pallid  brow. 

The  stream-born  bubbles  soonest  burst, 
That  earliest  left  the  source: 


It  Is  the  ciiftoni  ainitiii;  tin-  jic.-i-antry  In  tome  pans  of 
Ireland,  when  any  member  of  a  family  has  been  lost  at  s>e*  (at 
In  any  other  way  which  reiulrr*  the  performance  of  the  cus- 
tomary funeral  rite  liiip<iM*il>l<->.  in  celebrate  the  "wake." 
exactly  In  the  same  way  as  if  the  corpse  wa*  actually  pr?M-ui 


POEMS  OF  GERALD  GRIFFIN. 


Buds  earliest  blown  are  faded  first, 

In  Nature's  wontod  course ; 
With  guarded  pace  her  seasons  creep, 

By  slow  decay  expire, 
The  young  above  the  aged  weep, 

The  son  above  the  sire  : 

Mo  chuma  !  lorn  am  I, 
That  death  a  backward  course  should  hold, 
To  smite  the  young  and  spare  the  old. 


ON    PULLING   SOME  CAMPANULAS 
IN  A  LADY'S  GARDEN. 

OH,  weeds  will  haunt  the  loveliest  scene 

The  summer  sun  can  see, 
And  clouds  will  sometimes  come  between 

The  truest  friends  that  be. 
And  thoughts  unkind  will  come  perchance, 

And  haply  words  of  blame, 
For  pride  is  man's  inheritance, 

And  frailty  is  his  name. 

Yet  while  I  pace  this  leafy  vale, 

That  nursed  thine  infancy — 
And  hear  in  every  passing  gale 

A  whisper'd  sound  of  thee, 
My  'nighted  bosom  wakes  anew 

To  Feeling's  genial  ray, 
And  each  dark  mist  on  Memory's  view 

Melts  into  light  away. 

The  flowers  that  grace  this  shaded  spot — 

Low,  lovely,  and  obscure — 
Are  like  the  joys  thy  friendship  brought — 

Unboasted,  sweet,  and  pure. 
Now  wither'd  is  their  autumn  blow, 

And  changed  their  simple  hue, 
Ah  !  must  it  e'er  be  mine  to  know 

Their  type  is  faded  too  ? 

Yet  should  those  well-remember'd  hours 

Return  to  me  no  more, 
And,  like  those  cull'd  and  faded  flowers, 

Their  day  of  life  be  o'er — 
In  memory's  fragrant  shrine  conceal'd, 

A  sweeter  joy  they  give, 
Than  aught  the  world  again  can  yield 

Oi  I  again  receive. 


THEY    SPEAK    OF    SCOTLAND'S 
HEROES    OLD. 

THEY  speak  of  Scotland's  heroes  old, 
Struggling  to  make  their  country  free, 

And  in  that  hour  my  heart  grows  cold, 
For,  Erin,  then  I  think  of  thee  ! 

They  boast  their  Bruce  of  Bannockburn, 
Their  noble  Knight  of  Ellerslie  ; 

To  Erin's  sons  I  proudly  turn — 
My  country,  then  I  smile  for  thee. 

They    boast,   though    joiu'd    to   England'^ 
power, 

Scotland  ne'er  bow'd  to  slavery ; 
An  equal  league  in  danger's  hour — 

My  country,  then  I  weep  for  thee. 

And  when  they  point  to  our  fair  Isle, 
And  say  no  patriot  hearts  have  we, 

That  party  stains  the  work  defile — 
My  country,  then  I  blush  for  thee. 

But  Hope  says,  "  Blush  or  tear  shall  never 
Sully  approving  Fame's  decree." 

When  Freedom's  word  her  bond  shall  sever — 
My  country,  then  I'll  joy  in  thee. 

But  oh  !  be  Scotland  honor'd  long, 

Be  envy  ever  far  from  me, 
My  simple  lay  meant  her  no  wrong — 

My  country,  it  was  but  for  thee  ! 


O'BRAZIL,  THE  ISLE  OF  THE  BLEST, 

A  SPECTRE  ISLAND,  SAID  TO  BE  SOMETIMES  VISIBLE 
ON  THE  VERGE  OF  THE  WESTERN  HORI- 
ZON, IN  THE  ATLANTIC,  FROM 
THE  ISLES  ON  ARRAN. 

ON  the  ocean  that  hollows  the  rocks  wher* 

ye  dwell, 

A  shadowy  land  has  appear'd,  as  they  tell ; 
Men  thought  it  a  region  of  sunshine  and  rest, 
And  they  call'd  it  O'Brazil,  the  Isle  of  the 

Blest. 
From  year  unto  year,  on  the  ocean's  blue 

rim, 
The  beautiful  spectre  show'd  lovely  and  dim ; 


POEMS  OF  GERALD  GRIFFIN. 


215 


The  golden  clouds  curtain'd  the  deep  where 

it  lay, 
And  it  look'd  like  an  Eden,  away,  far  away ! 

A  peasant  who  heard  of  the  wonderful  tale, 
Jfn  the  breeze  of  the  Orient  loosen'd  his  sail; 
From  Ara,  the  holy,  he  turn'd  to  the  west, 
For  ihovfrn  Ara  was  holy,  O'Brazil  was  blest. 
He  heard  not  the  voices  that  call'd  from  the 
phore — 

not  the  rising  wind's  menacing  roar ; 
",  kindred,  and  safety  he  left  on  that  day, 
And  he  sped  to  O'Brazil,  away,  far  away  ! 

Morn  rose  on  the  deep,  and  that  shadowy 

Isle, 
O'er  the  faint  rim  of  distance  reflected  its 

smile ; 
Noon  burn'd  on  the  wave,  and  that  shadowy 

•bore 

^eem'd  lovelily  distant,  and  faint  as  before : 
T.one  evening  came  down  on  the  wanderer's 

o 

track, 

A.nd  to  Ara  again  he  look'd  timidly  back  ; 
Oh  !  far  on  the  verge  of  the  ocean  it  lay, 
Yet  the  Isle  of  the  Blest  was  away,  far  away ! 

Rash  dreamer,  return  !    O  ye  winds  of  the 

main, 
Bear  him  back   to   his   own   peaceful   Ara 

again ; 

Rash  fool !  for  a  vision  of  fanciful  bliss, 
To  barter  thy  calm  life  of  labor  and  peace. 
The  warning  of  reason  was  spoken  in  vain, 
He  never  revisited  Ara  again ; 
Night  fell  on  the  deep,  amidst  tempest  and 

spray, 
And  he  died  on  the  waters,  away,  far  away ! 

To  you,  gentle  friends,  need  I  pause  to  reveal 
The  lessons  of  prudence  my  verses  conceal ; 
How  the  phantom  of  pleasure  seen  distant 

in  youth, 
Oft  lures  a  weak  heart  from  the  circle  of 

truth. 

All  lovely  it  seems  like  that  shadowy  Isle, 
And  the  eye  of  the  wisest  is  caught  by  its 

smile ; 

But,  ah  !  for  the  heart  it  has  tempted  to  stray 
From  the  sweet  home  of  duty,  away,  far 

away! 


Poor  friendless  adventurer  !  vainly  might  he 
Look  back  to  green  Ara,  along  the  wild  sea ; 
But  the  wandering  heart  has  a  guardian 

above, 
Who,  though  erring,  remembers  the  child  of 

his  love. 

Oh,  who  at  the  proffer  of  safety  would  spurn, 
When  all  that  he  asks  is  the  will  to  return  ; 
To  follow  a  phantom,  from  day  unto  day, 
And  die  in  the  tempest,  away,  far  away  ! 


LINES  ADDRESSED  TO  A  SEAGULL, 

SEEN  OFF  THE  CLIFFS  OF  MOHER,  m  THE 
COUNTY  OF  CLARE. 

WHITE  bird  of  the  tempest !    oh,  beautiful 

thing, 
With  the  bosom  of  snow,  and  the  motionless 

wing; 
Now  sweeping  the  billow,  now  floating  on 

high, 
Now  bathing  thy  plumes  in  the  light  of  the 

sky; 

Now  poising  o'er  ocean  thy  delicate  form, 
Now  breasting  the  surge  with  thy  bosom  so 

warm ; 

Now  darting  aloft,  with  a  heavenly  scorn, 
Now  shooting  along,  like  a  ray  of  the  morn  ; 
Now  lost  in  the  folds  of  the  cloud-curtainM 

dome, 

Now  floating  abroad  like  a  flake  of  the  foam  ; 
Now  silently  poised  o'er  the  war  of  the  main, 
Like  the  spirit  of  charity  brooding  o'er  pain  ; 
Now  gliding  with  pinion,  all  silently  furl'd, 
Like  an  Angel  descending  to  comfort  the 

world  ! 

Thou  seera'st  to  my  spirit — as  upward  I  gaze, 
And  see  thee,  now  clothed  in  mellowest  rays, 
Now  lost  in  the  storm-driven  vapors  that  fly 
Like  hosts  that  are  routed  across  the  broad 

sky — 

Like  a  pure  spirit,  true  to  its  virtue  and  faith 
'Mid  the  tempests  of  nature,  of  passion,  and 

death  ! 

Rise  !  beautiful  emblem  of  purity !  rise 
On  the  sweet  winds  of  heaven,  to  thine  OWTJ 
brilliant  skies, 


216 


THE  POEMS   OF  GERALD   GRIFFIN. 


Still  higher  !  still  higher  !  till  lost  to  our 
sight, 

Thou  hidest  thy  wings  in  a  mantle  of  light ; 

Aud  I  think  how  a  pure  spirit  gazing  on  thee 

Must  long  for  the  moment — the  joyous  and 
free — 

When  the  soul,  disembodied  from  nature, 
shall  spring, 

Unfetter'd,  at  once  to  her  Maker  and  King ; 

When  the  bright  day  of  service  and  suffer- 
ing past, 

Shapes  fairer  than  thine  shall  shine  round 
her  at  last, 

While  the  standard  of  battle  triumphantly 
furl'd, 

She  smiles  like  a  victor,  serene  on  the  world  ! 


THE  SISTER  OF  CHARITY. 

SHE  once  was  a  lady  of  honor  and  wealth, 

Blight  glow'd  on  her  features  the  roses  of 
health ; 

Her  vesture  was  blended  of  silk  and  of  gold, 

And  her  motion  shook  perfume  from  every 
fold: 

Joy  revell'd  around  her — love  shone  at  her 
side, 

And  gay  was  her  smile,  as  the  glance  of  a 
bride ; 

And  light  was  her  step,  in  the  mirth-sound- 
ing hall, 

When  she  heard  of  the  daughters  of  Vincent 
de  Paul. 

She  felt  in  her  spirit  the  summons  of  grace, 
That  call'd  her  to  live  for  the  suffering  race ; 
And,  heedless  of  pleasure,  of  comfort,  of 

home, 
Rose  quickly,  like  Mary,  and  answer'd,  "I 

come !" 
She  put  from  her  person  the  trappings  of 

pride, 
And  pass'd  from  her  home  with  the  joy  of  a 

bride ; 
Nor  wept  at  the  threshold,  as  onward  she 

moved, 
For  her  heart  was  on  fire,  in  the  cause  it 

approved. 


Lost  ever  to  fashion — to  vanity  lost, 

That  beauty  that  once  was  the  song  and  the 

toast, 

No  more  in  the  ball-room  that  figure  we  meet. 
But  gliding  at  dusk  to  the  wretch's  retreat. 
Forgot  in   the   halls  is  that  high-sounding 

name, 

For  the  Sister  of  Charity  blushes  at  fame  ; 
Forgot  are  the  claims  of  her  riches  and  birth, 
For  she  barters  for  Heaven  the  glory  of  earth. 

Those  feet  that  to  music  could  gracefully  move, 
Now  bear  her  alone  on  the  mission  of  love  ; 
Those  hands  that  once  dangled  the  perfume 

and  gem, 

Are  tending  the  helpless  or  lifted  for  them ; 
That  voice  that  once  echo'd  the  song  of  the 

vain, 

Now  whispers  relief  to  the  bosom  of  pain  ; 
And  the  hair  that  was  shining  with  diamond 

and  pearl, 
Is  wet  with  the  tears  of  the  penitent  girL 

Her  down-bed  a  pallet ;  her  trinkets  a  bead ;. 
Her  lustre — one  taper  that  serves  her  to  read ; 
Her  sculpture — the  crucifix  nail'd  by  her  bed  ; 
Her  paintings — one  print  of  the  thorn- 

crown'd  head; 
Her  cushion — the  pavement  that  wearies  her 

knees  ; 

Her  music — the  psalm,  or  the  sigh  of  disease ; 
The  delicate  lady  lives  mortified  there, 
And  the  feast  is  forsaken  for   fasting   and 

prayer. 

Yet  not  to  the  service  of  heart  and  of  mind 
Are  the  cares  of  that  heaven-minded  virgin 

confined ; 
Like  Him  whom  she  loves,  to  the  mansions 

of  grief 

She  hastes  with  the  tidings  of  joy  and  relief. 
She  strengthens  the  weary — she  comfort* 

the  weak, 

And  soft  is  her  voice  in  the  ear  of  the  sick ; 
Where  want  and  afiiiction  on  mortals  attend, 
The  Sister  of  Charity  there  is  a  friend. 

Unshrinking   where  pestilence  scatters  his- 

breath, 
Like  an  angel  she  moves,  'mid  the  vapor  of 

death  ; 


POEMS  OF  GERALD   GKIITIX. 


•217 


Where  rings  the  loud  musket,  and  flashes 
the  sword, 

Unfearing  she  walks,  for  she  follows  the 
Lord. 

How  sweetly  she  bends  o'er  each  plague- 
tainted  face 

With  looks  that  are  lighted  with  holiest 
grace ! 

How  kindly  she  dresses  each  suffering  limb, 

For  she  sees  in  the  wounded  the  image  of 
Him! 

Behold  her,  ye  worldly !  behold  her,  ye  vain  ! 
Who  shrink  from  the  pathway  of  virtue  and 

pain  ; 
Who  yield  up  to  pleasure  your  nights  and 

your  days, 

Forgetful  of  service,  forgetful  of  praise. 
Ye  lazy  philosophers — self-seeking  men — 
Ye  fireside  philanthropists,  great  at  the  pen, 
How  stands  in  the  balance  your  eloquence 

weigh'd, 
With  the  life  and  the  deeds  of  that  high-born 

maid  ? 


TO  MEMORY. 

OH,  come  !  thou  sadly  pleasing  power, 
Companion  of  the  twilight  hour — 
Come,  with  thy  sable  garments  flowing, 
Thy  tearful  smile,  ail-brightly  glowing — 
Come, with  thy  light  and  noiseless  tread 
As  one  belonging  to  the  dead  ! 
Come,  with  thy  bright,  yet  clouded  eye, 
Grant  me  thine  aid,  sweet  Memory  ! 

She  comes,  and  pictures  all  again, 

The    "  wood-fringed"     lake  —  the     rugged 

plain — 

The  mountain  flower — the  valley's  smile, 
And  lovely  Inisfallen's  isle. 
The  rushing  waters  roaring  by — 
Our  ringing  laugh — our  raptured  sigh, 
The  waveless  sea — the  varied  shore — 
The  dancing  boat — the  measured  oar — 
The  lofty  bugle's  rousing  cry — 
The  awaken'd  mountains  deep  reply. 
Silence  resuming  then  her  reign, 
In  awful  p(  werj  o'er  hill  and  plain. 


She  paints,  and  her  unclouded  dyes 
Can  never  fade,  in  feeling's  eyes, 
For  dipp'd  in  love's  immortal  stream, 
Through  future  years  they'll  brightly  beam. 

Oh,  prized  and  loved,  though  lately  known, 
Forget  not  all,  when  we  are  gone — 
Think  how  our  friendship's  well-knit  band 
Waited  not  time's  confirming  hand. 
Think  how  despising  forms  control, 
Heart  sprung  to  heart,  and  soul  to  POU! — 
And  let  us  greet  thee,  far  or  near, 
As  cherish'd  friend — as  brother  dear. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  OLD  MEN- 
DICANT. 

A  MAN  of  threescore,  with  the  snow  on  hit 

brow, 

And  the  light  of  his  age"d  eye  dim, 
Oh,  valley  of  sorrow  !  what  lure  hast  thou 

now, 

In  thy  changes  of  promise  for  him  ? 
Gay  Nature  may  smile,  but  his  sight   has 

grown  old — 

Joy  sound,  but  his  hearing  is  dull ; 
And  pleasure  may  feign,  but  his  bosom  i» 

cold, 
And  the  cup  of  his  weariness  full. 

Once  warm  with  the  pulses  of  young  twen-ty- 

three, 

With  plenty  and  ease  in  thy  train, 
Thy  fair  visions  wore  an  enchantment  for  me 

That  never  can  gild  them  again. 
For  changed  are  my  fortunes,  and  early  and 

lute 

From  dwelling  to  dwelling  I  go  : 
And  I   knock   with   my   staff  at   our  tirsl 

mother's  gate, 
And  I  ask  for  a  lodging  below.1 

Farewell  to  thee,  Time !  in  thy  passage  with 
me, 

One  truth  thou  hast  taught  me  to  know, 
Though  lovely  the  past  and  the  future  may  be^ 

The  present  is  little  but  woe ; 

i  This  beautiful  sentiment  occur*  lu  Chaucer 


218 


POEMS  OF  GERALD  GRIFFIN. 


For  the  sum  of  those  joys  that  we  find  in 
life's  way, 

Where  thy  silent  wing  still  wafts  us  on, 
Is  a  hope  for  to-morrow — a  want  for  to-day, 

And  a  sigh  for  the  times  that  are  gone. 


WOULD  YOU  CHOOSE  A  FRIEND  ? 

WOULD  you  choose  a  friend?  Attend!  attend! 

I'll  teach  you  how  to  attain  your  end. 

He  on  whose  lean  and  bloodless  cheek 

The  red  grape  leaves  no  laughing  streak ; 

On  whose  dull  white  brow  and  clouded  eye 

Cold  thought  and  care  sit  heavily ; 
Him  you  must  flee  : 
'Tween  you  and  me, 

That  man  is  very  bad  company. 


And  he  around  whoso  jewell'd  nose 

The  blood  of  the  red  grape  freely  flows ; 

Whose  pursy  frame  as  he  fronts  the  board 

Shakes  like  a  wine-sack  newly  stored, 

In  whose   half-shut,    moist,   and    sparkling 

eye 
The  wine-god  revels  cloudily 

Him  you  must  flee  : 
'Tween  you  and  me, 
That  man  is  very  bad  company. 

But  he  who  takes  his  wine  in  measure, 
Mingling  wit  and  sense  with  pleasure, 
Who  likes  good  wine  for  the  joy  it  brings, 
And  merrily  laughs  and  gayly  sings : 
With  heart  and  bumper  always  full, 
Never  maudlin,  never  dull, 

Your  friend  let  him  be  : 
'Tween  you  and  me, 
That  man  is  excellent  company. 


POEMS  OF  DEAN  SWIFT. 


CORINNA. 

THIS  day  (the  year  I  dare  not  tell) 
Apollo  play'd  the  midwife's  part ; 

Into  the  world  Corinna  fell, 

And  he  endovv'd  her  with  his  art. 

But  Cupid  with  a  Satyr  comes : 
Both  softly  to  the  cradle  creep ; 

Both  stroke  her  hands  and  rub  her  gums, 
While  the  poor  child  lay  fast  asleep. 

Then  Cupid  thus:  "This  little  maid 
Of  love  shall  always  speak  and  write." 

"*  And  I  pronounce"  (the  Satyr  said) 

"  The  world  shall  feel  her  scratch  and  bite." 


EPIGRAM. 

As  Thomas  was  cudgellM  one  day  by  his 

wife, 

He  took  to  the  streets  and  fled  for  his  life : 
Tom's  three  dearest  friends  came  by  in  the 

squabble, 
And  saved  him  at  once  from  the  shrew  and 

the  rabble ; 

Then  ventured  to  give  him  some  sober  ad- 
vice. 

But  Tom  is  a  person  of  honor  so  nice, 
Too  wise  to  take  counsel,  too  proud  to  take 

warning, 
That  he  sent  to  all  three  a  challenge  next 

morning ; 

Three  duels  he  fought,  thrice  ventured  his  life ; 
Went  home,  and  was  cudgell'd  again  by  his 

wife. 


LINES   WRITTEN  ON    A  WINDOW- 
PANE  AT  CHESTER. 

The  Dean  scorns  to  have  been  roused  to  anger  at  Cheater  by 
the  extortion  of  his  landlord,  If  we  may  judge  by  some  linei 
beginning— 

MY  landlord  is  civil, 

But  dear  as  the  d 1 ; 

Your  pockets  grow  empty, 
With  nothing  to  tempt  ye. 

And  bis  rage  seems  to  have  been  inflated  to  the  degree  of  oo» 
signing  the  whole  population  to  destruction  as  follows  :— 

THE  walls  of  this  town 

Are  full  of  renown, 
And  strangers  delight  to  walk  round  'em  ; 

But  as  for  the  dwellers, 

Both  buyers  and  sellers, 
For  me,  you  may  hang  'em  or  drown  'em. 


ON    MRS.    BIDDY    FLOYD; 

OR  THB 

RECEIPT  TO  FORM  A  BEAUTT.» 

WHEN  Cupid  did  his  grandsire  Jove  entrea-t 
To  form  some  beauty  by  a  new  receipt, 
Jove  sent,  and  found,  far  in  a  country  scene, 
Truth,  innocence,  good-nature,  look  serene  : 
From  which  ingredients  first  the  dexterous 

boy 

Pick'd  the  demure,  the  awkward,  and  the  coy. 
The  Graces  from  the  Court  did  next  provide 
Breeding,  and  wit,  and  air,  and  decent  pride : 
These  Venus  clears  from  every  spurious  grain 
Of  nice,  coquet,  affected,  pert,  and  vain  : 
Jove  mix'd  up  all,  and  his  best  clay  employ'd  • 
Then  call'd  the  happy  composition  Floyd. 


>  An  elegant  Latin  reralon  of  this  poem  i*   in  Die  sixth 
Tolume  of  Dry  den' i  Miscellanies. 


220 


POEMS   OF  DEAN   SWIFT. 


WOULD-BE  POETS. 

ALL  human  race  would  fain  bo  wits, 
And  millions  miss  for  one  that  hits. 
Young's  universal  passion,  pride, 
Was  never  known  to  spread  so  wide. 
Say,  Britain,  could  you  ever  boast 
Three  poets  in  an  age  at  most ! 
Our  chilling  climate  hardly  bears 
A  sprig  of  bays  in  fifty  years; 
While  every  fool  his  claim  alleges, 
As  if  it  grew  in  common  hedges. 
What  reason  can  there  be  assigned 
For  this  perverseness  in  the  mind  ? 
Brutes  find  out  where  their  talents  lie- 
A  bear  will  not  attempt  to  fly; 
A  foundered  horse  will  oft  debate 
Before  he  tries  a  five-barred  gate; 
A  dog  by  instinct  turns  aside, 
That  sees  the  ditch  too  deep  and  wide. 
But  man  we  find  the  only  creature 
Who,  led  by  Folly,  combats  Nature; 
Who,  when  she  loudly  cries  Forbear, 
With  obstinacy  fixes  there; 
And  where  his  genius  least  inclines, 
Absurdly  bends  his  whole  designs. 

Not  empire  to  the  rising  sun, 
By  valor,  conduct,  fortune  Avon; 
Not  highest  wisdom  in  debates, 
For  framing  laws  to  govern  states; 
Not  skill  in  sciences  profound, 
So  large  to  grasp  the  circle  round; 
Such  heavenly  influence  require, 
As  how  to  strike  the  Muse's  lyre. 


TWELVE   ARTICLES. 

I.  LEST  it  may  more  quarrels  breed, 
I  will  never  hear  you  read. 

II.  By  disputing  I  will  never, 

To  convince  you,  once  endeavor. 

III.  When  a  paradox  you  stick  to, 
I  will  never  contradict  you. 

IV.  When  I  talk  and  you  are  heedless, 
I  will  show  no  anger  needless. 


V.  WThen  your  speeches  are  absurd, 
I  will  ne'er  object  a  word. 

VI.  When  you,  furious,  argue  wrong, 
I  will  grieve  and  hold  my  tongue. 

VII.  Not  a  jest  or  humorous  story 
Will  I  ever  tell  before  ye : 
To  be  chidden  for  explaining, 
When  you  quite  mistake  the  meaning. 

VIII.  Never  more  will  I  suppose 

You  can  taste  my  verse  or  prose. 

IX.  You  no  more  at  me  shall  fret, 
AVhile  I  teach  and  you  forget. 

X.  You  shall  never  hear  me  thunder 
When  you  blunder  on,  and  blunder. 

XI.  Show  your  poverty  of  spirit, 

And  in  dress  place  all  your  merit; 
Give  yourself  ten  thousand  airs; 
That  with  me  shall  break  no  squares. 

XII.  Never  will  I  give  advice 

Till  you  please  to  ask  me  thrice : 
Which  if  you  in  scorn  reject, 
'Twill  be  just  as  I  expect. 


LESBIA. 

LESBIA  forever  on  me  rails; 
To  talk  of  me  she  never  fails : 
Now,  hang  me,  but,  for  all  her  art, 
I  find  that  I  have  gain'd  her  heart. 

My  proof  is  thus :  I  plainly  see, 
The  case  is  just  the  same  with  me; 
I  curse  her  every  hour  sincerely, 
Yet,  hang  me,  but  I  love  her  dearly. 


EPIGRAM 

ON    THE    BUSTS    IN    RICHMOND    HERMITAGE. 
1732. 

LEWIS  the  living  learned  fed, 
And  raised  the  scientific  head : 
Our  frugal  Queen,1  to  save  her  meat, 
Exalts  the  head  that  cannot  eat. 

1  Queen  Anne, 


THE  POEMS  OF  FRANCIS  MAHONY. 

BETTER    KNOWN    AS  "FATHER   PROUT." 


VERT-VERT,    THE     PARROT. 

FROM  THE  FKKNCH   OF  THE  JESUIT  GRESSET. 


original  Ziniocence. 

^At  AP  '.   what  evils  I  discern  in 

Too  great  an  aptitude  for  learning! 

And  fain  would  all  the  ills  unravel 

Tnat  aye  ensue  from  foreign  travel ; 

Far  happier  is  the  man  who  tarries 

Quiet  within  his  household  "Laix-s:" 

Read,  ami  you'll  find  how  virtue  vanishes, 

iluw  foreign  vice  all  goodness  banishes, 

And  how  abroad  young  heads  will  grow  dizzy, 

Proved  in  the  underwritten  Odyssey. 

In  old  Nevers,  so  famous  for  its 
Dark  narrow  streets  and  Gothic  turrets, 
Close  on  the  brink  of  Loire's  young  Hood, 
Flourished  a  convent  sisterhood 
Of  Ursulines.     Now  in  this  order 
A  parrot  lived  as  parlor-boarder ; 
Brought  in  his  childhood  from  the  Antilles, 
And  sheltered  under  convent  mantles : 
Green  were  his  feaihers,  green  his  pinions, 
And  greener  still  were  liis  opinions; 
F<>r  vice  had  not  yet  sought  to  pervert 
This  bird,  who  had  been  christened    Vert-  Vert , 
Nor  coulU  the  wicked  world  defile  him, 
Safe  from  its  snares  in  this  asylum. 
Fresh,  in  his  teens,  frank,  gay,  and  grafi-ms, 
And,  to  crown  all,  somewhat  loquacious; 
i  we  examine  close,  not  one,  or  he, ' 
Had  a  vocation  for  a  nunnery.1 

The  convent's  kindness  need  I  mention! 
Need  I  detail  each  fond  attention, 

1  "  P«r  m>n  r«qnet  dlgne  d'ftrr  rri  COU\«DL' 


Or  count  the  tit-bits  which  in  Lent  he 
Swallowed  remorseless  and  in  plenty  f 
Plump  was  his  carcass ;  no,  not  higher 
Fed  was  their  confessor,  the  friar  ; 
And  some  even  say  that  our  young  Hector 
Was  far  more  loved  than  the  "  Director."  * 
Dear  to  each  novice  and  each  nun — 
He  was  the  life  and  sou)  of  fun  ; 
Though,  to  be  sure,  some  hags  censorious 
Would  sometimes  find  him  too  uproarious. 
What  did  the  parrot  care  for  those  old 
Dames,  while  he  had  for  him  the  household! 
He  had  not  yet  made  his  "  profession," 
Nor  come  to  years  called  "  of  discretion  ;" 
Therefore,  unblamed,  he  ogled,  flirted, 
And  romped  like  any  unconverted  ; 
Nay  sometimes,  too,  by  the  Lord  Harry ! 
He'd  pull  their  caps  and  "scapulary." 
But  what  in  all  his  tricks  seemed  oddest, 
Was  that  at  times  he'd  turn  so  modest, 
That  to  all  bystanders  the  wight 
Appeared  a  finished  hypocrite. 
In  accent  he  did  not  resemble 
Kean,  though  he  had  the  tones  of  Kembl* 
But  fain  to  do  the  sisters'  biddings, 
He  left  the  stage  to  Mrs.  Siddonn. 
Poet,  historian,  judge,  financier, 
Four  problems  at  a  tim^  he'd  anbver 
He  had  a  faculty  like  Caesar's. 
Lord  Althorp,  baffling  all  his  teazers. 
Could  not  surpass  Vert- Vert  in  puzzling  . 
"  Goodrich"  to  him  was  but  a  gosling.1 

*  "Sou  vent  IW.-*.i  IVniporU  tnr  le  !'#r«." 

•  At  thU  remote  |*r1od  It  l»  forgotten  th»t  "  Pr-«p*rUr  P  < 
•<>o"  wn»  also  known  M  "OooM  Goudrii-b."  wh«n  *nb*«^u 
chancellor  of  tin  exchequer  —O.  T 


222 


POEMS  OF  FRANCIS   MAHONY. 


Placed  when  at  table  near  some  vestal, 
His  fare,  be  sure,  was  of  the  best  all, — 
For  every  sister  would  endeavor 
To  keep  for  him  some  sweet  hors  d'oeuvre. 
Kindly  at  heart,  in  spite  of  vows  and 
Cloisters,  a  nun  is  worth  a  thousand  ! 
And  aye,  if  Heaven  would  only  lend  her, 
I'd  have  a  nun  for  a  nurse  tender ! l 

Then,  when  the  shades  of  night  would  come  on, 
And  to  their  cells  the  sisters  summon, 
Happy  the  favored  one  whose  grotto 
This  sultan  of  a  bird  would  trot  to  : 
Mostly  the  young  ones'  cells  he  toyed  in 
(The  aged  sisterhood  avoiding), 
Sure  among  all  to  find  kind  offices, — 
Still  he  was  partial  to  the  novices, 
And  in  their  cells  our  anchorite 
Mostly  cast  anchor  for  the  night ; 
Perched  on  the  box  that  held  the  relics,  he 
Slept  without  notion  of  indelicacy. 
Rare  was  his  luck ;  nor  did  he  spoil  it 
By  flying  from  the  morning  toilet ; 
Not  that  I  can  admit  the  fitness 
Of  (at  the  toilet)  a  male  witness  ; 
But  that  I  scruple  in  this  history 
To  shroud  a  single  fact  in  mystery. 

Quick  at  all  arts,  our  bird  was  rich  at 
That  best  accomplishment,  called  chit-chat; 
For,  though  brought  up  within  the  cloister, 
His  beak  was  not  closed  like  an  oyster, 
But,  trippingly,  without  a  stutter, 
The  longest  sentences  would  utter ; 
Pious  withal,  and  moralizing 
His  conversation  was  surprising ; 
None  of  your  equivoques,  no  slander — 
To  such  vile  tastes  he  scorned  to  pander ; 
But  his  tongue  ran  most  smooth  and  nice  on 
"  Deo  sit  laus"  and  "  Kyrie  eleison  ;" 
The  maxims  he  gave  with  best  emphasis 
Were  Suarez's  or  Thomas  a  Kempis's ; 
In  Christmas  carols  he  was  famous, 
"  Orate,  fratres,"  and  "  OREMUS  ;" 
If  in  good  humor,  he  was  wont 
To  give  a  stave  from  "Think  well  on't  /" f 
Or,  by  particular  desire,  he 
Would  chant  the  hymn  of  "  Dies  irae." 


1  "Les  petits  soins,  les  attentions  fines, 

Sont  n6s,  (lit  on,  chez  les  Ursulines." 

»  " Pensez-y-bien,"  or  "  TJiink  well  on't"  a*  translated  by  the 
titular  bishop,  Richard  Clmiloner,  is  the  most  generally  adopted 
devoiional  tract  among  the  Catholics  of  these  islands.— Paour. 


Then  in  the  choir  he  would  amaze  all 
By  copying  the  tone  so  nasal 
In  which  the  sainted  sisters  chanted — 
(At  least  that  pious  nun  mv  aunt  did) 

jBJijs  fatall  ftenotame. 

The  public  soon  began  to  ferret 
The  hidden  nest  of  so  much  merit, 
And,  spite  of  all  the  nuns'  endeavors, 
The  fame  of  Vert-Vert  filled  all  Nevers; 
Nay,  from  Moulines  folks  carne  to  stare  at 
The  wondrous  talent  of  this  parrot; 
And  to  fresh  visitors  ad  libitum 
Sister  Sophie  had  to  exhibit  him. 
Drest  in  her  tidiest  robes,  the  virgin, 
Forth  from  the  convent  cells  emerging, 
Brings  the  bright  bird,  and  for  his  plumage 
First  challenges  unstinted  homage  ; 
Then  to  his  eloquence  adverts, — 
"  What  preacher's  can  surpass  Vert- Vert's  ? 
Truly  in  oratory  few  men, 
Equal  this  learned  catechumen; 
Fraught  with  the  convent's  choicest  lessons, 
And  stuffed  with  piety's  quintessence ; 
A  bird  most  quick  of  apprehension, 
With  gifts  and  graces  hard  to  mention : 
Say  in  what  pulpit  can  you  meet 
A  Chrysostom  half  so  discreet, 
Who'd  follow  in  his  ghostly  mission 
So  close  the  '  fathers  and  tradition  ? ' ' 
Silent  meantime,  the  feathered  hermit 
Waits  for  the  sister's  gracious  permit, 
When,  at  a  signal  from  his  mentor, 
Quick  on  a  course  of  speech  he'll  enter ; 
Not  that  he  cares  for  human  glory, 
Bent  but  to  save  his  auditory ; 
Hence  he  pours  forth  with  so  much  unctio» 
That  all  his  hearers  feel  compunction. 

Thus  for  a  time  did  Vert- Vert  dwell 
Safe  in  his  holy  citadelle  ; 
Scholared  like  any  well-bred  abbe, 
And  loved  by  many  a  cloistered  Hebe  ; 
You'd  swear  that  he  had  crossed  the  same  bri 
As  any  youth  brought  up  in  Cambridge.' 
Other  monks  starve  themselves ;  but  his  skin 
Was  sleek  like  that  of  a  Franciscan, 
And  far  more  clean ;  for  this  grave  Solon 
Bathed  every  day  in  eau  de  Cologne. 

1  Qnwt — Pons  Asinonun  j 


TOEMS  OF  FRANCIS   MAHONY. 


223 


Thus  he  indulged  each  guiltless  gambol, 
Blessed  bad  be  ne'er  been  doomed  to  ramble ! 

For  in  his  life  there  came  a  crisis 
Such  as  for  all  great  men  arises, — 
Such  as  what  NAP  to  Russia  led, 
Such  as  the  "  FLIGHT"  of  Mahomed ; 
O  town  of  Nantz !  yes,  to  thy  bosom 
We  let  him  go,  alas !  to  lose  him  ! 
Edicts,  O  town  famed  for  revoking, 
Still  was  Vert- Vert's  loss  more  provoking! 
Dark  be  the  day  when  our  bright  Don  went 
From  this  to  a  far-distant  convent! 
Two  words  comprise  that  awful  era — 
Words  big  with  fate  and  woe — "It,  IRA!" 
Yes,  "  he  sh;ill  go ;"  but,  sisters  !  mourn  ye 
The  dismal  fruits  of  that  sad  journey, — 
Ills  on  which  Nantz's  nuns  ne'er  reckoned, 
When  for  the  beauteous  bird  they  beckoned. 

Fame,  0  Vert- Vert !  in  evil  humor, 
Cue  day  to  Nantz  had  brought  the  rumor 
Of  thy  accomplishments, — •'  acumen," 
uNovf,"  and  "esprit"  quite  superhuman  : 
All  these  reports  but  served  to  enhance 
f  by  merits  with  the  nuns  of  Nantz. 
flow  did  a  matter  so  unsuited 
For  convent  ears  get  hither  bruited  ? 
Some  may  inquire.     But  "  nuns  are  knowing," 
''And  first  to  hear  what  gossip's  going.1'1 ' 
Forthwith  they  taxed  their  wits  to  elicit 
From  the  famed  bird  a  friendly  visit. 
Girls'  wishes  run  in  a  brisk  current, 
But  a  nun's  fancy  is  a  torrent ;  * 
To  get  this  bird  they'd  pawn  the  missal  • 
Quick  they  indite  a  long  epistle, 
Careful  with  softest  things  to  fill  it, 
And  then  with  musk  perfume  the  billet ; 
Thus,  to  obtain  their  darling  purpose, 
They  send  a  writ  of  habeas  corpus. 

Off  goes  the  post.     When  will  the  answer 
Free  them  from  doubt's  corroding  cancer  ! 
.v -thing  can  equal  their  anxiety, 
Except,  of  course,  their  well-known  piety. 
Things  at  Nevers  meantime  went  harder 
Than  well  would  suit  such  pious  ardor  ; 
It  was  no  easy  job  to  coax 
This  parrot  from  the  Nevers  folks. 

"Les  r6v6ron(les  mires 
A  tout  Mvolr  ue  sont  pa*  lc»  dernirrr^" 
1  "  I>e»1r  <le  fllle  ast  an  feu  qui  <16vore, 
I>*Mr  <lo  DODOe  est  cent  foil  pis  encor*." 


What,  take  their  toy  from  convent  belles? 
Make  Russia  yield  the  Dardanelles  ! 
Filch  his  good  rifle  from  a  "  Suliot--," 
Or  drag  her  "  Romeo"  from  a  "  Juliet !  " 
Make  an  attempt  to  take  Gibraltar, 
Or  try  the  old  corn  laws  to  alter  ! 
This  seemed  to  them,  and  eke  to  js, 
"  Most  wasteful  and  ridiculous." 
Long  did  the  "  chapter  "  sit  in  state, 
And  on  this  point  deliberate  ; 
The  junior  members  of  the  senate 
Set  their  fair  faces  quite  again'  it ; 
Refuse  to  yield  a  point  so  tender, 
And  urge  the  motto — No  surrender. 
The  elder  nuns  feel  no  great  scruple 
In  parting  with  the  charming  puj-il ; 
And  as  each  grave  affair  of  state  runs 
Most  on  the  verdict  of  the  matron*, 
Small  odds,  I  ween,  and  poor  the  cl.anc« 
Of  keeping  the  dear  bird  from  Nantz. 
Nor  in  my  surmise  am  I  far  out — 
For  by  their  vote  off  goes  the  parrot. 

&los  ebfl  17ojafle. 

En  ce  terns  la,  a  small  canal-boat, 
Called  by  most  chroniclers  the  "  Talbot," 
(TALBOT,  a  name  well  known  in  France !) 
Travelled  between  Nevers  and  Nan-tz. 
Vert-Vert  took  shipping  in  this  craft, 
'Tis  not  said  whether  fore  or  aft ; 
But  in  a  book  as  old  as  Massinger's 
We  find  a  statement  of  the  passengers ; 
These  were — -two  Gascons  and  a  piper, 
A  sexton  (a  notorious  swiper), 
A  brace  of  children,  and  a  nurse ; 
But  what  was  infinitely  worse, 
A  dashing  Cyprian ;  while  by  her 
Sat  a  most  jolly-looking  friar.1 

For  a  poor  bird  brought  up  in  purity 
'Twas  a  sad  augur  for  futurity 
To  meet,  just  free  from  his  indentures, 
And  in  the  first  of  his  adventures, 
Such  company  as  formed  his  hansel, — 
Two  rogues !  a  friar  ! !  and  a  damsel !  ! ! 
Birds  the  above  were  of  a  feather ; 
But  to  Vert-Vert  'twas  altogether 
Such  a  strange  aggregate  of  scandals 
As  to  be  met  but  among  Vandals ; 


*  "  Una  nourrlce,  an  moine,  deux  Gueon*  ; 
Poar  un  enfant  qui  tort  du  mona»l4r« 
C'i-talt  eohoir  en  dlgne*  compaction*." 


224 


POEMS   OF   FRANCIS   MAHONY. 


Rude  was  their  talk,  bereft  of  polish, 
And  calculated  to  demolish 
All  the  fine  notions  and  good-breeding 
Taught  by  the  nuns  in  their  sweet  Eden. 
No  Billingsgate  surpassed  the  nurse's, 
And  all  the  rest  indulged  in  curses; 
E;ir  hath  not  heard  such  vulgar  gab  in 
The  nautic  cell  of  any  cabin. 
Silent  and  sad,  the  pensive  bird, 
Shocked  at  their  guilt,  said  not  a  word.1 

Now  he  "of  orders  gray,"  accosting 

The  parrot  green,  who  seemed  quite  lost  in 

The  contemplation  of  man's  wickedness. 

And  the  bright  river's  gliding  liquidness, 

*'  Tip  us  a  stave  (quoth  Tuck),  my  darling, 

Ain't  you  a  parrot  or  a  starling? 

If  you  don't  talk,  by  the  holy  poker,  ' 

I'll  give  that  neck  of  yours  a  choker!" 

Scared  by  this  threat  from  his  propriety, 

Our  pilgrim  thinking  with  sobriety, 

That  if  he  did  not  speak  they'd  make  him, 

Answered  the  friar,  PAX  SIT  TECUM  ! 

Here  our  reporter  marks  down  after 

Poll's  maiden-speech — "loud  roars  of  laughter;" 

And  sure  enough  the  bird  so  affable 

Could  hardly  use  a  phrase  more  laughable. 

Talking  of  such,  there  are  some  rum  ones 
That  oft  amuse  the  House  of  Commons: 
And  since  we  lost  "  Sir  Joseph  Yorke" 
We've  got  great  "  Fearyus  "  fresh  from  Cork, — 
A  fellow  honest,  droll,  and  funny, 
Who  would  not  sell  for  love  or  money 
His  native  land  :  nor,  like  vile  Daniel, 
Fawn  on  Lord  Althorp  like  a  spaniel ; 
Flatter  the  mob,  while  the  old  fox 
Keeps  an  eye  to  the  begging-box. 
Now  'tis  a  shame  that  such  brave  fellows, 
When  they  blow  "agitation's"  bellows, 
Should  only  meet  with  heartless  scoffers, 
While  cunning  Daniel  fills  his  coffers. 
But  Kerrymen  will  e'er  be  apter 
At  the  conclusion  of  the  chapter, 
While  others  bear  the  battle's  brunt, 
To  reap  the  spoil  and  fob  the  blunt. 


1  This  canal-boat,  it  would  seem,  was  not  a  very  refined  or 
fashionable  conveyance;  it  rather  remindeth  of  Horace's  voyacc 
to  Brundusium,  and  of  that  line  so  applicable  to  the  parrot's  com- 
pany— 

"Repletum  nantis,  cauponibus,  atque  malisnis." 

O.  Y. 


This  is  an  episode  concerning 
The  parrot's  want  of  worldly  learning, 
In  squandering  his  tropes  and  figures 
On  a  vile  crew  of  heartless  niggers. 

OO 

The  "house''  heard  once  with  more  decorum 
Phil.  Howard  on  "the  Roman  forum."* 

Poll's  brief  address  met  lots  of  cavillers ; 
Badgered  by  all  his  fellow-travellers, 
He  tried  to  mend  a  speech  so  ominous 
By  striking  up  with  *•  Dixrr  DOMINTJS  !  " 
But  louder  shouts  of  laughter  follow, — 
This  last  roar  beats  the  former  hollow, 
And  shows  that  it  was  bad  economy 
To  give  a  stave  from  Deuteronomy. 

Posed,  not  abashed,  the  bird  refused  to 
Indulge  a  scene  he  was  not  used  to; 
And,  pondering  on  this  strange  reception, 
"There  must,"  he  thought,  "  be  some  deceptioi 
In  the  nuns'  views  of  things  rhetorical, 

~ 

And  sister  Rose  is  not  an  oracle. 
True  wit,  perhaps,  lies  not  in  'matins,' 
Nor  is  their  school  a  school  of  Athens." 

Thus  in  this  villanous  receptacle 
The  simple  bird  at  once  grew  skeptical. 
Doubts  lead  to  hell.     The  arch-deceiver 
Soon  made  of  Poll  an  unbeliever  ; 
And  mixing  thus  in  bad  society, 
He  took  French  leave  of  all  his  piety. 

His  austere  maxims  soon  he  mollified, 
And  all  his  old  opinions  qualified  ; 
For  he  had  learned  to  substitute 
For  pious  lore  things  more  astute ; 
Nor  was  his  conduct  unimpeachable, 
For  youth,  alas  !  is  but  too  teachable ; 
And  in  the  progress  of  his  madness 
Soon  he  had  reached  the  depths  of  badness. 
Such  were  his  curses,  such  his  evil 
Practices,  that  no  ancient  devil,  * 
Plunged  to  the  chin  when  burning  hot 
Into  a  holy  water-pot, 
Could  so  blaspheme,  or  fire  a  volley 
Of  oaths  so  drear  and  melancholy. 

9  See  ''Mirror  of  Parliament" for  this  ingenious  person's  oiaidoa 
speech  on  Joe  Hume's  motion  to  alter  and  enlarge  the  old  HOUM 
of  Commons.  "  Sir,  the  Romans  (A  laugh)— / say  tJie  Romant 
(loud  laughter)  never  altered  their  Forum'1''  (roars  of  ditto),  but 
Ileaven  soon  granted  whut  Joe  Hume  desired,  and  the  old  rookerj 
was  burnt  shortly  after. 

1  "  HientAt  il  scut  Jurer  et  mougreer 

Micux  qu'un  vieux  diable  au  fond  d'un  benitier." 


I'OK.MS    OF   KKANCIS    M.MIo.NV. 


225 


Must  the  bright  blossoms,  ripe  and  ruddy, 
And  the  fair  fruits  of  early  study, 
Thus  in  tneir  summer  season  crossed. 
Meet  a  sad  blight — a  killing  frost  ? 
Must  that  vile  demon,  Moloch,  oust 
H«-aven  from  a  young  heart's  holocaust?1 

nd  the  glad  hope  of  life's  young  promise 
Thus  in  the  dawn  of  youth  ebb  from  us? 
Such  is,  alas  !  the  sad  and  last  trophy 
Of  the  young  rake's  supreme  catastrophe  ; 
For  of  what  use  are  learning's  laurels 
When  a  young  man  is  without  morals  ? 
Bereft  of  virtue,  and  grown  heinous, 
What  signifies  a  brilliant  genius  ? 
Tis  but  a  case  for  wail  and  mourning, — 
Tis  but  a  brand  fit  for  the  burning ! 

Meantime  the  river  wafts  the  barge, 
Fraught  with  its  miscellaneous  charge, 
Smoothly  upon  its  broad  expanse, 
Up  to  the  very  quay  of  Nantz  ; 
Fondlv  within  the  convent  bowers 

4 

The  sisters  calculate  the  hours, 
Chiding  the  breezes  for  their  tardiness, 
And,  in  the  height  of  their  fool-hardiness, 
Picturing  the  bird  as  fancy  painted — 
Lovely,  reserved,  polite,  and  sainted — 
Fit  "Ursuline."     And  thin,  I  trow,  meant 
Enriched  with  every  endowment ! 
Sadly,  alas  !  these  nuns  anointed 
Will  find  their  fancy  disappointed  ; 
When,  to  meet  all  those  hopes  they  drew  on, 
They'll  find  a  regular  DON  JUAN  ! 


JEbe  atofull  JDi'scoberfe. 

Scarce  in  the  port  was  this  small  craft 
On  its  arrival  telegraphed, 
When,  from  the  boat  home  to  transfer  him, 
Came  the  nuns'  portress,  "  sister  Jerome." 
Well  did  the  parrot  recognize 
The  walk  demure  and  downcast  eyes  ; 
Nor  aught  such  saintly  guidance  relished 
A  bird  by  worldly  arts  embellished ; 
Such  was  his  taste  for  profane  gayety, 
He'd  rather  much  go  with  the  laity. 

Fast  to   the    bark   he    clung;    but  plucked 
thence, 


"  Ftnt-ll  qu'nlnsl  1'exemple  sWuctonr 
Da  del  au  diablo  emporte  an  jeun*  c»nr  f 


He  showed  dire  symptoms  of  reluctance, 
And,  scandalizing  each  beholder, 
Bit  the  nun's  cheek,  and  eke  her  shoulder!* 
Thus  a  black  eagle  once,  'tis  said, 
Bore  off  the  struggling  Ganymede.1 
Thus  was  Vert-Vert,  heart-sick  and  weary, 
Brought  to  the  heavenly  monastery. 
The  bell  and  tidings  both  were  tolled, 
And  the  nuns  crowded,  young  and  old, 
To  feast  their  eyes  with  joy  uncommon  on 
This  wondrous  talkative  phenomenon. 

Round  the  bright  stranger,  so  amazing 
And  so  renowned,  the  sisters  gazing, 
Praised  the  green  glow  which  a  warm  latitude 
Gave  to  his  neck,  and  liked  his  attitude. 
Some  by  his  gorgeous  tail  are  smitten. 
Some  by  his  beak  so  beauteous  bitten  ! 
And  none  e'er  dreamt  of  dole  or  harm  in 
A  Uird  so  brilliant  and  so  charming. 
Shade  of  Spurzheim  !  and  thou,  Lavater, 
Or  Gall,  of  "  bumps"  the  great  creator  ! 
Can  ye  explain  how  our  young  hero, 
With  all  the  vices  of  a  Nero, 
Seemed  such  a  model  of  good-breeding, 
Thus  quite  astray  the  convent  leading? 
Where  on  his  head  appeared,  I  ask  from  ye, 
The  "nob"  indicative  of  blasphemy? 
Methinks  'twould  puzzle  your  ability 
To  fi  nd  his  organ  of  scurrility. 

Meantime  the  abbess,  to  "draw  out" 

A  bird  so  modest  and  devout, 

With  soothing  air  and  tongue  caressing 

The  "  pilgrim  of  the  Loire  "  addressing, 

Broached  the  most  edifying  topics, 

To  "start"  this  native  of  the  tropics; 

When,  to  their  scandal  and  amaze,  he 

Broke  forth — "  Morbleu!  those  nuns  are  crazy. f* 

(Showing  how  well  he  learnt  his  task  on 

The  packet-boat  from  that  vile  Gascon  !) 

"  Fie  !  brother  poll !"  with  zeal  outbursting, 

Exclaimed  the  abbess,  dame  Augustin  ; 

But  all  the  lady's  sage  rebukes 

Brief  answer  got  from  poll — ''  Gadzooks  1" 

Nay,  'tis  supposed,  he   nuttered,  too, 

A  word  folks  write  with  W. 


*  Ix>s  ant  dl.vnt  itn  coa, 
DVuitrc*  an  brn«:  on  ne  Mlt  pas  bUn  jii." 

•  "Qaalein  inlnUtruin  ftilmlnis  alitein. 

Cm  ri*x  dcoruni  roenum  In  are*  raft* 
Cumuli-It,  ex|.ertu§  n<l«l«m 
Jupiter  In  Ganymede  flavo"  !!•»> 


226 


POEMS  OF  FRANCIS  MAHONY 


Scared  at  the  sound — "  Sure  as  a  gun, 

The  bird's  a  demon  !"  cried  the  nun. 

"  0  the  vile  wretch !  the  naughty  dog  ! 

He's  surely  Lucifer  incog. 

What !  is  the  reprobate  before  us 

That  bird  so  pious  and  decorous — 

So  celebrated  ?" — Here  the  pilgrim, 

Hearing  sufficient  to  bewilder  him, 

Wound  up  the  sermon  of  the  beldame 

By  a  conclusion  heard  but  seldom — 

"  Ventre  Saint  Gris !"  "Parbleu  !"  and  "  Sacre  1" 

Three  oaths!  and  every  one  a  whacker! 

Still  did  the  nuns,  whose  conscience  tender 
Was  much  shocked  at  the  young  offender, 
Hoping  he'd  change  his  tone,  and  alter, 
Hang  breathless  round  the  sad  defaulter : 
When,  wrathful  at  their  importunity, 
And  grown  audacious  from  impunity, 
He  fired  a  broadside  (holy  Mary  !) 
Drawn  from  Hell's  own  vocabulary  ! 
Forth  like  a  Congreve  rocket  burst, 
And  stormed  and  swore,  fiared  up  and  cursed  ! 
Stunned  at  these  sounds  of  import  Stygian, 
The  pious  daughters  of  religion 
Fled  from  a  scene  so  dreau,  BO  horrid, 
But  with  a  cross  first  signed  their  forehead. 
The  younger  sisters,  mifd  and  meek, 
Thought  that  the  culprit  spoke  in  Greek ; 
But  the  old  matrons  and  "the  bench  " 
Knew  every  word  was  genuine  French ; 
And  ran  in  all  directions,  pell-mell, 
From  a  flood  fit  to  overwhelm  hell. 
'Twas  by  a  fall  that  Mother  Ruth1 
Then  lost  her  last  remaining  tooth. 


"  Fine  conduct  this,  and  pretty  guidance !" 
Cried  one  of  the  most  mortified  ones ; 
"  Pray,  is  such  language  and  such  ritual 
Among  the  Nevers  nuns  habitual  ? 
'Twas  in  our  sisters  most  improper 
To  toach  such  curses — such  a  whopper ! 
He  shan't  by  me,  for  one,  be  hindered 
From  being  sent  back  to  his  kindred  !" 
Tliis  prompt  decree  of  Poll's  proscription 
Was  signed  by  general  subscription. 
Straight  in  a  cage  the  nuns  insert 
The  guilty  person  of  Vert-Vert ; 


<  "  Toutes  pensent  6tre  4  la  fin  du  monde. 
Etsur  son  nez  la  m6re  Cun^gonde 
Se  laissant  cheoir,  perd  sa  derniere  dent!" 


Some  young  ones  wanted  to  detain  him  ; 
But  the  grim  portress  took  "the  paynim" 
Back  to  the  boat,  close  in  his  litter ; 
'Tis  not  said  this  time  that  he  bit  her. 


Back  to  the  convent  of  his  youth, 
Sojourn  of  innocence  and  truth, 
Sails  the  green  monster,  scorned  and  hated, 
His  heart  with  vice  contaminated. 
Must  I  tell  how,  on  his  return, 
He  scandalized  his  old  sojourn  ? 
And  how  the  guardians  of  his  infancy 
Wept  o'er  their  quondam  child's  delinquency  f 
What  could  be  done  ?  the  elders  otten 
Met  to  consult  how  best  to  soften 
This  obdurate  and  hardened  sinner, 
Finished  in  vice  ere  a  beginner  ! 2 
One  mother  counselled  "  to  denounce 
And  let  the  Inquisition  pounce 
On  the  vile  heretic  ;"  another 
Thought  "it  was  best  the  bird  to  smother  !" 
Or  "  send  the  convict  for  his  felonies 
Back  to  his  native  land — the  colonies." 
But  milder  views  prevailed.     His  sentence 
Was,  that,  until  he  showed  repentance, 
"  A  solemn  fast  and  frugal  diet, 
Silence  exact,  and  pensive  quiet, 
Should  be  his  lot ;"  and,  for  a  blister 
He  got,  as  jailer,  a  lay-sister, 
Ugly  as  sin,  bad-tempered,  jealous. 
And  in  her  scruples  over-zealous. 
A  jug  of  water  and  a  carrot 
Was  all  the  prog  she'd  give  the  parrot : 
But  every  eve  when  vesper-bell 
Called  sister  Rosalie  from  her  cell, 
She  to  Vert- Vert  would  gain  admittance, 
And  bring  of  "  comfits"  a  sweet  pittance. 
Comfits !  alas !  can  sweet  confections 
Alter  sour  slavery's  imperfections  ? 
What  are  "  preserves"  to  you  or  me, 
When  locked  up  in  the  Marshalsea  ? 
The  sternest  virtue  in  the  hulks, 
Though  crammed  with  richest  sweetmeats,  sulk* 

Taught  by  his  jailer  and  adversity, 
Poll  saw  the  folly  of  perversity, 


1  Implicat  in  termini*.  There  must  have  been  af>epi«:.toe,  else- 
bow  conceive  A  finish  (see  Kant),  unless  the  propositioa  of  Ocel- 
lus Lueanus  be  adopted,  viz.,  avapxov  icai  artAturaiei  'o  *uv. 
Gresset  simply  hes  it — 

"  II  f  ut  an  sc616rat 
Prof6s  d'abord,  et  sans  noviciat." 


POEMS   OF   FRANCIS   MAHONY. 


•Ill 


And  by  degrees  his  heart  relented  : 
Duly,  in  fine,  "  the  lad"  repented. 
His  Lent  passed  on,  and  sister  Bridget 
Coaxed  the  old  abbess  to  abridge  it. 

The  piodigal,  reclaimed  and  free, 
Became  again  a  prodigy, 
And  gave  more  joy,  by  works  and  words, 
Than  ninety-nine  canary-birds, 
Until  his  death.     Which  last  disaster 
(iSothing  on  earth  endures!)  came  faster 
Then  they  imagined.     The  transition 
From  a  starved  to  a  stuffed  condition, 
From  penitence  to  jollification, 
Brought  on  a  lit  of  constipation. 
Some  think  he  would  be  living  still, 
If  given  a  "  Vegetable  Pill ;" 
But  from  a  short  life,  and  a  merry, 
Poll  sailed  one  day  per  Charon's  ferry. 

By  tears  from  nuns'  sweet  eyelids  wept, 
Happy  in  death  this  parrot  slept, 
For  him  Elysium  oped  its  portals, 
And  there  he  talks  among  immortals. 
But  I  have  read,  that  since  that  happy  day 
(So  writes  Cornelius  a  Lapide,1 
1'roving,  with  commentary  droll, 
The  transmigratior  of  the  soul), 
That  still  Vert-Vert  this  earth  doth  haunt, 
Of  convent  bowers  a  visitant ; 
And  that,  gay  novices  among, 
He  dwells,  transformed  into  a  tongue ! 

1  This  author  Appears  to  have  been  a  favorite  with  Front,  who 
takes  every  opportunity  of  recording  bis  predilection.  Had  the  Or- 
der, however,  produced  only  sucli  writers  as  Cornelius,  we  fear 
lli-re  would  have  been  little  mention  of  tne  Jesuits  in  connection 
witli  literature.  Gresset's  opinion  on  the  matter  Is  contained  In 
an  e|.it>tle  to  his  coti/rer*  P.  Buujeant,  author  of  the  ingenious 
tre&tise  A'ur  /'Ame  des  Betet  : 

Moins  reverend  qu'aimable  per*, 
Vi-iis  dont  1'esprit,  le  caractiro, 

Et  le?  airs,  ne  .-ont  point  monti* 
Sur  le  ton  sotternent  austere 

De  cent  tritttes  palernit&s, 
Qul,  manquant  du  talent  cle  plaire, 

Et  de  toute  Ivgcrvto. 
Pour  dissimuler  la  mist-re 

I>'un  esprit  bans  amenita, 

Affichent  laseverite; 
Et  ne  sortant  de  leur  taniero 
Qne  sous  la  lugubre  bannit-ro 

De  la  grave  formulHc, 
lleritiors  de  la  triste  em-luine 

De  quelqne  pedant  Ignore, 
Bt'l'oricent  qnelquo  lonrd  volume, 

Aux  antres  Latins  en  t*rre. 


THE  SILKWORM.     A  1'OKM. 

From  the  Latin  of  JEKOMI  VIDA. 
CANTO  FIRST. 
I. 

LIST  to  my  lay,  daughter  of  Lombardy, 
Hope  of  Gonzaga's  house,  fair  Isabella  ! 

Graced  with  thy  name,  the  simplest  melody, 
Albeit  from  rural  pipe  or  rustic  shell, 
Might  all  the  music  of  a  court  excel ; 

Light  though  the  subject  of  my  song   may 

seem, 
'Tis  one  on  which  thy  spirit  loves  to  dwell ; 

Nor  on  a  tiny  insect  dost  thou  deem 
Thy  poet's  labor  lost,  nor  frivolous  my  theme. 

n. 

For  thou  dost  often  meditate  how  hence 
Commerce  deriveth  aliment ;  how  Art 
May  minister  to  native  opulence, 

The  wealth  of  foreign  lands  to  home  impart, 
And  make  of  ITALY  the  general  mart. 
These  are  thy  goodly  thoughts — how  best  to 

raise, 

Thy  country's  industry.     A  patriot  heart 
Beat  in  thy  gentle  breast — no  vulgar  praise! 
Be  then  this  spinner-worm  the  hero  of  my  lay* 

in. 

Full  many  a  century  it  crept,  the  child 
Of  distant  China  or  the  torrid  zone ; 

Wasted  its  web  upon  the  woodlands  wild, 
And  spun  its  golden  tissue  all  alone, 
Clothing  no  reptile's  body  but  its  own.* 

So  crawled  a  brother- worm  o'er  mount  md 

glen. 
Uncivilized,  uncouth  ;  till,  social  grown, 

He  sought  the  cities  and  the  haunts  of  men — 
Science  and  Art  soon  tamed  the  forest  denizen. 

IV. 

Rescued  from  woods,  now  under  friendly  roof 
Fostered  and  fed,  and  sheltered  from  the 

blast, 
Full  soon  the  wondroua  wealth  of  warp  and 

woof — 

Wealth  by  these  puny  laborers  amassed, 
Repaid  the  hand  that  spread  their  green  re- 
past: 
Right  merrily  they  plied  their  jocund  toil, 

1  Tenul  no«  honoa  nee  gloria  Uo  I 


228 


POEMS   OF  FkANCIS   MAHONY. 


And  from  their  mouths  the  silken  treasures? 

cast, 

Twisting  their  canny  thread  in  many  a  coil, 
While  men  looked  on  and  smiled,  and  hailed  the 
shining  spoil. 

v. 

Sweet  is  the  poet's  ministry  to  teach 
How  the  wee  operatives  should  be  fed  ; 

Their  wants  and  changes ;  what  befitteth  each  ; 
What  mysteries  attend  the  genial  bed, 
And  how  successive  progenies  are  bred. 

Happy  if  he  his  countrymen  engage 

In  paths  of  peace  and  industry  to  tread  ; 

Happier  the  poet  still,  if  o'er  his  page 
Fair  ISABELLA'S  een  shed  radiant  patronage  ! 

VI. 

Thou,  then,  who  wouldst  possess  a  creeping 

flock 

Of  silken  sheep,  their  glossy  fleece  to  shear, 
Learn  of  their  days  how  scanty  is  the  stock  : 
Barely  two  months  of  each  recurring  year 
Make  up  the  measure  of  their  brief  career  ; 
They  spin  their  little  hour,  they  weave  their 

ball, 

And,  when  their  task  is  done,  then  disap- 
pear 

Within  that  silken  dome's  sepulchral  hall ; 
And  the  third  moon  looks  out  upon  their  funeral. 

VII. 

Theirs  is,  in  truth,  a  melancholy  lot, 
Never  the  offspring  of  their  loves  to  see  ! 

The  parent  of  a  thousand  sons  may  not 
Spectator  of  his  children's  gambols  be, 
Or  hail  the  birth  of  his  young  family. 

From  orphan-eggs,  fruit  of  a  fond  embrace, 
Spontaneous  hatched,  an  insect  tenantry 

Creep  forth,  their  sires  departed  to  replace  : 
Thus,  posthumously  born,  springs  up  an  annual 
race. 

VIII. 

Still  watchful  lest  their  birth  be  premature, 
From  the  sun's  wistful  eye  remove  the  seed, 

While  yet  the  season  wavers  insecure, 

While  yet  no  leaves  have  budded  forth  to 

teed 
With  juicy  provender  the  tender  breed  ; 


Nor  usher  beings  into  life  so  new 

Without  provision — 'twere  a  cruel  deed  ! 
Ah,  such  improvidence  men  often  rue ! 
'Tis  a  sad,  wicked  thing, — if  Malthus  telleth  true 

IX. 

But  when  the  vernal  equinox  is  passed, 
And  the  gay  mulberry  in  gallant  trim 

Hath  robed  himself  in  verdant  vest  at  last 
('Tis  well  to  wait  until  thou  seest  him 
With  summer-garb  of  green  on  every  limb), 

Then  is  thy  time.     Be  cautious  still,  nor  risk 
Thine  enterprise  while  the  moon  is  dim, 

But  tarry  till  she  hangeth  out  her  disk, 
Replenished  with  full  light,  then  breed  thy  spin- 
ners brisk. 

x. 

Methinks  that  here  some  gentle  maiden  begs 
To  know  how  best  this  genial  deed  is  done  :-- 
Some  on  a  napkin  strew  the  little  eggs, 

And  simply  hatch  their  silkworms  in  the 

sun ; 

But  there's  a  better  plan  to  fix  upon. 
Wrapt  in  a  muslin  kerchief,  pure  and  warm, 

Lay  them  within  thy  bosom  safe  ;!  nor  shuo 
Nature's  kind  office  till  the  tiny  swarm 
Begins  to  creep.     Fear  not ;  they  cannot  do  the* 
harm. 

XI. 

Meantime  a  fitting  residence  prepare, 
Wherein  thy  pigmy  artisans  may  dwell, 

And  furnish  forth  their  factory  with  care  : 
Of  seasoned  .timber  build  the  spinner's  cell 
And  be  it  lit  and  ventilated  well  ; 

And  range  them  upon  insulated  shelves, 
Rising  above  each  other  parallel  : 

There  let  them  crawl — there  let  the  little  elve» 
On  carpeting  of  leaf  gayly  disport  themselves. 

XII. 

And  be  their  house  impervious  both  to  rain 
And  to  th'  inclemency  of  sudden  cold  : 

See  that  no  hungry  sparrow  entrance  gain, 
To  glut  his  maw  and  desolate  the  fold, 
Ranging  among  his  victims  uncontrolled. 

Nay,  I  have  heard  that  once  a  wicked  hen 
Obtained  admittance  by  manoeuvre  bold, 

1  Tu  conde  sinu  velamiru-  teeU. 
Nee  piuU'iu  roseas  inter  fovisse  pkpillw 


POEMS   OF  FRANCIS   MAIIONY. 


229 


Slaughtering  the  insects  in  their  little  den  ; 
If  I  had  caught  her  there, — she  had  not  come 
again. 

XIII. 

Stop  up  each  crevice  in  the  silkworm  house, 
Each  gaping  orifice  be  sure  to  fill ; 

For  oftentimes  a  sacrilegious  mouse 
Will  fatal  inroad  make,  intent  on  ill, 
And  in  cold  blood  the  gentle  spinners  kill.1 

Ah,  cruel  wretch  !  whose  idol  is  thy  belly, 
The  blood  of  innocence  why  dost  thou  spill  ? 

Dost  thou  not  know  that  silk  is  in  that  jelly  ? 
Go  forth,  and  seek  elsewhere  a  dish  of  vermicelli. 

XIV. 

When  thy  young  caterpillars  'gin  to  creep, 
Spread    them   with    care   upon    the   oaken 

planks ; 

And  let  them  learn  from  infancy  to  keep 
Their   proper  station,  and   preserve   their 

ranks — 

Not  crawl  at  random,  playing  giddy  pranks. 
L<'t  them  be  taught  their  dignity,  nor  seek, 
Dressed  in  silk  gown,  to  act  like  mounte- 
banks : 

Tnns  careful  to  eschew  each  vulgar  freak, 
Sober  they  maun  grow  up,  industrious  and  meek. 

xv. 

Their  minds  kind  Nature  wisely  pre-arranged, 

And  of  domestic  habits  made  them  fond  ; 
Rarely   they  roam,   or   wish   their  dwelling 

changed, 

Or  from  their  keeper's  vigilance  abscond  : 
Pleased  with  their  home,  they  travel  not  be- 
yond. 
Else,  woe  is  me !  it  were  ,1  bitter  potion 

To  hunt  each  truant  and  each  vagabond  : 
Haply  of  such  attempts  they  have  no  notion, 
Nor  on  their  heads  is  seen  u  the  bump  of  loco- 
motion." 

XVI. 

The  same  kind  Nature  (who  doth  all  things 

right) 

Their  stomachs  hath  from  infancy  imbued 
Straight  with  a  most  tremendous  appetite ; 
And  till  the  leaf  they  love  is  o'er  them 

strewed, 
Their  little  mouths  wax  clamorous  for  food. 

1  Itnprobus  IrrepUt  Ubulls,  MevlUjue  per  omnM, 
C*<le  tnatlens,  etc.,  etc 


For  their  first  banquetings  this  plan  adopt — 

Cull  the  most  tender  leaves  in  ull  the  wood, 
And  let  them,  ere  upon  the   worms  they're 

dropped, 

Be  minced  for  their  young  teeth,  and  diligently 
chopped. 

XVII. 

Passed  the  first  week,  an  epoch  will  b^irin, 
A  crisis  which  maun  all  thy  care  eno-aee  : 

J 

For  then  the  little  asp  will  cast  his  skin. 
Such  change  of  raiment  marks  each  separate 

stage 
Of  childhood,  youthhood,    manhood,    and 

old  age  : 
A  gentle  sleep  gives  token  when  he  means 

To  doff  his  coat  for  seemlier  equipage  ; 
Another  and  another  supervenes, 
And  then  he  is,  I  trow,  no  longer  in  his  teen*. 

XVIII. 

Until  that  period,  it  importeth  much, 

That  no  ungentle  hand,  with  contact  rude, 
Visit  the  shelves.     Let  the  delightful  touch 
Of  Italy's  fair  daughters — fair  and  good! — 
Administer  alone  to  that  young  brood. 
Mark   how   yon   maiden's   breast   with    pity 

yearns, 

Tending  her  charge  with  fond  solicitude, — 
Hers  be  the  blessing  she  so  richly  earns  ! 
Soon  may  she  see  her  own  wee  brood  of  bonny 
bairns ! 

XIX. 

Foliage,  fresh  gathered  for  immediate  use, 

Be  the  green  pasture  of  thy  silken  sheep, 
For  when  ferments  the  vegetable  juice, 

They  loathe   the   leaves,   and  from    th'  un« 

tasted  heap 

With  disappointment  languishingly  creep. 
Hie  to  the  forest,  evening,  noon,  an^d  morn ; 

Of  brimming  baskets  quick  succession  keep 
Let  the  green  grove  for  them  be  freely  shorn, 
And  smiling   Plenty  void   her  well-replenished 
horn. 

xx. 

Pleasant   the    murmurs   of  their   mouths   to 

hear, 
While  as  they  ply  the  plentiful  repast, 

The  dainty  leaves  demolished,  disappear 
One  after  one.     A  fresh  supply  is  c;tst — 
That,  like  the  former,  vanisheth  as  fa»L 


230 


POEMS   OF   FRANCIS   MATIONY. 


But,  cautious  of  repletion  (well  yclept 

The  fatal  fount  of  sickness),  cease  at  last ; 
Fling  no  more  food,  their  fodder  intercept, 
And  be  it  laid  aside,  and  for  their  supper  kept. 

XXI. 

To  gaze  upon  the  dew-drop's  glittering  gem, 
T'  inhale  the  moisture  of  the  morning  air, 
Is  pleasantness  to  us; — 'tis  death  to  them. 
Shepherd,  of  dank  humidity  beware, 
Moisture  maun  vitiate  the  freshest  fare ;' 
Cull  not  the  leaves  at  the  first  hour  of  prime, 
While  yet  the  sun  his  arrows  through  the 

ail- 
Shoots  horizontal.     Tarry  till  he  climb 
Half  his  meridian  height:  then  is  thy  harvest- 
time. 

XXII. 

There  be  two  sisters  of  the  mulberry  race,* 
One  of  complexion  dark  and  olive  hue  ; — 

Of  taller  figure  and  of  fairer  face, 

The  other  wins  and  captivates  the  view 
And  to  maturity  grows  quicker  too. 

Oft  characters  with  color  correspond  ; 

Nathless  the  silkworm  neither  will  eschew, 

He  is  of  both  immoderately  fond — 
Still   he   doth  dearly  love  the  gently  blooming 
blonde. 

XXIII. 

With  milder  juice  and  more  nutritious  milk 

She  feedeth  him,  though  delicate  and  pale  ; 
Nurtured  by  her  he  spins  a  finer  silk, 

And    her   young   sucklings,   vigorous    and 

hale, 

Aye  o'er  her  sister's  progeny  prevail. 
Her  paler  charms  more  appetite  beget, 

On  which  the  creepers  greedily  regale  : 
She  bears  the  bell  in  foreign  lands ;  and  yet 
Our  brown  Italian  maids  prefer  the  dark  bru- 
nette.3 

XXIV. 

The  dark  brunette,  more  bountiful  of  leaves, 

With  less  refinement  more  profusion  shows; 
But  often  such  redundancy  deceives. 

1  Pabula  semper 

Sieca  legant,  milldque  fluant  aspergine  sylvas. 
*  Est  bicolor  morus,  bombyx  veseetur  utr,1qne 

Nigrn  albensve  fuat,  etc.,  etc. 

Tbi1  worm  will  always  prefer  to  nibble  the  white  mulberry-tree, 
»nd  will  quit  the  black  for  it  readily. 

1  Uunmvls  Ansoniis  laudetur  nigra  puellis. 


What  though    the   ripened  berry  ruddier 

glows 

Upon  these  tufted  branches  than  on  those  ? 
Due  is  the  preference  to  the  paler  plant : 

Then  her  to  rear  thy  tender  nurslings  choose, 
Her  to  thy  little  orphans'  wishes  grant, 
Nor  use  the  darker  leaves  unless  the  white  be 
scant. 

xxv. 

OVID  has  told  a  tender  tale  of  THISBE, 

Who  found  her  lifeless  lover  lying  pale 
Under  a  spreading  mulberry.     Let  this  be 
The  merit  and  the  moral  of  that  tale. 
Sweet  is  thy  song,  in  sooth,  love's  nightift- 

gale! 
But  hadst  thou  known  that,  nourished  from 

that  tree, 

Love's  artisans  would  spin  their  tissue  frail, 
Thou  never  wouldst  of  so  much  misery 
Have  laid  the  scene  beneath  a  spreading  mul 
berry. 

XXVI. 

Now  should  a  failure  of  the  mulberry  crop 
Send  famine  to  the  threshold  of  thy  door 

Do  not  despair  :  but,  climbing  to  the  top 
Of  the  tall  elm,  or  kindred  sycamore, 
Young  budding  germs  with  searching  eye 
explore. 

Practise  a  pious  fraud  upon  thy  flock, 

With  false  supplies  and  counterfeited  store  ; 

Thus  for  a  while  their  little  stomachs  mock, 
Until  thou  canst  provide  of  leaves  a  genuine  stock. 

XXVII. 

But  ne'er  a  simple  village  maiden  ask 

To  climb  on  trees,4 — for  her  was  never  meant 

The  rude  exposure  of  such  uncouth  task ; 
Lest  while  she  tries  the  perilous  ascent, 
On  pure  and  hospitable  thoughts  intent, 

A  wicked  faun,  that  lurks  behind  some  bush, 
Peep  out  with  upward  eye — rude,  insolent ! 

Oh,  vile  and  desperate  hardihood  !     But,  hush ! 
Nor  let  such  matters  move  the  bashful  Muse  to 
blush. 

4  The  good  bishop's   eHllantry   is  herein  displayed  to    »«tv»«. 

tage:— 

Nee  robora  dura 

Ascendat  permitte  in  sylvis  innnba  virgo; 
Ast  operum  patiens  anus,  et  cui  durior  annis 
Sit  cutis  (ingratw  facilis  jactura  senectol), 
Munere  fungatur  tali.     Ne  forte1  quis  alia 
Egressus  sylvd  satyrorum  e  gente  procaci 
Suspioiat,  tenerteqno  pudor  notet  on  puel!». 


POEMS   OF  FRANCIS   MAHONY. 


2:5 1 


XXVIII. 

The  maiden's  ministry  it  is  to  keep 
Incessant  vigil  o'er  the  silkworm  fold, 

Supply  fresh  fodder  to  the  nibbling  sheep, 
Cleanse  and  remove  the  remnants  of  the  old, 
Guard  against  influence  of  damp  or  cold, 

And  ever  and  anon  collect  them  :ill 

In  close  divan  :  and  ere  their  food  is  doled, 

Wash  out  with  wine  each  stable  and  each  stall, 
Lest  foul  disease  the  flock  through  feculence  be- 
fall. 

XXIX. 

Changes  will  oft  come  o'er  their  outward  form, 

And  each  transition  needs  thy  anxious  cares  : 
Four  times  they  cast  their  skin.     The  spinner- 
worm 

Four  soft  successive  suits  of  velvet  wears ; 

Nature  each  pliant  envelope  prepares. 
But  how  can  they,  in  previous  clothing  pent, 

Get  riddance  of  that  shas^v  robe  of  theirs  ? 

OO* 

They  keep  a  three-days'    fast.     When  by  that 

Lent 

<>rowc  lean,  they  doff  with  ease  their  old  accou- 
trement. 

XXX. 

N^r  are  the  last  important  days  at  hand — 

The  liquid  gold  within  its  living  mine 
Brightens.     Nor  nourishment  they  now  de- 
mand, 

Nor  care  for  life ;  impatient  to  resign 
The  wealth   with   which   diaphanous   they 

shine  ! 
Eager  they  look  around — imploring  look, 

For  branch  or  bush,  their  tissue  to  entwine; 
Some  rudimental  threads  they  seek  to  hook, 
And  dearly  love  to  find  some  hospitable  nook. 


XXXI. 

Anticipate  their  wishes,  gentle  maid! 

Hie  to  their  help  ;  the  fleeting  moment  catch. 
Quick  be  the  shelves  with  wicker-work  o'er- 

laid: 
Let  osier,  broom,  and  furze,  their  workshop 

thatch, 

With  fond  solicitude  and  blithe  dispatch. 
So  may  they  quickly,  mid  the  thicket  dense, 
Find  out  a  spot  their  purposes  to  match  ; 
So  may  they  soon  their  industry  commence, 
And  of  tlie  round  cocoon  plan  the  circu inference. 


XXXII. 

Their  hour  is  come.     See  how  the  yellow  flood 
Swells  in  yon  creeping  cylinder  !  how  t.-enu 

Exuberant  the  tide  of  amber  blood  ! 

How  the  recondite  gold  transparent  gleams, 
And  how  pellucid  the  bright  fluid  seems ! 

Proud  of  such  pregnancy,  aud  duly  skilled 
In  Dsedalean  craft,  each  insect  deems 

The  glorious  purposes  of  life  fulfilled, 
If  into  shining  silk  his  substance  be  distilled  ! 

XXXIII. 

Say,  hast  thou  ever  marked  the  clustering  grape 
Swollen  to  maturity  with  ripe  prodiice, 

When  the  imprisoned  pulp  pants  to  escape, 
And  longs  to  joy  "emancipated"  juice 
In  the  full  freedom  of  the  bowl  profuse? 

So  doth  the  silk  that  swells  their  skinny  coat 
Loathe  its  confinement,  panting  to  get  loose : 

Such  longing  for  relief  their  looks  denote — 
Soon  in  their  web  they'll  find  a  "  bane  and  anti- 
dote." 

XXXIV; 

See !  round   and  round,  in  many  a  mirthful 

maze, 

The  wily  workman  weaves  his  golden  gauze ; 
And  while  his  throat  the  twisted  thread  pur- 
veys, 

New  lines  with  labyrinthine  labor  draws, 
Plying  his  pair  of  operative  jaws. 
From  morn  to  noon,  from  noon  to  silent  eve, 

He  toileth  without  interval  or  pause, ' 
His  monumental  trophy  to  achieve, 
And   his  sepulchral    sheet   of  silk   resplendent 
weave. 

xxxv. 

Approach,  and  view  thy  artisans  at  work  ; 

At  thy  wee  spinners  take  a  parting  glnno*- : 
For  soon  each  puny  laborer  will  lurk 

Under  his  silken  canopy's  expanse — 

Tasteful  alcove  !  boudoir  of  elegance  ! 
There  will  the  weary  worm  in  peace  repose, 

And  languid  lethargy  his  limbs  entrance; 
There  his  career  of  usefulness  will  close  ; 
Who  would  not  live  the  life  and  die  the  death  of 
those ! » 


i  Query,  wit/imtl  pine*  f—  I'.  Drril. 

'  Mllle  lepiint  rvlpcnnlqiir  VIM,  mquo  orblbus  Orl>M 
AiRlotncrwil,  tlonec  ewoo  M>  c»rc<>r»  comlant 
B|N>nU>  sui.     T«'it»  e»i  eiloiuli  gloria  Oil  t 


232 


POEMS   OF  FRANCIS   MA  HO  NY. 


XXXVI. 

Mostly  they  spin  their  solitary  shroud 

Single,  apart,  like  ancient  anchoret ; 
Yet  oft  a  loving  pair  will,1  if  allowed, 

In  the  same  sepulchre  of  silk  well  met, 

Nestle  like  ROMEO  and  JULIET. 
From  snch  communing  be  they  not  debarred, 

Mindful  of  her  who  hallowed  Paraclet ; 

Even  in  their  silken  cenotaph  'twere  hard 

To  part  a  HELOISE  from  her  loved  ABELARD. 

XXXVII. 

The  task  is  done,  the  work  is  now  complete; 

A  stilly  silence  reigns  throughout  the  room! 
Sleep  on,  blest  beings!  be  your  slumbers  sweet, 

And  calmly  rest  within  your  golden  tomb — 

Rest,  till  restored  to  renovated  bloom. 
Bursting  the  trammels  of  that  dark  sojourn, 

Forth  ye  shall  issue,  and  rejoiced,  resume, 
A  glorified  appearance,  and  return 
To  lite  a  winged  thing  from  monumental  urn. 

XXXVIII. 

Fain  would  I  pause,  and  of  my  tuneful  text 
Reserve  the  remnant  for  a  fitter  time  : 

Another  song  remains.     The  summit  next 
Of  double-peaked  Parnassus  when  I  climb, 
Grant  me,  ye  gods !  the  radiant  wings  of 
rhyme ! 

Thus  may  I  bear  me  up  th'  adventurous  road 
That  winds  aloft — an  argument  sublime! 

But  of  didactic  poems  'tis  the  mode, 
No  canto  should  conclude  without  an  episode. 

XXXIX. 

VENUS  it  was  who  first  invented  SILK — 
LINEN  had  long,  by  CERES  patronized, 

Supplied  Olympus  :  ladies  of  that  ilk 

No  better  sort  of  clothing  had  devised — 
Linen  alone  their  garde  de  robe  comprised. 

Hence  at  her  cambric  loom  the  "suitors"  found 
PENELOPE,  whom  hath  immortalized 

The  blind  man  eloquent :  nor  less  renowned 
Were  "Troy's  proud  dames,"  whose  robes  of  lin- 
en *•  swept  the  ground." 


Thus  the  first  female  fashion  was  for  flax ; 
A  linen  tunic  was  the  garb  that  graced 


1  Quin  et  nonnullae  paribus  cotntnunia  curls 
Afsociant  opera,  et  nebnlA  cluuduntur  eftdem. 


Exclusively  the  primitive  "Almack's." 
Simplicity's  costume  1  too  soon  effaced 
By  vain  inventions  of  more  modern  taste. 
Then  was  the  reign  of  modesty  and  sense. 
Fair  ones  were  not,  I  ween,  more  prude  and 

chaste, 

Girt  in  hoop-petticoats'  circumference 
Or  stays — Hnni  soi  the  rogue  qui  mal  y  pense. 

XLl. 

WOOL,  by  MINEKVA  manufactured,  met 

With   blithe  encouragement  and  brisk  de- 
mand ; 
Her  loom  by  constant  buyers  was  beset, 

"Orders  from  foreign  houses"  kept  her  hand5 
Busy  supplying  many  a  distant  land. 
She  was  of  woollen  stuffs  the  sole  provider, 

Till  some  were  introduced  by  contraband  : 
A  female  called  AHACHNE  thus  defied  her, 
But  soon  gave  up  the  trade,  being  turned  into  » 
spider. 

XLII. 

Thus  a  complete  monopoly  in  wool, 
"Almost  amounting  to  a  prohibition," 

Enabled  her  to  satisfy  in  full 

The  darling  object  of  her  life's  ambition, 
And  gratify  her  spiteful  disposition. 

VENUS'  she  had  determined  should  not  be 
Suffered  to  purchase  stuffs  on  no  condition; 

While  every  naked  Naiad  nymph  was  tree 
To  buy  her  serge,  moreen,  and  woollen  drapperie- 

XL11I. 

Albeit  "when  unadorned  adorned  the  most," 

The  goddess  could  not  brook  to  be  outwitted 
How  could  she  bear  her  rival's  bitter  boast, 

If  to  this  taunt  she  quietly  submitted  ! 

OLYMPUS  (robeless  as  she  was)  she  quitted, 
Fully  determined  to  bring  back  as  fine  a 

Dress  as  was  ever  woven,  spun,  or  knitted  ; 
Europe  she  searched,  consulted  the  CZARINA, 
And,  taking  good  advice,  crossed  o'er  ''the  wall' 
to  CHINA. 

XLIV. 

Long  before  Europeans,  the  Chinese 

Possessed  the  compass,  silkworms,  and  gun* 
powder, 

1  Tantum  nuila  Venus  mrerehftt  iininerls  cxpers 
Etnviiiani  <>b  I'orniain  texinui  in  visa  Minerv* 


POEMS  OF  FRANCIS   MAHONV. 


233 


en- 


And  types,  and  tea,  and  other  rarities. 
China  (with  gifts   since    Nature    hath 

do  wed  her) 
Is  proud ;    what    laud    hath  reason  to    be 

prouder  ? 
Her  let  the  dull  "  Barbarian  Eye"  respect, 

And  be  her  privileges  all  allowed  her; 
She  is  the  WIDOW  (please  to  recollect) 
Of  ONE  the  Deluge  drowned,  PRIMORDIAL  INTEL- 


LECT  ! 


XLV. 


The  good  inhabitants  of  PEKIN,  when 

They  saw  the  dame  in  downright  dishabille, 

Were  shocked.     Such  sight  was    far  beyond 

the  ken 

Of  their  CONFUCIAN  notions.     Full  of  zeal 
To  guard  the  morals  of  the  commonweal, 

They  straight  deputed  SYLK,  a  mandarin, 
Humbly  before  ihe  visitant  to  kneel 

With  downcast  eye.  and  offer  Beauty's  queen 
A  rich  resplendent  robe  of  gorgeous  bombazine. 

XLVI. 

Venus  received  the  vesture  nothing  loath, 
And  much  its  gloss,  its  softness  much  ad- 
mired, 

And  piaised  that  specimen  of  foreign  growth, 
So  splendid,  and  so  cheaply  too  acquired  ! 
Quick  in  the  robe  her  graceful  limbs  attired, 
She  seeks  a  mirror — there  delighted  dallies; 

So  rich  a  dress  was  all  could  be  desired. 
How  she  rejoiced  to  disappoint  the  malice 
Of  her  unfeeling  foe,  the  vile,  vindictive  PALLAS  !' 

XLVII. 
But  while  she  praised  the  gift  and  thanked  the 

giver 

Of  spinner-worms  she  sued  for  a  supply. 
Forthwith    the   good    Chinese    filled    Cupid's 

quiver 
With  the  cocoons  in  which  each  worm  doth 

lie 

Snug,  until  changed  into  a  butterfly. 
The  light  cocoon*  wild  Cupid  showered   o'er 

Greece, 

And  o'er  the  isles,  and  over  Italy, 
Into  the  lap  of  industry  and  peace; 
And  the  glad    nations   hailed    the    long-sought 
"Golden  Fleece."1 

1  Kettulit  Inslgnes  tunicas,  nihil  imlii:.i  l»n». 
*  '  Grallam  opus  Ausonils  dinu  volvunt  tila  put-Ill*. 


TIIE   SilANDON    BELLS.' 

dabbata  jiaiiQo, 
JFunera  plaugo, 
.Solcmuu  clango. 

Iiiacrip.  on  an  old  3+il 

WITH  deep  affection 
And  recollection 
I  often  think  of 

Those  Shandon  bells, 
Whose  sounds  so  wild  would. 
In  the  days  of  childhood, 
Fling  round  rny  cradle 

Their  magic  spells. 
On  this  I  ponder 
Where'er  I  wander, 
And  thus  grow  fonder, 

Sweet  Cork,  of  thee, 
With  thy  bells  of  Shandon, 
That  sound  so  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 

Of  the  river  Lee. 

I've  heard  bells  chiming 
Full  many  a  clime  in, 
Tolling  sublime  in 

Cathedral  shrine, 
While  at  a  glib  rate 
Brass  tongues  would  vibrate — 
But  all  their  music 

Spoke  naught  like  thine; 
For  memory  dwelling 
On  each  proud  swelling 
Of  the  belfry  knelling 

Its  bold  notes  free, 
Made  the  bells  of  Shandon 
Sound  far  more  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 

Of  the  river  Lee. 

I've  heard  bells  tolling 
Old  "  Adrian's  Mole  "  in, 
Their  thunder  rolling 

From  the  Vatican, 
And  cymbals  glorious 
Swinging  uproarious 
In  the  gorgeous  turrets 

Of  Notre  Dame ; 
But  thy  sounds  were  sweeter 
Than  the  dome  of  Peter 

'  The  spire  of  Sbandon,  built  un  the  ruin*  of  oM  Shandon  Cwil* 
(for  which  we  the  plates  In  ••  1'aratu  Ilylirrnia"),  Is  a  pr<>miiim1 
object,  from  whatever  tide  the  traveller  approach**  <>ur  U-autiru) 
city.  In  a  vault  at  III  foot  sleep  some  tfenerattoof  ul  ttio  wrii*r> 
kith  and  kin. 


234 


POEMS  OF  FRANCIS  MAHONY. 


Flings  o'er  the  Tiber, 
Pealing  solemnly ; — 

Oh  !  the  bells  of  Shandon 

Sound  far  more  grand  on 

The  pleasant  waters 
Of  the  river  Lee. 

There's  a  bell  in  Moscow, 
While  on  tower  and  kiosk  o! 
In  Saint  Sophia 

The  Turkman  gets. 
And  loud  in  air 
Culls  men  to  prayer 
From  the  tapering  summit 

Of  tall  minarets. 
Such  empty  phantom 
1  freely  grant  them  ; 
Bat  there  is  an  unthera 

More  dear  to  me, — 
Tis  the  bells  of  Shandon 
That  sound  so  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 

Of  the  river  Lee. 


THE   RED-BREAST   OF   AQUITANIA. 

A    HUMBLE    BALLAD. 

"  Are  not,  two  sparrows  sold  for  a  farthing  T  yet  not  one  of 
•them  shall  fall  to  the  ground  witlwut  your  J?at/ier.n— ST.  MAT- 
THEW, x.  29. 

•'  Gallos  ab  Aquitanis  Garumna  flutnen. — JULIUS  C^CSAR. 
"  Sermons  in  stones,  and  good  In  every  thin:;."— SIIAKKSPKAKK. 
"  Genius,  left  to  shiver 
On  the  bank,  'tis  said, 
Died  of  tuat  cold  river." — TOM  MOOKB 


OH,  'twas  bitter  cold 
As  our  steamboat  rolled 
Down  the  pathway  old 

Of  the  deep  Garonne,— 
And  the  peasant  lank, 
While  his  sabot  sank 
In  the  snow-clad  bank, 

Saw  it  roll  on,  on. 

fe  Gascon     And  he  hied  him  home 

farmer  hieth 

to  his  cot-      To  his  toil  de  ckaume  ; 
And  for  those  who  roam 


River  trip 
from  Tou- 
louse to 
Bordeaux. 
Thermome- 
ter at  -0. 
tinow  1  foot 
and  a  half 
deep.     Use 
of  wooden 
iiioos. 


age,  and 
drinketli  a 


On  the  broad  bleak  flood 
Cared  he?     Not  a  thought; 
For  his  beldame  brought 
His  wine-flask  fraught 

With  the  grape's  red  blood. 


He  wnrmeth  And  the  wood-block  blaze 

his  cold  n     i    i   • 

shins  at  a       Fed  his  vacant  gaze 
Goodeb>eu,  As  we  trod  the  maze 
him-  Of  the  river  down. 

Soon  we  left  behind 
On  the  frozen  wind 
All  farther  mind 

Of  that  vacant  clown. 


Ye  Father 

ineetetli  a 
stray  ac- 
quaintance 
in  u  small 
bird. 


But  there  came  anon, 
As  we  journeyed  on 
Down  the  deep  Garonne, 

An  acquaintancy, 
Which  we  deemed,  I  count. 
Of  more  high  amount, 
For  it  oped  the  fount 

Of  sweet  sympathy. 


Not  ye         'Twas  a  stranger  dressed 

famous  alba-  T  , 

trossofti.at   In  a  downy  vest, 


Colcrtdse, 
but  a  pooro 
robin. 


'Twas  a  wee  Red-breast 

(Not  an  "Albatross  "), 
But  a  wanderer  meek, 
Who  fain  would  seek 
O'er  the  bosom  bleak 
Of  that  flood  to  cross. 


Ye  sparrow    And  we  watched  him  oft 

crossing  >•«•       .      .  ,      .    ,. 

rivermaketh  As  he  soared  nlott 
' 


lire-ship. 


Delusivo 
hope.     Ye 
fire-ship 
runneth  HI 
knots  an 
hour:  'tis 
no  go  for  ye 
sparrow. 


)n  his  pinions  soft, 

Poor  wee  weak  thing, 
And  we  soon  could  mark 
That  he  sought  our  bark, 
As  a  resting  ark 

For  his  weary  wing. 

But  the  bark,  fire-fed, 
On  her  pathway  sped, 
And  shot  far  ahead 

Of  the  tiny  bird, 
And  quicker  in  the  van 
Her  swift  wheels  ran, 
As  the  quickening  fan 

Of  his  wino-lets  stirred. 


Yebyrdeis  Vain,  vain  pursuit ! 

led  a  wildc      n,    .,       .  ••        <.,••.  i 
goose  chnce     1  Oil  Without  Il'Ult  ! 

For  his  forked  foot 

Shall  not  anchor  there, 
Though  the  boat  meanwhile 
Down  the  stream  beguile 
For  a  bootless  mile 

The  poor  child  of  air  ! 


adown  y 
river. 


POEMS  OF  FRANCIS   MAHOXV 


2.33 


Symptom*   And  'twas  plain  at  last 

offatiiroe.       „  a         •        f    4. 

Ti»  mr.an-    He  was  flagging  tast, 
W:  That  his  hour  had  past 

In  that  effort  vain ; 
Far  from  either  bank, 
Sans  a  saving  plank, 
Slow,  slow  he  sank, 
Nor  uprose  again. 


Mort.fy* 
bird*. 


And  the  cheerless  wav« 
Just  one  ripple  gave 
As  it  oped  him  a  grave 

In  its  bosom  cold, 
And  he  sank  alone, 
With  a  feeble  tnoan, 
In  that  deep  Garonne, 

And  then  all  was  told. 


Te  old  man   But  our  pilot  ejrav 

•tyebelir.      T,-..  '     J 

weepetb  for    Wiped  a  tear  away — 

•  soune  lost    T      ,,       ,          j  Tv- 
ln  ye  bay  «f  In  the  broad  JLJiscaye 

That  sight  brought  back 
On  its  furrowed  track 
The  remembered  wreck 
Of  long-perished  joy 

Condole-       And  the  tear  half  hid 

•nee  of  re 

ladyea.Vke    In  soft  BeautV  8  lid 

otlcJuitneur  _      .  .         * 

<firtfunteri«  Stole  forth  unbid 

For  that  red-breast  bird  ;- 
And  the  feeling  crept, — 
For  a  Warrior  wept ; 
And  the  silence  kept 

Found  no  fitting  word. 


But  7  mused  alone' 
^or  *  tnougnt  °f  one 
Whora  I  well  had  known 

T  ..         , 

In  my  earlier  days, 
Of  a  gentle  mind, 
Of  «  soul  refined, 
Of  deserts  designed 

For  the  Palm  of  Praise. 


Y*  8tfesn'.e   And  well  would  it  seem 

of  Lyre.     A 

u  Tliat  o'er  Life's  dark  stream, 

o-    ^ 

hasy  task  for  him 

In  his  flight  of  Fame, 
Was  the  Skyward  Path 
<  )'er  the  billow's  wrath, 
That  for  Genius  hath 
Ever  been  the  same. 


mnentye 

birde. 


e     And  I  saw  him  soar 

flyKht  acroM  . 

ye  bu-ennie.    From  the  morning  shore, 
While  his  fresh  wings  bore 

Him  athwart  the  tide, 
Soon  with  powers  unspent 
As  he  forward  went, 
His  wings  he  had  bent 

On  the  sought-for  side 

A  neweob-   gut,  while  thus  he  flew, 

feet  calleth 

his  eye  from  Lo  !  a  vision  new 

yemalne         -         .      ,  .  ,      . 

cbaunce.       C/aught  his  wayward  view 
With  a  semblance  fair, 
And  that  new-found  wooer 
Could,  alas!  allure 
From  his  pathway  sure 
The  bright  child  of  air. 


instability    For  he  turned  aside, 

of  purpose  a  . 

fatali  evyii     And  adown  the  tid^ 


morall  of 

Father 
humble 

ballade. 


For  a  brief  hour  plied 

His  yet  unspent  force. 
And  to  gain  that  goal 
Gave  the  powers  of  soul 
Which,  unwasted,  whole, 
Had  achieved  his  course. 

A  bright  Spirit,  young, 
Unwept,  unsung, 
Sank  thus  among 


Not  a  record  left,  — 
Of  renown  bereft, 
By  thy  cruel  theft, 

0  DELUSIVE  DREAM  ! 


L'ENVOY  TO  W.  H.  AINSWORTH,  ESQ. 

I1ILOMK.   AUTHOR  OF  TIIB    ADMIRABLE   "  CRIOHTOW,"  8UB8EQ01 
OlIBONICLKR  OF  "JACK  8IIKPPABU," 


which  he 

wrotte  by 


Thus  sadly  I  thought 
Al  that  bird  unsought 
'J'lie  remembrance  brou-ht 

Of  thy  bright  day; 
And  I  penned  full  soon 
This  Dirge,  wliile  the  moon 
On  the  broad  Garonne 

Shed  a  wintry  ray. 


236 


POEMS   OF   FRANCIS  M^HONY. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  ARETHUSA. 
To  THE  RIGHT  HONORABLE  ARETHUSA  M — R  G — N. 

A  SHEPHERDESS  of  Arcadie, 

In  the  days  hight  olden, 
Fed  her  white  flock  close  to  the  sea ; 

'Twas  the  age  called  golden. 

That  age  of  gold  !  yet  naught  availed 

To  save  from  rudeness, 
To  keep  unsullied — unassailed 

Such  gentle  goodness. 

The  calm  composure  of  H  life 

Till  then  uncheckered, 
What  rude  attempt  befell  ?  'tis  rife 

In  Ovid's  record. 

Poor  shrinking  maid — despairing,  left 

Without  reliance ; 
Of  brother's,  father's  aid  bereft, 

She  called  on  Dian's. 

"  Queen  of  the  spotless  !  quick,  decree 

The  boon  I  ask  you  ! 
To  die — ere  I  dishonored  be ! 

Speed  to  my  rescue." 

Sudden  beneath  her  footsteps  oped 

The  daisied  meadow ; 
The  passionate  arms  that  wildly  groped, 

Grasped  but  a  shadow. 

Forth  from  the  soil  where  sank  absorbed 

That  crystal  virgin, 
Gushed  a  bright  brook — pure,  undisturbed — 

With  pebbly  margin. 

And  onward  to  the  sea-shore  sped, 

Its  course  fulfilling ; 
Till  the  ^Egean's  briny  bed 

Took  the  bright  rill  in. 

When  lo !  was  wrought  for  aye  a  theme 

Of  special  wonder  ; 
Fresh  and  untainted  ran  that  stream 

The  salt  seas  under. 

Proof  against  every  wave's  attempt 

To  interfuse  it; 
From  briny  mixture  still  exempt, 

It  flowed  pellucid. 


And  thus  it  kept  for  many  a  mile 

Its  pathway  single; 
Current,  in  which  nor  gall  nor  guile 

Could  ever  mingle. 

And  all  day  long  with  onward  march 

The  streamlet  glided ; 
And  when  night  came,  Diana's  torch 

The  wanderer  guided ; 

Till  unto  thee,  sweet  Sicily, 

From  doubt  and  danger, 
From  land  and  ocean's  terrors  free, 

She  led  the  stranger ; 

And  there  gushed  forth,  the  pride  and  vaunt 

Of  Syracusa, 
The  bright,  time-honored,  glorious  fount 

Of  Arethusa. 

O  ladye,  such  be  thy  career, 

Such  be  thy  guidance ; 
From  every  earthly  foe  and  fear 

Such  be  thy  riddance! 

Safe  from  the  tainted  evil  tongue 

Of  toes  insidious ; 
Brineless  the  bitter  waves  among 

Of  "  friends"  perfidious. 

Such  be  thy  life — live  on,  live  on  ! 

Nor  couldst  thou  choose  a 
Name  more  appropriate  than  thine  own,. 

Fair  Arethusa ! 


THE  LADYE  OF  LEE. 

THERE'S  a  being  bright,  whose  beams 
Light  my  days  and  gild  my  dreams, 
Till  my  life  all  sunshine  seems — 'tis  the  ladye 
of  Lee. 

Oh  !  the  joy  that  Beauty  brings, 
While  her  merry  laughter  rings, 
And  her  voice  of  silver  sings — how  she  loves  but 


There's  a  grace  in  every  limb, 
There's  a  charm  in  every  whim, 
And  the  diamond  cannot  dim — the  dazzling  ol 
her  e'e. 


POEMS  OF  FRANCIS   MAHONY. 


237 


tlere's  a  light  amid 
the  lustre  of  her  lid, 
That  from  the  crowd  is  hid — and  only  I  can  see. 

Tis  the  glance  by  which  is  shown 

That  she  loves  but  me  aloue  ; 

That  she  is  all  mine  own — this  ladye  of  Lee. 

Then  say,  c;m  it  be  wrong, 

If  the  burden  of  my  song 

Be.  how  fondly  I'll  belong  to  this  ladye  of  Lee  ! 


LIFE,  A  BUBBLE. 
A  BIRD'S-EYE  VIKW  THKREOF. 

DOWN  comes  rain  drop,  bubble  follows; 

On  the  house-top  one  by  one 
Flock  the  synagogue  of  swallows, 

Met  to  vote  that  autumn's  gone. 

There  are  hundreds  of  them  sitting, 

Met  to  vote  in  unison  ; 
They  resolve  on  general  flitting. 

•'  I'm  for  Athens  off,"  says  one. 

"  Every  year  my  place  is  filled  in 
Plinth  of  pillared  Parthenon, 

Where  a  ball  has  struck  the  building, 
Shut  from  Turk's  besieging  gun." 

*'  As  for  me,  I've  got  my  chamber 

O'er  a  Smyrna  cotfee-shop, 
"*vhcre  his  beadroll,  made  of  amber, 

Hadji  counts,  and  sips  a  drop." 

"  I  prefer  Palmyra's  scantlings, 
Architraves  of  lone  Baalbec, 

Perched  on  which  I  feed  rny  bantlings 
As  they  ope  their  bonnie  beak." 

While  the  last,  to  tell  her  plan,  says, 

''  On  the  second  cataract 
I've  a  statue  of  old  Ramses, 

And  his  neck  is  nicely  cracked." 


JBlarnen  Songs. 


I. 
JACK   BELLEW'S  SONG 

AIH— u  0A,  weep  for  tto  hour  /" 

OH!  the  inline  shed  a  te-ir 
When  the  cruel  auctioneer, 
With  a  hammer  in  his  hand,  to  sweet  Blarney 

came ! 

Lady  Jeffery's  ghost 
Left  the  Stygian  coast, 

And  shrieked  the  live-long  night  for  her  grand- 
son's shame. 

The  Vandal's  hammer  fell, 

And  we  know  full  well 
Who  bought  the  castle  furniture  and  fixtures,  Ol 

And  took  off  in  a  cart 

('Twas  enough  to  break  one's  heart !) 
All  the  statues  made  of  lead,  and  the  pictures, 
0! 

You're  the  man  I  mean,  hight 
Sir  Thomas  Deane,  knight, 

Whom  the  people  have  no  reason  to  thank  at  all 
But  for  you  those  things  so  old 
Sure  would  never  have  been  sold, 

Nor  the  fox  be  looking  out  from  the  banquet-hall. 

Oh,  ye  pulled  at  such  a  rate 
At  every  wainscoting  and  grate, 

Determined  the  old  house  to  sack  and   garble, 

0! 

That  you  didn't  leave  a  splinter, 
To  keep  out  the  could  winter, 

Except  a  limestone  chimney-piece  of  marble,  0! 

And  there  the  place  was  left 

Where  bold  King  Charles  the  Twelfth 

Hung,  before  his  portrait  went  upon  a  journey,  0! 
Och  !  the  family's  itch 
For  going  to  law  was  sitch, 

That  they  bound  him  long  before  to  an  attorney, 
0! 

But  still  the  magic  stone 
(Blessings  on  it!)  is  not  flown, 

To  which  a  debt  of  gratitude  Pat  Lard  tier  owes: 
Kiss  that  block,  if  you're  a  dunce, 
And  you'll  emulate  at  once 

The  genius  who  to  fame  by  dint  of  blarney  row 


238 


POEMS  OF  FRANCIS  MAHON*. 


II. 
FRIAR  O'MEARA'S   SONG. 

CANTILENA    OMKARICA. 

WHY  then,  sure  it  was  made  by  a  learned  owl, 

The  "  rule  "  by  which  I  beg, 
Forbidding  to  eat  of  the  tender  fowl 
That  hangs  on  yonder  peg. 
But,  rot  it !  no  matter  : 
For  here  on  a  platter 
Sweet  Margaret  brings 
A  food  fit  for  kings ; 
And  a  meat 
Clean  and  neat — 
That's  an  egg! 

Sweet  maid, 

She  brings  me  an  egg  newly  laid ! 
A.ud  to  fast  I  need  ne'er  be  afraid, 

For  'tis  Peg 
That  can  find  me  an  egg. 

Three  different  ways  there  are  of  eating  them  ; 

First  boiled,  then  fried  with  salt, — 
n'«t  there's  a  particular  way  of  treating  them, 
Where  many  a.  cook's  at  fault : 
For  with  parsley  and  flour 
'Tis  in  Margaret's  power 
To  make  up  a  dish, 
Neither  meat,  fowl,  nor  fish  ; 
But  in  Paris  they  call 't 
A  neat 
Omelette. 

Sweet  girl ! 
In  truth,  as  in  Latin,  her  name  is  a  pearl, 

When  she  gets 
Me  a  platter  of  nice  omelettes. 

Och !   'tis  all  in  my  eye,  and  a  joke, 
no  call  fasting  a  sorrowful  yoke ; 
Sure,  of  Dublin-bay  herrings  a  keg, 

And  an  egg, 

Is  enough  for  all  sensible  folk  ! 
Success  to  the  fragrant  turf-smoke, 
That  curls  round  the  pan  on  the  fire; 
While  the  sweet  yellow  yolk 
From  the  egg-shells  is  broke 
In  that  pan, 
Who  can, 

If  he  have  but  the  heart  of  a  man, 
Not  feel  the  soft  flame  of  desire, 
When  it  burns  to  a  clinker  the  heart  of  a  friar  I 


III. 
TERRY   CALLAGHAN'S   SONG; 

BEING  A  rUTA  AND  TRUE  ACCOUNT  OF  THE  BTORUIKG  Of  BLAH 
NET  OA8TLB,  BY  THE  UNITED  FOKOE8  OF  CROMWELL,  IBJITO5 
AND  FAIRFAX,  EN  1623. 

AIR — "  fm  akin  to  Vie  Cattaghan*.'" 

0  BLARNEY  Castle,  my  darlint ! 

Sure  you're  nothing  at  all  but  a  stone 
Wrapped  in  ivy — a  nest  for  all  varmint, 

Since  the  ould  Lord  Clancarty  is  gone. 
Och !  'tis  you  that  was  once  strong  and  aincient, 

And  ye  kep  all  the  Sassenachs  down, 
While  fighting  them  battles  that  aint  yet 

Forgotten  by  martial  renown. 

0  Blarney  Castle,  etc. 

Bad  luck  to  that  robber,  ould  Crommill ! 

That  plundered  our  beautiful  fort ; 
We'll  never  forgive  him,  though  some  will-  - 

Saxons  !  such  as  George  Knapp  and  his  >  >rt. 
But  they  tell  us  the  day  '11  come,  when  Dai  leJ 

Will  purge  the  whole  country,  and  driv« 
All  the  Sassenachs  into  the  channel, 

Nor  leave  a  Cromwellian  alive. 

0  Blarney  Castle,  etc. 

Curse  the  day  clumsy  Noll's  ugly  corpus, 

Clad  in  copper,  was  seen  on  our  plain  ; 
When  he  rowled  over  here  like  a  porpoise 

In  two  or  three  hookers  from  Spain  ! 
And  bekase  that  he  was  a  freemason 

Ee  mounted  a  battering-ram, 
And  into  her  mouth,  full  of  treason, 

Twenty  pound  of  gunpowder  he'd  cram. 
O  Blarney  Castle,  etc. 

So  when  the  brave  boys  of  Clancarty 

Looked  over  their  battlement-wall, 
They  saw  wicked  Oliver's  party 

All  a  feeding  on  powder  and  ball ; 
And  that  giniral  that  married  his  daughtei 

Wid  a  heap  of  grape-shot  in  his  jaw — 
That's  bould  Ireton,  so  famous  for  slaughter-  - 

And  he  was  his  brother-in-law. 

0  Blarney  Castle,  etc. 

They  fired  off  their  bullets  like  thunder, 
That  whizzed  through  the  air  like  a  snake ; 

And  they  made  the  ould  castle  (no  wonder!) 
With  all  its  foundations  to  shake. 

While  the  Irish  had  nothing  to  shoot  off 
But  their  bows  and  their  arras,  the  sowls ! 


POEMS  OF  FRANCIS   MAHONY. 


Waypons  fit  for  the  ware  of  old  Plutarch, 
And  perhaps  mighty  good  for  wild  fowls. 
O  Blarney  Castle,  etc. 

Och  !  'twas  Crommill  then  gave  the  dark  toket- 

Foi  in  the  black  art  he  was  deep; 
And  though  the  eyes  of  the  Irish  stood  open, 

They  found  themselves  all  fast  asleep! 
With  his  jack-boots  he  stepped  on  the  water, 

And  he  walked  clane  right  over  the  lake ; 
While  his  sodgers  they  all  followed  after, 

As  dry  as  a  duck  or  a  drake. 

0  Blarney  Castle,  etc. 

Then  the  gates  he  burnt  down  to  a  cinder, 

And  the  roof  he  demolished  likewise ; 
Oh!  the  rafters  they  flamed  out  like  tinder, 

And  the  buildin'^a/W  up  to  the  skies. 
And  he  gave  the  estate  to  the  Jeffers, 

With  the  dairy,  the  cows,  and  the  hay ; 
And  they  lived  there  in  clover  like  heifers, 

As  their  ancestors  do  to  this  day. 

0  Blarney  Castle,  etc. 


THE  LAMENT  OF  STELLA. 

A    BURLESQUE    ON    THE    LAMENT    OF    DANAE,  BY 
SIMOXIDES. 

WHILE  round  the  churn,  'mid  sleet  and  rain, 

It  blew  a  pei  feet  hurricane, 

Wrapped  in  slight  garment  to  protect  her, 

Methought  I  saw  my  mother's  spectre, 

Who  took  her  infant  to  her  breast — 

Me.  'fin  small  tenant  of  that  chest — 

While  thus  she  lulled  her  babe :  "  How  cruel 

Have  been  the  Fates  to  thee,  my  jewel' 

But,  caring  naught  for  foe  or  scoffer, 

Thou  sleepest  in  this  milky  coffer, 

Coopered  with  brass  hoops  weather-tight, 

Impervious  to  the  dim  moonlight. 

Th?  shower  cannot  get  in  to  soak 

Thy  hair  or  little  purple  cloak ; 

Heedless  of  gloom,  in  dark  sojourn. 

Thy  face  illuminates  the  churn  ! 

Si  null  is  thine  ear,  wee  babe,  for  hearing, 

But  grant  my  prayer,  ye  gods  of  Erin  ! 

And  may  folks  find  that  this  young  fellow 

Does  credit  to  his  mother  Stella" 


EPITAPH  ON   FATHER  PROUT. 

SWKET  upland  !  where,  like  hermit  old,  in  peace 
sojourned 

This  priest  devout ; 

Mark  where  beneath  thy  verdant  sod  lie  deep 
imirned 

The  bones  of  Prout ! 

Nor  deck  with  monumental  shrine  or  tapering 
column 

His  place  of  rest, 

Whose  soul,  above  earth's  homage,  meek   yet 
solemn, 

Siis  'mid  the  blessed. 

Much  was  he  prized,  much  loved ;  his  stern  re- 
buke 

O'erawed  sheep-stealers ; 

And  rogues  feared  more  the  good  man's  single 
look 

Than  forty  Peelers. 
He's  gone ;  and  discord  soon  I  ween  will  visit 

The  land  with  quarrels; 
And  the  foul  demon  vex  with  stills  illicit 

The  village  morals. 
No  fatal  chance  could  happen  more  to  crass 

The  public  wishes ; 
And  all  the  neighborhood  deplore  his  loss, 

Except  the  fishes ; 
For  he  kept  Lent  most  strict,  and  pickled  herring 

Preferred  to  gammon. 

Grim  Death  has  broke  his  angling-rod ;  his  ber- 
ring 

Delights  the  salmon. 
No  more  can  he  hook  up  carp,  eel,  or  trout, 

For  fasting  pittance, — 

Arts  which  Saint  Peter  loved,  whose  gate  to 
Prout 

Gave  prompt  admittance. 
Mourn  not,  but  verdantly  let  shamrocks  keep 

His  sainted  dust ; 
The  bad  man's  death  it  well  becomes  tc  weep, — 

Not  so  the  just. 


THE  ATTRACTIONS  OF  A  FASHIONABLE 
IRISH  WATERING-PLACR 

THE  town  of  Passage 
Is  both  large  and  spacious. 
And  situated 
Upon  the  say. 


240 


POEMS  OF   FRANCIS  MAHONY. 


'Tis  nate  and  dacent, 
And  quite  adjacent 
To  come  from  Cork 

On  a  summer's  day  ; 
There  you  may  slip  in 
To  take  a  dipping, 
Foment  the  shipping 

That  at  anchor  ride ; 
Or  in  a  wherry 
Cross  o'er  the  ferry 
To  Carrigaloe, 

On  the  other  side. 

Mud  cabins  swarm  in 
This  place  so  charming, 
With  sailor  garments 

Hung  out  to  dry ; 
And  each  abode  is 
Snug  and  commodious, 
With  pigs  melodious 

In  their  straw-built  sty. 
'Tis  there  the  turf  is, 
And  lots  of  murphies, 
Dead  sprats  and  herrings, 

And  oyster  shells ; 
Nor  any  lack,  0  ! 
Of  good  tobacco — 
Though  what  is  smuggled 

By  far  excels. 

There  are  ships  from  Cadiz, 
And  from  Barbadoes, 
But  the  leading  trade  is 

In  whisky-punch  ; 
And  you  may  go  in 
Where  one  Molly  Bowen 
Keeps  a  nate  hotel 

For  a  quiet  lunch. 
But  land  or  deck  on, 
You  may  safely  reckon, 
Whatsoever  country 

You  come  hither  from, 
On  an  invitation 
To  a  jollification, 
With  a  paris-h  priest 

That's  called  "  Father  Tom."  l 

Of  ships  there's  one  fixt 
For  lodging  convicts, 


«  The  Rev.  Thomas  England,  P.  P.,  known  to  the  literary  world 
•Vj  "a  life"  of  the  celebrated  friar,  Arthur  O'Leary,  chaplain  to  a 
•el  nh  which  Curran,  Yelverton,  Earls  Moira,  Charlemont,  etc.,  etc.. 
xtnliHshed  in  1750.  under  the  designation  of  "the  Monks  of  the 
*<•  i*.-O.  T. 


A  floating  "stone  Jug" 

Of  amazing  bulk ; 
The  hake  and  salmon, 
Playing  at  backgammon, 
Swim  for  divarsiou 

All  round  this  "hulk;" 
There  "  Saxon"  jailers 
Keep  brave  repailers, 
Who  soon  with  sailors 

Must  anchor  weigh 
From  th'  em' raid  island, 
Ne'er  to  see  dry  laud, 
Until  they  spy  land 

In  sweet  Bot'ny  Bay. 


FROM   CRESSET'S   FAREWELL  TO  THE 

JESUITS. 

To  the  sages  I  leave  here's  a  heartfelt  farewell ! 
'Twas  a  blessing  within  their  loved  cloisters  to 

dwell, 
And    my  Nearest  affections  shall   iling  roum" 

them  still : 

Full  gladly  I  mixed  their  blessed  circles  among. 
And   oh !  heed   not  the  whisper  of  Envy's  foul 

tongue ; 
If  you  list  but  to  her,  you  must  know  them 

but  ill. 


DON  IGNACIO   LOYOLA'S   VIGIL 

IN  THE  CHAl'KL  OF  OUR  LADY  OF  MONTSERRAT 

WHEN  at  thy  shrine,  most  holy  maid ! 
The  Spaniard  hung  his  votive  blade, 
And  bared  bis  helmed  brow — 
Not  that  he  feared  war's  visage  grim, 
Or  that  the  battle-field  for  him 
Had  aught  to  daunt,  I  trow  ; 

"Glory!"  he  cried,  "  with  thee  I've  done  I 

Fame  !  thy  bright  theatres  I  shun, 

To  tread  fresh  pathways  now  : 

To  track  thy  footsteps,  Saviour  God  ! 

With  throbbing  h«art,  with  feet  unshod  : 

Hear  and  record  my  vow. 


POKMS   OF   FRANCIS   MAIIONY. 


241 


Ye>,  THOU  shalt  reign !     Chained  to  thy  throne, 
The  mind  ot%  man  thy  sway  shall  own, 

And  to  its  conqueror  bow. 
Genius  his  lyre  to  Thee  shall  lift, 
And  intellect  its  choicest  gift 

Proudly  on  Thee-  bestow." 

Straight  on  the  marble  floor  he  knelt, 
And  in  his  breast  exulting  felt 

A  vivid  furnace  glow  ; 
Forth  to  his  task  the  giant  sped, 
Earth  shook  abroad  beneath  his  tread, 

And  idols  were  laid  low. 

India  repaired  half  Europe's  loss; 
O'er  a  new  hemisphere  the  Cross 

Shone  in  the  azure  sky  ; 
And,  from  the  isles  of  far  Japan 
To  the  broad  Andes,  won  o'er  man 

A  bloodless  victory! 


THE  SONG   OF  THE  COSSACK. 

COME,  arouse  thee  up,  my  gallant  horse,  and 

bear  thy  rider  on  ! 
The  comrade  thou,  and  the  friend,  I  trow,  of 

the  dweller  on  the  Don. 
Pillage  and  Death  have  spread  their  wings! 

'tis  the  hour  to  hie  thee  forth, 
And  with  thy  hoofs  an   echo  wake  to   the 

trumpets  of  the  North  ! 
Nor  gems  nor  gold  do  men  behold  upon  thy 

saddle-tree ; 
But  earth  affords  the  wealth  of  lords  for  thy 

master  and  for  thee. 
Then  fiercely  neigh,  my  charger  gray ! — thy 

chest  is  proud  and  ample ; 
Thy  hoofs  shall  prance  o'er  the  fields  of  France, 

and  the  pride  of  her  heroes  trample ! 

Europe  is  weak — she  hath    grown    old — her 

bulwarks  are  laid  low  ; 
She  is  loath  to  hear  the    blast  of  war — she 

shrinketh  from  a  foe  ! 
Come,  in  our  turn,  let  us  sojourn  in  her  goodly 

haunts  of  joy — 
In  the  pillared  porch  to  wave  the  torch,  and 

her  palaces  destroy ! 
Proud  /is  when  first  thou  slakedst  thy  thirst  in 

the  flow  of  conquered  Seine 


Aye   shall   thou   lave,  within   that  wave,  thy 

blood  red  flanks  again. 
Then  fiercely  neigh,  my  gallant  gray ! — thy 

chest  is  strong  and  ample  ! 

Thy  hoofs  shall  prance  o'er  the  fields  of  France, 
and  the  pride  of  her  heroes  trample! 

Kings  are  beleaguered  on   their  thrones  by 

their  own  vassal  crew  ; 
And  in  their  den  quake  noblemen,  and  priests 

are  bearded  too ; 
And  loud  they  yelp  for  the  Cossacks'  help  to 

keep  their  bondsmen  down, 
And  they  think  it  meet,  while  they  kiss  our 

feet,  to  wear  a  tyrant's  crown  ! 
The  sceptre  now  to  my  lance  shall  bow,  and 

the  crosier  and  the  cross 
Shall  bend  alike,  when  I  lift  my  pike,  and 

aloft  THAT  SCEPTRE  tOSS  ! 

Then  proudly  neigh,  my  gallant  gray ! — th 

chest  is  broad  and  ample  ; 

Thy  hoofs  shall  prance  o'er  the  fields  of  France, 
and  the  pride  of  her  heroes  trample ! 

In  a  night  of  storm  I  have  seen  a  form  ! — and 

the  figure  was  a  GIANT, 
And  his  eye  was  bent  on  the  Cossack's  tent, 

and  his  look  was  all  defiant ; 
Kingly  his  crest — and  towards  the  West  with 

his  battle-axe  he  pointed  ; 
And  the    "  form  "  I  saw  was  ATTILA  !  of  tint 

earth  the  scourge  anointed. 
From  the  Cossack's  camp  let  the  horseman'* 

tramp  the  coming  crash  announce ; 
Let  the  vulture  whet  his  beak  sharp  set,  on 

the  carrion  field  to  pounce  ; 
And  proudly  neigh,  my  charger  gray! — Oh  I 

thy  chest  is  broad  and  ample ; 
Thy  hoofs  shaH  prance  o'er  the  fields  of  France, 

and  the  pride  of  her  heroes  trample! 

What  boots  old    Europe's  boasted  fame,  o 

which  she  builds  rdiauc*, 
When  the  North  shall  launch  its  avalanche  on 

her  works  of  art  and  science  f 
Hath  she  not  wept  her  cities  swept  by  our 

hordes  of  trampling  stallions? 
And  tower  and  arch  crushed  in  the  march  of 

our  barbarous  battalions? 
Can  wf  not  wield  our  fathers'  shield  ?  the  same 

war-hatchet  handle  ? 
Do  our  blades  want  length,  or  the  reapers? 

strength,  for  the  harvest  of  the  Vandal  ? 


242 


POEMS   OF  FRANCIS  MAHONY. 


Then  proudly  neigh,  nay  gallant  gray,  for  thy 

cliest  is  strong  and  ample  ; 
And  thy  hoofs  shall  prance  o'er  the  fields  of 
France,  and  the  pride  of  her  heroes  tram- 
ple ! 


POPULAR  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  BONA- 
PARTE. 

THEY'LL  talk  of  HIM  for  years  to  come, 

In  cottage  chronicle  aud  tale  ; 
When  for  aught  else  renown  is  dumb, 

His  legend  shall  prevail ! 
Then  in  the  hamlet's  honored  chair 

Shall  sit  some  aged  dame, 
Teaching  to  lowly  clown  aud  villager 

That  narrative  of  fame. 
Tis  true,  they'll  say,  his  gorgeous  throne 

France  bled  to  raise  ; 
But  he  was  all  our  own  ! 
Mother!  say  something  in  his  praise — 

Oh,  speak  of  him  always  ! 

"  I  saw  him  pass  :  his  was  a  host : 

Countless  beyond  your  young  imaginings — 
My  children,  he  could  boast 

A  train  of  conquered  kings  ! 
And  when  he  came  this  road, 

'Twas  on  rny  bridal  dav. 
He  were,  for  near  to  him  I  stood, 

Cocked  hat  and  surcoat  gray. 
I  blushed ;  he  said,  '  Be  of  good  cheer ! 

Courage,  my  dear !' 
That  was  his  very  word." — 
Mother !  Oh,  then  this  really  occurred, 

And  you  his  voice  could  hear ! 

"  A  year  rolled  on,  when  next  at  Paris  I, 
Lone  woman  that  I  am, 

Saw  him  pass  by, 

Girt  with  his  peers,  to  kneel  at  Notre  Dame. 
I  knew  by  merry  chime  and  signal  gun, 
God  granted  him  a  son, 
And  oh  !  I  wept  for  joy  ! 
For  why  not  weep  when  warrior-men  did, 
Who  gazed  upon  that  sight  so  splendid, 

And  blessed  th'  imperial  boy  ? 
Never  did  noonday  sun  shine  out  so  bright! 

Oh,  what  a  sight !" — 
Mother !  for  you  that  must  have  been 
A  o-lorious  scene ! 


"  But  when  all  Europe's  gathered  strength 
Burst  o'er  the  French  frontier  at  length, 

'Twill  scarcely  be  believed 
What  wonders,  single-handed,  he  achieved. 

Such  general  ne'er  lived  ! 
One  evening  on  my  threshold  stood 

A  guest — 'TWAS  HE  !     Of  warriors  few 

He  had  a  toil-worn  retinue. 
He  thing  himself  into  this  chair  of  wood, 

Muttering,  meantime,  with  fearful  air, 

'Quelle  guerre  f  oh,  quelle  guerre  /' " — 
Mother !  and  did  our  emperor  sit  there, 
Upon  that  very  chair  ? 

"  lie  said,  '  Give  me  some  food.' — 
Brown  loaf  I  gave,  and  homely  wine, 
And  made  the  kindling  fireblocks  shine,. 
To  dry  his  cloak  with  wet  bedewed. 
Soon  by  the  bonny  blaze  he  slept, 
Then  waking  chid  me  (for  I  wept) ; 
'Courage!'  he  cried,  'I'll  strike  for  all 
Under  the  sacred  wall 
Of  France's  noble  capital !' 
Those  were  his  words  :  I've   reasured  up 
With  pride  that  same  wine-cup  ; 
And  for  its  weight  in  gold 
It  never  shall  be  sold  !" — 
Mother !  on  that  proud  relic  let  us  gaze. 
Oh,  keep  that  cup  always! 

"But,  through  some  fatal  witchery, 

He,  whom  APoPB  had  crowned  and  blessed,, 
Perished,    my  sons  !  by  foulest  treachery  : 

Cast  on  an  isle  far  in  the  lonely  West. 
Long  time  sad  rumors  were  afloat — 

The  fatal  tidings  we  would  spurn, 
Still  hoping  from  that  isle  remote 

Once  more  our  hero  would  return. 
But  when  the  dark  announcement  drew 

Tears  from  the  virtuous  and  the  brave — 
When  the  sad  whisper  proved  too  true, 

A  flood  of  grief  I  to  his  memory  gave. 

Peace  to  the  glorious  dead  !" 
Mother !  may  God  his  fullest  blessing  saea. 
Upon  your  aged  head ! 


POEMS   OF  FRANCIS  MAHONY. 


243 


ADDRESS  TO  THE  VANGUARD  OF  THE 
FRENCH 

UNDER  THE  DCKE  D'ALBN^ON,  1521. 


OLKMCNT    MAkOT. 


SOLDIER!  at  length  their  gathered  strength  our 

might  is  doomed  to  feel — 
Spain  and  Brabant  comiliunt — Bavaria  and  Cas- 
tile. 
Idiots,  they  think  that  France  will  shrink  from  a 

foe  that  rushes  on, 
And  terror  damp  the  gallant  camp  of  the  bold 

Duke  d'Alenjon  ! 
But  wail  and  woe  betide  the  foe  that  waits  for 

our  assault! 
Back   to   his  lair  our  pikes  shall  scare  the  wild 

boar  of  Hainault. 
La  Meuse  shall  flood  her  banks  with  blood,  ere 

the  sons  of  France  resign 
Their  glorious  fields — the  land  that  yields  the 

olive  and  the  vine  ! 

Then  draw  the  blade !  be  our  ranks  arrayed  to 

the  sound  of  the  martial  fife ; 
In  the  foeman's  ear  let  the  trumpeter  blow  a  blast 

of  deadly  strife ; 
And   let  each  knight  collect  his  might,   as  if 

thare  hung  this  day 
The  fate  of  France  on  his  single  lance  in  the  hour 

of  the  coming  fray  : 
As  melts  the  snow  in  summer's  glow,  so  may  our 

helmets'  glare 
Consume  their  host;  so  folly's  boast  vanish  in 

empty  air. 

Fools  !  to  believe  the  sword  could  give  to  the  chil- 
dren of  the  Rhine 
Our  Gallic  fields — the  land  that  yields  the  olive 

and  the  vine ! 

Can  Germans  face  our  Norman  race  in  the  con- 
flict's awful  shock — 

Brave  the  war-cry  of  "  BRITANXY  !"  the  shout  of 
"  LANOUEDOC  !" 

Dare  they  confront  the  battle's  brunt — the  fell 
encounter  try 

>Vhen  dread  Bayard  leads  on  his  guard  of  stout 
gendarmerie  ? 

Strength  be  the  test — then  breast  to  breast,  ny, 
grapple  man  with  man  ; 

Strength  in  the  ranks,  strength  on  both  flanks, 
and  valor  in  the  van 


Let  war  efface  each  softer  grace  ;  on  stern   Bel- 

lu na's  shrine 
We  vow  to  shield  the  plains  that  yield  the  olive 

and  the  vine  ! 

Methinks  I  see  bright  Victory,  in  robe  of  glory 
dressed, 

Joyful  appear  on  the  French  frontier  to  the  chief- 
tain she  loves  best ; 

While  grim  Defeat,  in  contrast  meet,  scowls  o'er 
the  fceman's  tent, 

She  on  our  duke  smiles  down  with  look  of  blytbe 
encouragement. 

E'en  now,  I  ween,  our  foes  have  seen  their  hopes 
of  conquest  fail ; 

Glad  to  regain  their  homes  again,  and  quaff  their 
Saxon  ale. 

So  may  it  be  while  chivalry  and  loyal  hearts  com- 
bine 

To  lift  a  brand  for  the  bonny  land  of  the  olive 
and  the  vine  I 


ODE  ON  THE  SIGNAL  DEFEAT  OF  THE 
SULTAN  OSMAN,  BY  THE  ARMY  OF 
POLAND  AND  HER  ALLIES,  SEPTEM- 
BER, 1621. 

FROM  THE  LATIN  OF  CASIMIR  SARBIEWSKI. 

As  slow  the  plough  the  oxen  plied, 
Close  by  the  Danube's  rolling  tide, 
With  old  Galeski  for  their  guide — 

The  Dacian  farmer — 
His  eye  amid  the  furrows  spied 

Men's  bones  and  armor. 

The  air  was  calm,  the  sun  was  low. 
Calm  was  the  mighty  river's  flow, 
And  silently,  with  footsteps  slow, 

Labored  the  yoke ; 
When  fervently,  with  patriot  glow, 

The  veteran  spoke : 

"  Halt  ye,  my  oxen  !     Pause  we  her* 
Where  valor's  vestiges  appear, 
And  Islam's  relics  far  and  near 

Lurk  in  the  soil ; 
While  Poland  on  victorious  spear 

Rests  from  her  toil. 


244 


POEMS   OF  FRANCIS  MAHONY. 


Ay  ?  well  sho  may  triumphant  rest, 
Adorn  with  glory's  plume  her  crest, 
And  wear  of  victory  the  vest, 

Elate  and  flushed  : 
Oft  was  the  Paynim's  pride  repressed — 

HERE  IT  WAS  CRUSHED  ! 

Here  the  tremendous  deed  was  done, 
Here  the  transcendant  trophy  won, 
Where  fragments  lie  of  sword  and  gun, 

And  lance  and  shield, 
And  Turkey's  giant  skeleton 

Cumbers  the  field  ! 

Heavens  1  I  remember  well  that  day, 
Of  warrior  men  the  proud  display, 
Of  brass  and  steel  the  dread  array — 

Van,  flank,  and  rear ; 
How  my  young  heart  the  charger's  neigh 

Throbbed  high  to  hear! 

How  gallantly  our  lancers  stood, 
Of  bristling  spears  an  iron  wood , 
Fraught  with  a  desperate  hardihood 

That  naught  could  daunt, 
And  burning  for  the  bloody  feud, 

Fierce,  grim,  and  gaunt ! 

Then  rose  the  deadly  din  of  fight ; 

«/  O 

Then  shouting  charged,  with  all  his  might, 
Of  Wilna  each  Teutonic  kuight, 

And  of  St.  John's, 
While  flashing  out  from  yonder  height 

Thundered  the  bronze. 

Dire  was  the  struggle  in  the  van, 
Fiercely  we  grappled  man  with  man, 
Till  soon  the  Paynim  chiels  began 

For  breath  to  gasp  ; 
When  Warsaw  folded  Ispahan 

In  deadly  grasp. 

So  might  a  tempest  grasp  a  pine, 

Tall  giant  of  the  Apennine, 

Whose  rankling  roots  deep  undermine 

The  mountain's  base : 
Fitti"g  antagonist?  to  twine 

In  stern  embrace. 

Loud  rung  on  helm,  and  coat  of  mail, 
Of  musketry  the  rattling  hai\; 
Of  wounded  men  loud  rose  the  wail 
In  dismal  rout : 


And  now  alternate  would  prevail 
The  victor's  shout. 

Long  time  amid  the  vapors  dense 
The  fire  of  battle  raged  intense, 
While  VICTORY  held  in  suspense 

The  scales  on  high  : 
But  Poland  in  her  FAITH'S  defence 

Maun  do  or  die  ! 

Rash  was  the  hope,  and  poor  the  chance, 
Of  blunting  that  victorious  lance  ; 
Though  Turkey  from  her  broad  expanse 

Brought  all  her  sons, 
Swelling  with  tenfold  arrogance, 

Hell's  myrmidons ! 

Stout  was  each  Cossack  heart  and  hand, 
Brave  was  our  Lithuanian  band, 
But  Gallantry's  own  native  land 

Sent  forth  the  Poles  ; 
And  Valor's  flame  shone  nobly  fanned 

In  patriot  souls. 

Large  be  our  allies'  meed  of  fame  ! 

Rude  Russia  to  the  rescue  came, 

From  land  of  frost,  with  brand  of  flame— 

A  glorious  horde  : 
Huge  havoc  here  these  bones  proclaim, 

Done  by  her  sword. 

Pale  and  aghast  the  crescent  fled, 
Joyful  we  clove  each  turban ed  head, 
Heaping  with  holocausts  of  dead 

The  foeman's  camp : 
Loud  echoed  o'er  their  gory  bed 

Our  horsemen's  tramp. 

A  hundred  trees  one  hatchet  hews ; 
A  hundred  doves  one  hawk  pursues; 
One  Polish  gauntlet  so  can  bruise 

Their  miscreant  clay : 
As  well  the  caliph  kens  who  rues 

That  fatal  day. 

What  though,  to  meet  the  tug  of  war, 
Osman  had  gathered  from  afar 
Arab,  and  Sheik,  and  Hospodar, 

And  Copt,  and  Guebre, 
Quick  yielded  Pagan  scimitar 

To  Christian  sabre. 

Here  could  the  Turkman  turn  and  trace 
The  slaughter-tracks,  here  slowly  pace 


POEMS   OF  FRANCIS   MA  IK)  NY. 


245 


The  field  of  downfall  and  disgrace, 
Where  men  and  horse, 

Thick  strewn,  encumbered  all  the  place 
With  frequent  corse. 

Well  might  his  haughty  soul  repent 
That  rash  and  guilty  armament ; 
Weep  for  the  blood  of  nations  spent, 

His  ruined  host; 
His  empty  arrogance  lament, 

And  bitter  boast. 

Sorrow,  derision,  scorn,  and  hate, 
Upon  the  proud  one's  footsteps  wait; 
Both  in  the  field  and  in  the  gate 

Accursed,  abhorred ; 
And  be  his  halls  made  desolate 

With  fire  and  sword  !" 

Such  was  the  tale  Galeski  told, 
Calm  as  the  mighty  Danube  rolled; 
And  well  I  ween  that  farmer  old, 

Who  held  a  plough, 
Had  fcught  that  day  a  warrior  bold 

With  helmed  brow. 

But  now  upon  the  glorious  stream 
The  sun  flung  out  his  parting  beam, 
The  soldier-swain  uuyoked  his  team, 

Yet  still  he  chanted 
The  live-long  eve : — and  glory's  dream 

His  pillow  haunted. 


ODE  ON  THE  TAKING  OF  CALAIS, 

ADDRESSED  TO  HENRY  H.,  KINO  OF  FRANCE,  BT 
GEORGE  BUCHANAN. 

HENRY  !  let  none  commend  to  thee 
FATE,  FORTUNE,  DOOM,  or  DKSTINY, 
Or  STAR  in  heaven's  high  cauopy, 

With  magic  glow 
Shining  on  man's  nativity, 

For  weal  or  woe. 

Rather,  0  king !  here  recognize 
A  PROVIDENCE  all  just,  all  wise, 
Of  every  earthly  enterprise 

The  hidden  mover  ; 
Aye  casting  calm  complacent  eyes 

Down  on  thv  Louvre 


Prompt  to  assume  th»-  right's  'let 
Mercy  unto  the  mct-k  dispense, 
Curb  the  rude  jaws  of  insolence 

With  bit  and  bridle, 
And  scourge  the  chiel  whose  frankincenae 

Burns  for  an  idol. 

Who,  his  triumphant  course  amid, 
Who  smote  the  monarch  of  Madrid, 
And  bade  Pavia's  victor  bid 

To  power  farewell  ? 
Once  Europe's  arbiter,  now  hid 

In  hermit's  cell. 

Thou,  too,  hast  known  misfortune's  blast ; 
Tempests  have  bent  thy  stately  mnst, 
And  nigh  upon  the  breakers  cast 

Thy  gallant  ship : 
But  now  the  hurricane  is  passed — 

Hushed  is  the  deep. 

For  PHILIP,  lord  of  ARAOON, 

Of  haughty  CHARLES  the  haughty  son, 

The  clouds  still  gather  dark  and  duu, 

The  sky  still  scowls; 
And  round  his  gorgeous  galleon 

The  tempest  howls. 

Thou,  when  th'  Almighty  ruler  dealt 
The  blows  thy  kingdom  lately  felt, 
Thy  brows  unhelmed,  unbound  thy  belt, 

Thy  feet  unshod, 
Humbly  before  the  chastener  knelt, 

And  kissed  the  rod. 

Pardon  and  peace  thy  penance  bought; 
Joyful  the  seraph  Mercy  brought 
The  olive-bough,  with  blessing  fraught 

For  thee  and  France ; — 
GOD  for  thy  captive  kingdom  wrought 

Deliverance. 

Twas  dark  and  drear  !  'twas  win-ter's  reign  I 
Grim  horror  walked  the  lonesome  plain ; 
The  ice  held  bound  with  crystal  chain 

Lake,  flood,  and  rill  ; 
And  dismal  piped  '.he  hurricane 

His  music  shrill. 

But  when  the  gallant  GUISE  displayed 
The  flag  of  FRANCE,  and  drew  the  blade, 
Straight  the  obsequious  season  bade 
Iu»  rigor  cease ; 


246 


TOEMS   OF   FRANCIS   MAIIONY. 


And,  lowly  crouching,  homage  paid 
The  PLEUR  DE  Lrs. 

Winter  his  violence  withheld, 
His  progeny  of  tempests  quelled, 
His  canopy  of  clouds  dispelled, 

Unveiled  the  sun — 
And  blithesome  days  unparalleled 

Began  to  run. 

'Twas  then  beleaguered  Calais  found, 
With  swamps  and  marshes  fenced  around, 
With  counterscarp,  and  moat,  and  mound, 

And  yawning  trench, 
Vainly  her  hundred  bulwarks  frowned 

To  stay  the  French. 

Guise  !  child  of  glory  and  Lorraine, 
Ever  thine  house  hath  proved  the  bane 
Of  France's  foes  !  aye  from  the  chain 

Of  slavery  kept  her, 
And  in  the  teeth  of  haughty  Spain 

Upheld  her  sceptre. 

Scarce  will  a  future  age  believe 

The  deeds  one  year  saw  thee  achieve 

Fame  in  her  narrative  should  give 

Thee  magic  pinions 
To  range,  with  free  prerogative, 

All  earth's  dominions. 

What  were  the  year's  achievements?  first, 
Yon  Alps  their  barrier  saw  thee  burst, 
To  bruise  a  reptile's  head,  who  durst, 

With  viper  sting, 
Assail  (ingratitude  accursed  !) 

Rome's  Pontiff-King:. 

O 

To  rescue  Rome,  capture  Plaisance, 
Make  Naples  yield  the  claims  of  France, 
While  the  mere  shadow  of  thy  lance 

O'erawed  the  Turk  : — 
Such  was,  within  the  year's  expanse, 

Thy  journey-work. 

But  Calais  yet  remained  nnwon — 

Calais,  stronghold  of  Albion, 

Her  zone  begirt  with  blade  and  gun, 

In  all  the  pomp 
And  pride  of  war;  fierce  Amazon! 

Queen  of  a  swamp  ! 

But  even  she  hath  proven  frail, 
Her  walls  and  swamps  of  no  avail ; 


What  citadel  may  Guise  not  scale, 
Climb,  storm,  and  seize  ? 

What  foe  before  thee  may  not  quail, 
0  gallant  Guise ! 

Thee  let  the  men  of  England  dread. 
Whom  Edward  erst  victorious  led, 
Right  joyful  now  that  ocean's  bed 

Between  them  rolls 
And  thee  ! — that  thy  triumphant  tread 

Yon  wave  controls. 

Let  ruthless  MARY  learn  from  hence 
That  Perfidy's  a  foul  offence  ; 
That  falsehood  hath  its  recompense ; 

That  treaties  broken, 
The  anger  of  Omnipotence 

At  length  have  woken. 

May  evil  counsels  prove  the  bane 
And  curse  of  her  unhallowed  reign  ; 
Remorse,  with  its  disastrous  train, 

Infest  her  palace  ; 
And  may  she  of  God's  vengeance  drain 

The  brimming  chalice! 


MICHEL    ANGELO'S    FAREWELL    TO 
SCULPTURE. 

I  FEEL  that  I  am  growing  old — 
My  lamp  of  clay  !  thy  flame,  behold  ! 
'Gins  to  burn  low  :  and  I've  unrolled 
My  life's  eventful  volume  ! 

The  sea  h>as  borne  my  fragile  bark 
Close  to  the  shore — now,  rising  dark, 
O'er  the  subsiding  wave  I  mark 

This  brief  world's  final  column. 

'Tis  time,  my  soul,  for  pensive  mood, 
For  holy  calm  and  solitude  ; 
Then  cease  henceforward  to  delude 

Thyself  with  fleeting  vanitv. 

The  pride  of  art,  the  sculptured  thought, 
Vain  idols  that  my  hand  hath  wrought— 
To  place  my  trust  in  such  were  naught 
But  sheer  insanity. 

What  can  the  pencil's  power  achieve  ? 
What  can  the  chisel's  triumph  give  ? 


POEMS   OF   FRANCIS    MA1I"\Y. 


247 


A  name  perhaps  on  earth  may  live, 
And  travel  to  posterity. 

But  can  proud  Rome's  Pantheon  tell, 

If  tor  the  soul  of  Raffaelle 

His  glorious  obsequies  could  queli 

The  JUDGMENT-SEAT'S  severity! 

Yet  why  should  Christ's  believer  fear, 
While  gazing  on  yon  image  dear?  — 
Image  adored,  maugre  the  sneer 

Of  miscreant  blasphemer. 

Are  not  those  arms  for  me  outspread  ? 
What  mean  those  thorns  upon  thy  head  ?— 
And  shall  I,  wreathed  with  laurels,  tread 
Far  from  thy  paths,  Redeemer? 


THE  SONG   OF   BRENNUS, 

t)R  THK  INTRODUCTION  OF  THE  GRAPE  INTO  FRANCE. 

TnnH-l'77ta  Night  before  Larry.* 

WHEN  Brennus  came  back  here  from  Rome, 

These  words  he  is  said  to  have  spoken  : 
**  We  have  conquered,  my  boys  !    and  brought 
home 

A  sprig  of  the  vine  for  a  token  ! 
Cheer,  my  hearties !  and  welcome  to  Gaul 

This  plant,  which  we  won  from  the  foeman ; 
Tis  enough  to  repay  us  for  all 

Our  trouble  in  beating  the  Roman  ; 

O 

Bless  the  gods !  and  bad  luck  to  the 
geese ! 

Oh  !  take  care  to  treat  well  the  fair  guest, 

From  the  blasts  of  the  north  to  protect  her; 
Of  your  hillocks,  the  sunniest  and  best 

Make  them  hers,  for  the  sake  of  her  nectar. 
'She  shall  nurse  your  young  Gauls  with  her  juice  ; 

Give  life  to  '  the  arts'  in  libations ; 
While  your  ships  round  the  globe  shall  produce 

Her  goblet  of  joy  for  all  nations — 

E'en  the  foeman  shall  taste  of  our  cup. 

>  His  l.u.ly  wus  laid  out  In  state  In  the  church  of  St.  Mnna  Uo- 
londa  (tbu  Pnntlieon),  whither  all  Home  flocked  to  honor  the  Illus- 
trious dead.  Ills  last  nnd  most  glorious  work,  "The  Trniisflgnrt- 
tlon."  was  placed  above  his  bier;  while  Leo's  |H>ntilk-al  hand 
•trcwed  flowers  and  burnt  Incense  over  tbo  cold  rniuiiii  o!'iU'ji»rt- 
-«<1  Ketiius.— Life 


The  exile  who  Hies  to  our  hearth 

She  shall  soothe,  all  his  sorrows  redressing ; 
For  the  vine  is  the  parent  of  mirth, 

And  to  sit  in  its  shade  is  a  blessing." 
So  the  soil  Brennus  dug  with  his  lance, 

'Mid  the  crowd  of  Gaul's  warriors  and  sages  ; 
And  our  forefathers  grim,  of  gay  France 

Got.  a  glimpse  through  the  vista  of  ages — 

And  it  gladdened  the    hearts   of  th« 
Gauls! 


WINE   DEBTOR  TO   WATER. 

Arm— "i</«  let  in  cAarfrV" 

RAIN  best  doth  nourish 

Earth's  pride,  the  budding  vine ! 
Grapes  best  will  flourish 

On  which  the  dewdrops  shine. 
Then  why  should  water  meet  with  scorn, 

Or  why  its  claim  to  praise  resign  ? 
When  from  that  bounteous  soun-e  is  born 

The  vine !  the  vine  !  the  vine! 

Rain  best  disposes 

Earth  for  each  blossom  and  each  bud ; 
True,  we  are  told  by  Moses, 

Once  it  brought  on  "  a  flood  :" 
But  while  that  flood  did  all  immerse, 

All  save  old  Noah's  holy  line, 
Pray  read  the  chapter  and  the  verse — 

The  vine  is  there!  the  vine! 

Wine  by  water-carriage 

Round  the  globe  is  best  conveyed  ; 
Then  why  disparage 

A  path  for  old  Bacchus  made? 
When  iu  our  ducks  the  cargo  lands 

Which  foreign  merchants  here  d* 
The  wine's  red  empire  wide  expands — 

The  vine !  the  vine  !  the  vine  ! 

Kain  makes  the  miller 

\V..rk  his  glad  wheel  the  livelong  d.iy  • 
Kain  brings  the  siller, 

And  drives  dull  care  away  : 
For  without  rain  lie  lark-*  the  stream. 

And  fain  o'er  watery  cups  must  pine; 


248 


POEMS   OF   FRANCIS   MAHONY. 


But  when  it  rains,  he  courts,  I  deem, 
Th •'•  vibe  !  the  vine  !  the  vine  ! ' 

Though  all  good  judges 

Water's  worth  now  understand, 
Mark  yon  chiel  who  drudges 

With  buckets  in  each  hand  ; 
He  toils  with  water  through  the  town, 

Until  he  spies  a  certain  "  sign," 
Where  entering,  r.ll  his  labor  done, 

He  drains  thy  juice,  0  vine  ! 

But  pure  water  singing 

Dries  full  soon  the  poet's  tongue ; 
So  crown  all  by  bringing 

A  draught  drawn  from  the  bung 
Of  yonder  cask,  that  wine  contains 

Of  Loire's  good  vintage  or  the  Rhine, 
Queen  of  whose  teeming  margin  reigns 

The  vine!  the  vine!  the  vine! 


POPULAR   BALLAD   ON   THE   BATTLE 
OF  LEPANTO. 

LET  us  sing  how  the  boast  of  the  Saracen  host 

In  the  gulf  of  Lepanto  was  scattered, 
When  each  knight  of  St.  John's  from  his  cannon 

O 

of  bronze 

Wifn  grape-shot  their  argosies  battered. 
Oh !  we  taught  the  Turks  then  that  of  Europe 

the  men 

Could  defy  every  infidel  menace — 
And  that  still  o'er  the  main  float  the  galleys  of 

Spain, 
And  the  red-lion  standard  of  Venice  ! 

Quick  we  made  the  foe  skulk,  as  we  blazed  at 

each  hulk, 

While  they  left  us  a  splinter  to  fire  at; 
And  the  rest  of  them  fled  o'er  the  waters,  blood 

red 

With  the  gore  of  the  Ottoman  pirate ; 
And  our  navy  gave  chase  to  the  infidel  race, 
Nor  allowed  them  a  moment  to  rally  ; 


1  This  i«!ea,  containing  an  apparent  paradox,  has  been  frequent- 
ly worked  up  in  the  quaint  writing;  of  the  middle  ages.  There  is 
MI  old  Jesuits' riddle,  which  I  letirnt  among  other  wise  saws  at  their 
colleges,  from  which  it  will  appear  that  this  Miller  is  a  regular 
Joe. 

Q.  "Suave  bibo  vinuin  quoties  mini  suppetit  unda; 
Undaque  si  desit,  quid  bibo?" 

It.  "Tristis  aquiitn  I" 


And  we  forced  them  at  length  to  acknowledga 

our  strength 
In  the  trench,  in  the  field,  in  the  gallt  y ! 

Then    our  men    gave    a   shout,   and   the   ocean- 
throughout 

Heard  of  Christendom's  triumph  with  rapture. 
Galeottes  eighty-nine  of  the  enemy's  line 

To  our  swift-sailing  ships  fell  a  capture  : 
And  I  firmly  maintain  that  the  number  of  slain 

To  at  least  sixty  thousand  amounted  ; 
To  be  sure  'twas  sad  work — if  the  life  of  a  Turk 

For  a  moment  were  worth  being  counted. 

We  may  well  feel  elate ;   though   I'm  sorry  to. 

state, 

That  albeit  by  the  myriad  we've  slain  '*m, 
Still,  the  sons  of  the  Cross  have  to  weep  for  the 

loss 

Of  six  thousand  who  fell  by  the  Paynim 
Full  atonement  was  due  for  each  man  that  they 

slew, 

And  a  hecatomb  paid  for  each  hero : 
But  could  all  that  we'd  kill  give  a  son  to  Castile,. 
Or  to  Malta  a  brave  cavalhero  ? 

St.  Mark  for  the  slain  intercedes  not  in  vain — 

There's  a  mass  at  each  altar  in  Venice ; 
And  the  saints  we  implore  for  the  banner  they 
bore 

Are  Our  Lady,  St.  George,  and  St.  Denis. 
For  the   brave  while  we   grieve,   in   our  heart* 
they  shall  live, 

In  our  mouths  shall  their  praise  be  incessant; 
And  again  and  again  we  will  boast  of  the  men 

Who  have  humbled  the  pride  of  the  Crescent- 


THE   THREE-COLORED   FLAb. 

(A  PROSECUTED  SONG.) 

COMRADES,  around  this  humble  board, 

Here's  to  our  banner's  by-gone  splendor.. 
There  may  be  treason  in  that  word — 
All  Europe  may  the  proof  afford — 
All  France  be  the  offender; 
But  drink  the  toast 
That  gladdens  most, 
Fires  the  vuiuiii'  heart  and  cheers  the  old— 


POEMS   OF   FRANCIS    .\I.\llo.\Y. 


"  May  France  once  more 
Her  tri-color 
Blessed  with  new  life  behold  ! 

List  to  my  secret.     That  old  flag 

Under  my  bed  of  straw  is  hidden, 
Sacred  to  glory  !     War-worn  rag  ! 
Thee  no  informer  thence  shall  drag, 
Nor  dastard  spy  say  'tis  forbidden. 
France,  I  can  vouch, 
Will,  from  its  couch, 
The  dormant  symbol  yet  unfold, 
And  wave  once  more 
Her  tri-color 
Through  Europe,  uncontrolled! 

For  every  drop  of  blood  we  spent, 

Did  not  that  flag  give  value  plenty! 
Were  not^our  children  as  they  went, 
Jocund,  to  join  the  warrior's  tent, 
Soldiers  at  ten,  heroes  at  twenty  ? 
FRANCS  !  who  were  then 
Your  noblemen  ? 

Not  they  of  parchment-must  and  mould  1 
But  they  who  bore 
Your  tri-color 
Through  Europe,  uncontrolled! 

Leipsk  hath  seen  our  eagle  fall, 

Drunk  with  renown,  worn  out  with  glory 
But,  with  the  emblem  of  old  Gaul 
Crowning  our  standard,  we'll  recall 
The  brightest  days  of  Valmy's  story! 
With  terror  pale 
Shall  despots  quail, 
When  in  their  ear  the  tale  is  told, 
Of  France  once  more 
Her  tri-color 
Preparing  to  unfold  ! 

Trust  not  the  laioless  ruffian  chiel, 

Worse  than  the  vilest  monarch  he! 
Down  with  the  dungeon  and  Bastile1 
But  let  our  country  never  kneel 
To  that  grim  idol,  Anarchy  ! 
Strength  shall  appear 
On  our  frontier  — 

France  shall  be  Liberty's  stronghold! 
Then  earth  once  more 
The  tri-color 
With  bh'xsin'jt  shall  behold! 


O  my  old  flag!  that  liest  hid, 

There  where  my  sword  and  musket  lie  — 


Banner,  come  forth !  for  U-ais  unbi.J 
Are  filling  fast  a  warrior's  lid, 
Which  thoii  ali'ii.-  canst  dry. 
A  soldier's  gri'-t' 
Shall  find  relief, 

A  veteran's  heart  shall  be  consoled — 
France  shall  once  more 
Her  tri-color 
Triumphantly  unfold/ 


MALBROUCK. 

MALBROUCK  the  prince  of  commanders, 

Is  gone  to  the  war  in  Flanders  ; 

His  fame  is  like  Alexander's  ; 

But  when  will  he  come  hoin  [tor* 

Perhaps  at  Trinity  Feast,  or 

Perhaps  he  may  come  at  Easter. 

Egad  !  he  had  better  make  haste,  or 

We  fear  he  may  never  come.  [<<r_ 

For  "  Trinity  Feast"  is  over, 

And  has  brought  no  news  from  Dover  ; 

And  Easter  is  past,  moreover  ; 

And  Malbrouck  still  delays.  [ter 

Milady  in  her  watch-tower 

Spends  many  a  pensive  hour, 

Not  well  knowing  why  or  how  her 

Dear  lord  from  England  stays.  [f«v 


While  sitting  quite  forlorr  in 
That  tower,  she  spies  returning 
A  page  clad  in  deep  mourning, 
With  fainting  steps  and  slow. 


[ter. 


"  0  page,  prithee,  come  faster  ; 

What  news  do  you  bring  of  your  master? 

I  fear  there  is  soni'-  disaster, 

Your  looks  arc  so  full  of  woe."  [ter* 


"The  news  I  bring,  fair  lady," 
With  sorrowful  accent  said  he, 
"Is  one  yon  are  not  ready 
So  soon,  alas!  to  hear, 

But  since  to  speak  I'm  hurried,1' 
Added  this  page,  quite  flurried, 
44  Malbrouck  is  dead  and  buried  ! 
(And  here  he  shod  a  tear.) 


[far. 


-250 


POEMS  OF  FRANCIS  MAHOXY. 


"  He's  dead !  he's  dead  as  a  herring  ! 

For  I  beheld  his  '  herring? 

And  four  officers  transferring 

His  corpse  away  from  the  field.  [ter. 

One  officer  carried  his  sabre, 

And  he  carried  it  not  without  labor, 

Much  envying  his  next  neighbor, 

Who  only  bore  a  shield.  \ter. 

The  third  was  helmet-bearer — 

That  helmet  which  on  its  wearer 

Filled  all  who  saw  with  terror, 

And  covered  a  hero's  brains.  \ter. 

Now,  having  got  so  far,  I 

Find  that  (by  the  Lord  Harry  !) 

Tbe/owr^  is  left  nothing  to  carry; 

So  there  the  thing  remains."  \ter. 


TBE    OBSEQUIES    OF    DAVIP    THE 
PAINTER. 

FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  BERANGER. 

THE  pass  is  barred  !  "  Fall  back !"  cries  the  guard  ; 

"  cross  not  the  French  frontier  !  " 
As  with  solemn  tread,  of   the  exiled  dead  the 

funeral  drew  near. 
For  the  sentinelle  hath  noticed  well    what    no 

plume,  no  pall  can  hide, 
That  yon  hearse  contains  the  sad  remains  of  a 

banished  regicide! 
44  But  pity  take,  for  his   glory's   sake,"  said  his 

children  to  the  guard  ; 
~"Let  his  noble  art  plead  on  his  part — let  a  grave 

be  his  reward ! 
France  knew  his  name  in  her  hour  of  fame,  nor 

the  aid  of  his  pencil  scorned  ; 
•Let  his  passport  be  the  memory  of  the  triumphs 

he  adorned ! " 

**That  corpse  can't  pass!  'tis  my  duty,  alas!" 

said  the  frontier  sentinelle. — 
•*'  But  pity  take,  for  his  country's  sake,  and  his 

clay  do  not  repel 
From  its  kindred  earth,  from  the  land   of  his 

birth  !  "  cried  the  mourners,  in  their  turn. 
Oh  1    give    to    France   the  inheritance   of  her 

painter's  funeral  urn  : 


His  pencil  traced,  on  the  Alpine   waste  of  the 

pathless  Mont  Bernard, 
Napoleon's  course  on  the  snow-white  horse!  — 

let  a  grave  be  his  reward  ! 
For  he  loved  this  land — ay,  his  dying  hand  to 

paint  her  fame  he'd  lend  her  : 
Let  her  passport  be  the  memory  of  his  native 

country's  splendor ! " 

"Ye  cannot  pass,"  said  the  guard,  "alas!  (for 

tears  bedimmed  his  eyes) 
Though  France  may  count  to  pass  that  mount 

a  glorious  enterprise." — 
"  Then  pity  take,  for  fair  Freedom's  sake,"  cried 

the  mourners  once  again  : 
"  Her  favorite  was  Leonidas,  with  his  band  of 

Spartan  men  ; 
Did  not  his  art  to  them   impart,  life's   breath, 

that  France  might  see 
What  a  patriot  few  in  the  gap  could  do  at  old 

Thermopylae  ? 
Oft  by  that  sight  for  the  coming  fight  was  the 

youthful  bosom  fired : 
Let  his  passport  be  the  memory  of  the  valor  he 

inspired !'' 

"  Ye    cannot    pass." — "  Soldier,  alas  I    a    dismal 

boon  we  crave — 
Say,  is  there  not  some    lonely  spot  where   his 

friends  may  dig  a  grave  ? 
Oh!  pity  take,  for  that  hero's  sake    whom    he 

gloried  to  portray 
With  crown  and  palm  at  Notre  Dame  on  his 

coronation -day." 
Amid  that  band  the  withered  hand  of  an  aged 

pontiff  rose, 

And  blessing  shed  on  the  conqueror's  head,  for- 
giving his  own  woes  : — 
He  drew  that  scene — nor  dreamt,  I  ween,  that 

yet  a  little  while, 
And  the  hero's  doom  would  be  a  tomb  far  off  in 

a  lonely  isle ! 

"  I  am  charged,  alas  !  not  to  let  you  pass,"  said 

the  sorrowing  sentinelle ; 
"  His  destiny  must  also  be  a  foreign  grave !  " — 

"Tis  well!— 
Hard  is  our  fate  to  supplicate  for  his  bones    a 

place  of  rest, 
And  to  bear  away  his  banished  clay  from  the  land 

that  he  loved  best. 


POEMS   OF   FRANCIS   MAHONY. 


861 


Bullet  us  hence  ! — Sail  recompense  for  the  lustre 
that  he  cast, 

Blending  the  rays  of  modern  days  with  the  glo- 
ries of  the  past ! 

Our  sons  will  read  with  shame  this  deed  (unless 
iny  mind  doth  en) 

And  a  future  age  make  pilgrimage  to  the  painter's 
sepulchre! " 


TO  PROSTRATE  ITALY. 

FILICAIA. 

HAST  thou  not  been  the  nations'  queen,  fair  Italy  ! 
though  now 

Chance  gives  to  them  the  diadem  that  once  adorn- 
ed thy  brow  ? 

Toe  beautiful  for  tyrant's  rule,  too  proud  for 
handmaid's  duty — 

Would  thou  hadst  less  of  loveliness,  or  strength 
as  well  as  beauty  ! 

The  fatal  light  of  beauty  bright  with  fell  attrac- 
tion shone, 

Fatal  to  thee,  for  tyrants  be  the  lovers  thou  hast 
won ! 

That  forehead  fair  is  doomed  to  wear  its  shame's 
degrading  proof, 

And  slavery's  print  in  damning  tint  stamped  by 
a  despot's  houf ! 

Were  strength  and  power,  maiden  !  thy  aower, 
soon  should  that  robber-band, 

That  prowls  unbid  thy  vines  amid,  fly  scourged 
from  off  that  land  ; 

Nor  wouldst  thou  fear  yon  foreigner,  nor  be  con- 
demned to  see 

Drink  in  the  flow  of  classic  Po  barbarian  cav- 
alry. 

Climate  of  art!  thy  sons  depart  to  gild  a  Van- 
dal's throne ; 

To  battle  led,  their  blood  is  shed  in  contests  not 
their  own  ; — 

Mixed  with  yon  horde,  go  draw  thy  sword,  nor 
ask  what  cause  'tis  for : 

Thy  lot  is  cast — slave  to  the  hist!  conquered  or 
conqueror ! 


ODE  T<>   THE  STATUE  OK    MO 

AT  TDK  FOOT  OP  TUB  MAUSOLEUM  OF  POPK  JUUU*  II.  IK  TH« 
CHURCH  Of  ST.  PETBB  AD  VISCULA,  EOMK— TUB  MASTUFIKCB  OV 
M1CUAKL  A.M.K.Ul, 

STATUE!  whose  giant  limbs 
Old  Buonarotti  planned, 
And  Genius  carved  with  meditative  hand, — 

Thy  dazzling  radiance  dims 
The  best  and  brightest  boasts  of  Sculpture's  fa- 
vorite land. 

What  dignity  adorns 
That  beard's  prodigious  sweep  ! 
That  forehead,  awful  with  mysterious  horns 

And  cogitation  deep, 
Of  some  uncommon  mind  the  rapt  beholder  warns. 

In  that  proud  semblance,  well 
My  soul  c.an  recognize 
The  prophet  fresh  from  converse  with  the 

skies; 

Nor  is  it  hard  to  tell 
The  liberator's  name, — the  Guide  of  Israel. 

Well  might  the  deep  respond 
Obedient  to  that  voi--i-, 
When  on  the  Red  Sea  shore  he  waved  his 

wand, 

And  bade  the  tribes  ivjoice, 
Saved  from  the  yawning  gulf  and  the  Egyptian'* 
bond! 

Fools !  in  the  wilderness 
Ye  raised  a  calf  of  gold  ! 
Had  ye  then  worshipped  what  I  now  behold, 

Your  crime  had  been  far  less  — 
For  ye  had    bent  the   knee  to  one  of  godlik«» 
mould ! 


LINES  ADDRESSED  TO  THE  TI15EK. 

BY    ALK8SANDRO    GUI. PI. 

TIMEK!  my  early  dream. 
My  boyhood's  vision  of  thy  clav-ir  stream 
Had  taught  my  mind  to  think 
That  over  saiuls  of  guld 
Thy  limpid  waters  rolled, 
And  cvi-i -verdant  laurels  grew  upon  thy  brink. 


252 


POEMS   OF   FRANCIS  MAHONY. 


But  far  in  other  guise 
The  rude  reality  hath  met  mine  eyes. 
Here,  seated  on  thy  bank, 
All  desolate  and  drear 
Thy  margin  doth  appear, 

With  Creeping  weeds,  and  shrubs,  and  vegetation 
rank. 

Fondly  I  fancied  thine 
The  wave  pellucid,  and  the  Naiad's  shrine, 
In  crystal  grot  below ; 
But  thy  tempestuous  course 
Runs  turbulent  and  hoarse, 
And,  swelling  with  wild  wrath,  thy  wintry  waters 
flow. 

Upon  thy  bosom  dark 
Peril  awaits  the  light  confiding  bark, 
In  eddying  vortex  swamped  ; 
Foul,  treacherous,  and  deep, 
Thy  winding  waters  sweep, 
Enveloping  their  prey  in  dismal  ruin  prompt. 

Fast  in  thy  bed  is  sunk 
The  mountain  pine-tree's  broken  trunk, 
Aimed  at  the  galley's  keel ; 
And  well  thy  wave  can  waft 
Upon  that  broken  shaft 

The  barge,  whose  sunken  wreck  thy  bosom  will 
conceal. 

The  dog-star's  sultry  power, 
The  summer  heat,  the  noontide's  fervid  hour, 
That  fires  the  mantling  blood, 
Yon  cautious  swain  can't  urge 
To  tempt  thy  dangerous  surge, 
Or  cool  his  limbs  within  thy  dark  insidious  Hood. 

I've  marked  thee  in  thy  pride, 
When  struggle  fierce  thy  disemboguing  tide 
With  Ocean's  monarch  held  ; 
But,  quickly  overcome 
By  Neptune's  masterdom, 
Back  thou  hast  fled  as  oft,  ingloriously  repelled. 

Often,  athwart  the  fields 
A  giant's  strength  thy  flood  redundant  wields, 
Bursting  above  its  brim  — 
Strength  that  no  dike  can  check  : 
Dire  is  the  harvest-wreck ! 

Buoyant,  with  lofty  horns,  th'  affrighted  bullock 
swims! 


But  still  thy  proudest  boast, 
Tiber!  and  what  brings  honor  to  thee  most, 
Is,  that  thy  waters  roll 
Fast  by  th'  eternal  home 
Of  Glory's  daughter,  ROME  ; 
And  that  thy  billows  bathe  the  sacred  CAPITOL* 

Famed  is  thy  stream  for  her, 
Clelia,  thy  current's  virgin  conqueror, 
And  him  who  stemmed  the  march 
Of  Tuscany's  proud  host, 
When,  firm  at  honor's  post, 
He   waved    his   blood  stained   blade   above  the 
broken  arch. 

Of  Romulus  the  sons, 
To  torrid  Africans,  to  frozen  Huns, 
Have  taught  thy  name,  0  flood  ! 
And  to  that  utmos-t  verge 
Where  radiantly  emerge 
Apollo's  car  of  flame  and  golden-footed  stud. 

For  so  much  glory  lent, 
Ever  destructive  of  some  monument, 
Thou  makest  foul  return  ; 
Insulting  with  thy  wave 
Each  Roman  hero's  grave, 
And  Scipio's  dust  that  fills  yon  consecrated  urni 


THE   ANGEL  OF  POETRY. 

TO    L.  E.   L. 

LADY  !  for  thee  a  holier  key  shall  harmonize  th» 

chord — 
In    Heaven's    defence    Omnipotence    drew    an 

avenging  sword ; 
But  when  the  bolt  had  crushod  revolt,  one  angel, 

fair  though  frail, 
Retained  his  lute,  fond  attribute!  to  charm  thai 

gloomy  vale. 
The  lyre  he  kept  his  wild  hand  swept ;  the  music 

he'd  awaken 
Would  sweetly  thrill  from  the  lonely  hill  where 

he  sat  apart  forsaken  : 
There  he'd  lament  his  banishment,  his  thoughts 

to  grief  abandon, 
And   weep  his  full.     'Twas   pitiful   to  see  him 

weep,  fair  Landon ! 


1'OKMS   OF    FKANVIS    MA1I«»XY. 


l\i-  w.-pt  his  fault!  Hell's  gloomy  vault  grew 
vocal  with  his  song; 

Hut  all  throughout  derision's  shout  burst  from 
the  guilty  throng : 

•God  pitying  viewed  his  fortitude  in  that  unhal- 
lowed den ; 

Freed  him  from  hell,  but  bade  him  dwell  amid 
the  sons  of  men. 

Lady  !  for  us,  an  exile  thus,  immortal  Poesy 

'Came  upon  earth,  and  lutes  gave  birth  to  sweet- 
est minstrelsy ; 

And  poets  wrought  their  spellwords,  taught  by 
that  angelic  mind, 

And  music  lent  soft  blandishment  to  fascinate 
mankind. 

Religion  rose  !  man  sought  repose  in  the  shadow 

of  her  wings ; 
Music  for   her  walked    harbinger,  and    Genius 

touched  the  strings : 
Tears  from  the  tree  of  Araby  cast  on  her  altar 

burned, 
But  earth  and  wave  most  fragrance  gave  where 

Poetry  sojourned. 
Vainly,  with  hate  inveterate,  hell  labored  in  its 

rage, 

To  persecute  that  angel's  lute,  and  cross  his  pil- 
grimage ; 
Unmoved  and  calm,  his  songs  poured  balm  on 

sorrow  all  the  while; 
Vice  he  unmasked,   but  virtue  basked   iu    the 

radiance  of  his  smile. 

Oh,  where,  among  the  fair  and  young,  or  in  what 

kingly  court, 

In  what  gay  path  where  pleasure  hath  her  favor- 
ite resort, 
Where  hast  thou  gone,  angelic  one?     Back  to 

thy  native  skies  ? 
Or  dost  thou  dwell  in  cloistered  cell,  in  pensive 

hermit's  guise  ? 
Methinks  I  ken  a  denizen  of  this  our  island — 

nay. 
Leave  me  to  guess,  fair  poetess !  queen  of  the 

matchless  lay! 
The  thrilling  line,  lady!  is  thine;  the  spirit  pure 

and  free ; 
And  England  views  that  angel   muse,  Landon ! 

revealed  in  THKK  ! 


.V 


GOOD   DllY 


ACCORDING    TO    BfiRANGKK,  8ONOSTBR. 

MY  dwelling  is  ample, 

And  I've  set  an  example 
For  all  lovers  of  wine  to  follow  ; 

If  my  home  you  should  ask, 

I  have  drained  out  a  cask, 
And  I  dwell  in  the  fragrant  hollow. 
A  disciple  am  I  of  Diogenes  — 
Oh  !  his  tub  a  most  classical  lodging  i». 
'Tis  a  beautiful  alcove  for  thinking  ; 
'Tis,  besides,  a  cool  grotto  flor  drinking: 
Moreover,  the  parish  throughout 
You  can  readily  roll  it  about. 
Oh  !  the  berth 

For  a  lover  of  mirth, 
To  revel  in  jokes,  and  to  lodge  in  ease, 
Is  the  classical  tub  of  Diogenes  ! 

In  politics  I'm  no  adept, 
And  into  ray  tub  when  I've  crept, 
They  may  canvass  in  vain  for  my  vote. 
For  besides,  after  all  the  great  cry  and  hubbub, 
REFORM  gave  no  "ten  pound  franchise"  to  mj 

tub  ; 

So  your  "  bill  "  I  don't  value  a  groat  ! 
And  as  for  that  idol  of  filth  and  vulgarity, 
Adorned  now-a-days,  and  yclept  Popularity, 
To  my  home 
Should  it  come, 

And  my  hogshead's  bright  aperture  darken, 
Think  not  to  such  summons  I'd  hearken. 
No!  I'd  say  to  that  ghoul  grim  and  gaunt, 

Vile  phantom,  a  vaunt! 
Get  thee  out  of  my  sight  ! 
For  thy  clumsy  opacity  shuts  out  the  light 
Of  the  gay,  glorious  sun 
From  my  classical  tun, 
Where  a  hater  of  cant  and  a  lover  of  fun 
Fain  would  revel  in  mirth,  and  would  lodge  i 

ease  — 
The  classical  tub  of  Diogenes  ! 

In  the  park  of  St.  Cloud  there  stare  at  you 
A  pillar  or  statue 

Of  my  liege,  the  philosopher  cynical  : 

There  he  stands  on  a  pinnacle, 
And  his  lantern  is  placed  on  tin-  ground, 

While,  with  both  ey»  tiv-,1  wholly  on 

The  favorite  haunt  of  Napo' 


254 


POEMS  OF  FRANCIS  MAIIONY. 


"  A  MAN  !"  he  exclaims,  "  by  the  powers,  I  have 

found !" 

But  for  me,  when  at  eve  I  go  sauntering 
On  the  boulevards  of  Athens,  "  Love  "  carries  my 

lantern ; 

And,  egad !  though  I  walk  most  demurely, 
For  a  man  I'm  not  looking  full  surely ; 
N-ay,  I'm  sometimes  brought  drunk  home, 
Like   honest  Jack   Reeve,  or  li'ke  honest  Tom 

Buncombe. 
Oh  !  the  nest 
For  a  lover  of  jest 

To  revel  in  fun,  and  to  lodge  in  ease, 
Is  the  classical  tub  of  Diogenes. 


THE   CARRIER-DOVE   OF   ATHENS. 
A  DREAM,  1822. 

HELEN  sat  by  my  side,  and  I  held 

To  her  lip  the  gay  cup  in  my  bower, 
When  a  bird  at  our  feet  we  beheld, 

As  we  talked  of  old  Greece  in  that  hour ; 
A  nd  his  wing  bore  a  burden  of  love, 

To  some  fair  one  the  secret  soul  telling — 
Oh,  drink  of  my  cup,  carrier-dove  ! 

And  sleep  on  the  bosom  of  Helen. 

Thou  art  tired — rest  awhile,  and  anon 

Thou  shalt  soar,  with  new  energy  thrilling, 
To  the  land  of  that  far-off  fair  one, 

If  such  be  the  task  thou'rt  fulfilling; 
But  perhaps  thou  dost  waft  the  last  word 

Of  despair,  wrung  from  valor  and  duty — 
Then  drink  of  my  cup,  carrier-bird ! 

Aud  sleep  on  the  bosom  of  Beauty. 

Ha !  these  lines  are  from  Greece  !  Well  I  knew 

The  loved  idiom !     Be  mine  the  perusal. 
Son  of  France,  I'm  a  child  of  Greece  too  ; 

And  a  kinsman  will  brook  no  refusal. 
"  Greece  is  free!"  all  the  gods  have  concurred 

To  fill  up  our  joy's  brimming  measure — 
Oh,  drink  of  my  cup,  carrier  bird  ! 

And  sleep  on  the  bosom  of  Pleasure. 

Greece  is  free !     Let  us  drink  to  that  land, 
To  our  elders  in  fame!     Did  ye  merit 

Tims  to  struggle  alone,  glorious  band ! 

From  whose  sires  we  our  freedom  inherit? 


The  old  glories,  which  kings  would  destroy, 
Greece  regains,  never,  never  to  lose  'em  ! 

Oh,  drink  of  my  cup,  bird  of  joy! 
And  sleep  on  my  Helen's  soft  bosom. 

Muse  of  Athens !  thy  lyre  quick  resume  ! 

None  thy  anthem  of  freedom  shall  hinder  : 
Give  Anacreon  joy  in  his  tomb, 

And  gladden  the  ashes  of  Pindar. 
Helen  !  fold  that  bright  bird  to  thy  breast, 

Nor  permit  him  henceforth  to  desert  you — 
Oh,  drink  of  my  cup,  winged  guest ! 

And  sleep  on  the  bosom  of  Virtue. 

But  no,  he  must  hie  to  his  home, 

To  the  nest  where  his  bride  is  awaiting ; 
Soon  again  to  our  climate  he'll  come, 

The  young  glories  of  Athens  relating, 
The  baseness  of  kings  to  reprove, 

To  blush  our  vile  rulers  compelling! — 
Then  drink  of  my  goblet,  0  dove! 

And  sleep  on  the  breast  of  inv  Helen. 


THE    FALL    OF    THE    LEAVES. 

FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  MILLEVOYE. 

AUTUMN  had  stripped  the  grove,  and  strewed 

The  vale  with  leafy  carpet  o'er — 
Shorn  of  its  mystery  the  wood, 

Arid  Philomel  bade  sing  no  more — 
Yet  one  still  hither  comes  to  feed 

His  gaze  on  childhood's  merry  path; 
For  him,  sick  youth!  poor  invalid! 

Lonely  attraction  still  it  hath. 

"I  come  to  bid  you  farewell  brief, 

Here,  O  my  infancy's  wild  haunt ! 
For  death  gives  in  each  falling  leaf 

Sad  summons  to  your  visitant. 
'Twas'  a  stern  oracle  that  told 

My  dark  decree,  '  The  woodland  bloom. 
Once  more  'tis  given  thee  to  behold. 

Then  comes  tlH  inexorable  tomb  ! ' 

Th'  eternal  cypress,  balancing 

Its  tall  form  like  some  funeral  thing 

O 

In  silence  o'er  my  head, 
Tells  me  my  youth  shall  wither  fast, 
Ere  the  grass  fades — yea,  ere  the  last 

Stalk  from  the  vine  is  shed. 


POEMS  OF  FRANCIS   MAHONT. 


I  die !     Yes,  with  his  icy  breath 

Fixed  Fate  has  frozen  up  my  blood ; 

And  by  the  chilly  blast  of  Death 

Nipped  is  my  life'^j  spring  in  the  bud. 

Fall!  fall,  0  transitory  leaf! 

And  cover  well  this  path  of  sorrow ; 
Hide  from  my  mother's  searching  grief 

The  spot  where  I'll  be  laid  to-morrow. 

But  should  my  loved  one's  fairy  tread 
Seek  the  sad  dwelling  of  the  dead, 

Silent,  alone,  at  eve ; 
Oh,  then  with  rustling  murmur  meet 
The  echo  of  her  coming  feet, 

And  sign  of  welcome  give  !  " 

Such  was  the  sick  youth's  last,  sad  thought: 

Then  slowly  from  the  grove  he  moved  ; 
Next  rnoon  that  way  a  corpse  was  brought, 

And  buried  in  the  bower  he  loved. 
But  at  his  grave  no  form  appeared, 

No  fairy  mourner:  through  the  wood 
The  shepherd's  tread  alone  was  heard 

In  the  sepulchral  solitude. 


LINES  ON  TliE  BURIAL  OF  A  FRIEND'S 
DAUGHTER  AT  PASSY,  JULY  16,  1832. 

FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  CHATEAUBRIAND. 

ERE  that  coffin  goes  down,  let  it  bear  on  its  lid 

The  garland  of  roses 
Which  the  hand  of  a  father,  her  mourners  amid, 

In  silence  deposes — 
'Tis  the  young  maiden's  funeral  hour! 
.From  thy  bosom,  0  earth  1  sprung  that  young 
'-  budding  rose 

Kii.l  'tis  meet  that  together  thy  lap  should  in- 
close 
The  young  maid  and  the  flower! 

NTever,  never  give  back  the  two  symbols  so  pure 

Which  to  thec  we  confide ; 
Pn. in  the  breath  of  this  world  and  ita  plague-spot 

secure, 

Let  them  sleep  side  by  side — 
They  shall  know  not  its  pestilent  power! 
80011  the  breath  of  contagion,  the  deadly  mildew, 


Or  the  fierce  scorching  sun,  might  parch  up  ;i» 

they  grew 
The  young  maid  and  the  flower! 

Poor  Eli/.a!  for  thee  life's  enjoyments  have  fled, 

But  its  pangs  too  are  flown ! 
Then  go  sleep  in  the  grave !  in  that  cold  bridal 

bed 

Death  may  call  thee  his  own — 
Take  this  handful  cf  clay  for  thy  dower! 
Of  a  texture  wert  thou  far  too  gentle  to  last ; 
'Twas  a  morning  thy  life!  now  the  matins  are 

past 
For  the  maid  and  the  flower! 


PRAY  FOR  ME.— A    BALLAD. 

FROM  THE  KKFvrn  or    MILLEVOTH.  ON  1118  DEATH-BED  AT  TKB  VIL- 
LAGE OF  NECIiLY. 

SILENT,  remote,  this  hamlet  seems — 

How  hushed  the  breeze !  the  eve  how  <v  Im  [ 
Light  through  my  dying  chamber  beams, 

But  hope  comes  not,  nor  healing  bairn. 
Kind  villagers !  God  bless  your  shed  ! 

Hark!  'tis  for  prayer — the  evening  bell 
Oh,  stay!  and  near  my  dying  bed, 

Maiden,  for  me  your  rosary  tell ! 

When  leaves  shall  strew  the  waterfall 

In  the  sad  close  of  autumn  drear, 
Say,  "The  sick  youth  is  freed  from  all 

The  pangs  and  woe  he  suffered  here." 
So  may  ye  speak  of  him  that's  gone  ; 

But  when  your  belfry  tolls  my  knell, 
Pray  for  the  soul  of  that  lost  one — 

Maiden,  for  me  your  rosary  tell ! 

Oh!  pity  Aer,  in  sable  robe, 

Who  to  my  grassy  grave  will  come  : 
Nor  seek  a  hidden  wound  to  probe — 

She  was  my  l«>v«  ! — point  out  my  tomb  ; 
Tell  her  my  life  should  have  been  hers — 

Twas  but  H  day  ! — God's  will ! — 'tis  well 
But  weep  with  her,  kind  villagrr-1 

Maiden,  for  me  your  rosary  tell ! 


256 


POEMS  OF  FRANCIS   MAHONY. 


THE  FRENCH  FIDDLER'S  LAMENTATION. 

Mv  poor  dog  !  here  !  of  yesterday's  festival-cake 

Eat  the  poor  remains  in  sorrow; 
For  when  next  a  repast  you  and  I  shall  make, 
It  must  be  on  brown  bread,  which,  for  charity's 

sake, 
Your  master  must  beg  or  borrow. 

•Of  these  strangers  the    presence    and    pride    in 

France 

Is  to  me  a  perfect  riddle; 
They  have  conquered,  no  doubt,  by  some  fatal 

chance — 
.For  they  haughtily  said,  "You  must  play  us  a 

dance \ " 
I  refused — and  they  broke  my  fiddle ! 

•Of  our  village  the  orchestra,  crushed  at  one  stroke, 

By  that  savage  insult  perished  ! 
7Twas  then  that  our  pride  felt  the  strangers'  yoke, 
When  the  insolent  hand  of  a  foreigner  broke 

What  our  hearts  so  dearly  cherished. 

•For  whenever  our  youth  heard  it  merrily  sound, 

A  flood  of  gladness  shedding, 
At  the  dance  on  the  green  they  were  sure  to  be 

found ; 
While  its  music  assembled  the  neighbors  around 

To  the  village  maiden's  wedd;ng. 

By  the  priest  of  the  parish  its  note  was  pro- 
nounced 

To  be  innocent  "  after  service  ;" 
And  gaylv  the  wooden-shoed  peasantry  bounced 
*On  the  bright  Sabbath-day,  as  they  danced  unde- 
nounced 
By  pope,  or  bonze,  or  dervis. 

How  dismally  slow  will  the  Sabbath  now  run, 
Without  fiddle,  or  flute,  or  tabor — 

How    sad    is    the   harvest  when    music    there's 
none — 

How  sad  is  the  vintage  sans  fiddle  begun  ! — 
Dismal  and  tuneless  labor ! 

In  that  fiddle  a  solace  for  grief  we  had  got; 

'Twas  of  peace  the  best  preceptor  ; 
•For  its  sound  made  all  quarrels  subside  on  the 

spot, 
And  its  bow  went  much  farther  to  soothe  our 

hard  lot 
Than  the  crosier  or  the  sceptre. 


But  a  truce  to  my  grief! — for  an  insult  so  base 
A  new  pulse  in  my  heart  hath  awoken ! 

That  affront  I'll  revenge  on  their  insolent  race ; 

Gird  a  sword  on  7ny  thigh — let  a  musket  replace 
The  fiddle  their  hand  has  broken. 

My  friends,  if  I  fall,  my  old  corpse  in  the  crowd 
Of  slaughtered  martyrs  viewing, 

Shall  say,  while  they  wrap  my  cold  limbs  in  a 
shroud, 

'Twas  not  his  fault  if  some  a  barbarian  allowed 
To  dance  in  our  countrv's  ruin ! 


CONSOLATION 


ADDRESSED    BY    LAMARTINK    TO    HIS   FEIEND   AND 

MANGEL,    BANI8UED    FKOM    PuBTUUAL. 

IF  your  bosom  beats  high,  if  your  pulse  quick-  1 

grows, 

When  in  visions  ye  fancy  the  wreath  of  the  Muse, 
There's  the  path  to  renown  —  there's  the  path  to 

repose  — 

Ye  must  choose!  ye  must  choose  ! 
mm 

ManoSl,  thus  the  destiny  rules  thy  career, 
And  thy  life's  web  is  woven  with  glory  and  woe  ; 
Thou  wert  nursed  on  the  lap  of  the  Muse,  ami 

thy  tear 
Shall  unceasingly  flow. 

Oh,  my  friend  !  do  not  envy  the  vulgar  their  joys, 
Nor  the  pleasures  to  which  their  low  nature  is 

prone; 

For  a  nobler  ambition  our  leisure  employs  — 
Oh,  the  lyre  is  our  own  ! 

And  the  future  is  ours  !  for  in  ages  to  come, 
The  admirers  of  genius  an  altar  will  raise 
To  the  poet  ;  and  Fame,  till  her  trumpet  is  dumb, 
Will  re-echo  our  praise. 

Poet  !  Glory  awaits  thee  ;  her  temple  is  thine; 
But  there's  one  who  keeps  vigil,  if  entrance  you 

claim  — 
'Tis  MISFORTUNE  !  she  sits  in  the  porch  of  the 

shrine, 
The  pale  portress  of  Fame. 

Saw  not  Greece  an  old  man,  like  a  pilgrim  ar- 

rayed, 
With  his  tale  of  old  Troy,  and  a  staff  in  his  hand, 


1'oKMS    OF   FRANCIS    MA11"\\. 


•J-.7 


Beg  his  bread   at  the  door  of  each  hut,  as  he 

strayea 
Through  his  own  classic  land  ? 

And  because  be  had  loved,  though  unwisely,  yet 
well; 

Mark  what  was  the  boon  by  bright  beauty  be- 
stowed— 

Blush,  Italy,  blush !  for  yon  maniac's  cell 
It  was  Tasso's  abode. 

Hand  in  hand  Woe  and  Genius  must  walk  here 

below, 

And  the  chalice  of  bitterness,  mixed  for  mankind, 
Must  be  quaffed  by  us  all ;  but  its  waters  o'er- 

flow 
For  the  noble  of  mind. 

Then  the  heave  of  thy  heart's  indignation  keep 
down ; 

Be  the  voice  of  lament  never  wrung  from  thy 
pride ; 

Leave  to  others  the  weakness  of  grief;  take  re- 
nown 
With  endurance  allied. 

Lei  there  banish  far  off  and  proscribe  (for  they 

can) 
Saddened  Portugal's  son  from   his  dear  native 

plains ; 

But  no  tyrant  can  place  the  free  soul  under  ban, 
Or  the  spirit  in  chains. 

No !  the  frenzy  of  faction,  though  hateful,  though 

strong, 
From  the  banks  of  the  Tagus  can't  banish  thy 

fame : 
Still  the  halls  of  old  Lisbon  shall  ring  with  thy 

song 
And  resound  with  thy  name. 

When  Dante's  attainder  his  townsmen  repealed — 
When  the  sons  stamped  the  deeds  of  their  sires 

with  abhorrence, 

They  summoned  reluctant  Ravenna  to  yield 
Back  his  fame  to  his  Florence. 

And  with  both  hands  uplifted  Love's  bard  ere  he 
breathed 

His  last  sigh,  far  away  from   his  kindred  and 
home : 

To  the  Scythians  his  ashes  hath    left,  but   be- 
queathed 
All  his  glory  to  Rome. 


THE   DOG  OF  THE  TIIREK  DAYS. 
A  BALLAD,  SKPTKMBKR,  1831. 

WITH  gentle  tread,  with  uncovered  head, 

Pass  by  the  Louvre-gate, 
Where  buried  lie  the  "  men  of  JULT  !  " 
And  flowers  are  flung  by  the  passers-by, 

And  the  dog  howls  desolate. 

That  dog  had  fought 

In  the  fierce  onslaught 
Had  rushed  with  his  master  on : 

And  both  fought  well ; 

But  the  master  fell — 
And  behold  the  surviving  one! 

By  his  lifeless  clay, 

Shaggy  and  gray, 
His  fdlow-warrior  stood  : 

Nor  moved  beyond, 

But  mingled,  fond, 
Big  tears  with  his  master's  blood. 

Vigil  he  keeps 

By  those  green  heaps, 
That  tell  where  heroes  be  : 

No  passer-by 

Can  attract  his  eye, 
For  he  knows  "  it  is  not  HB  ! " 

At  the  dawn,  when  dew 

Wets  the  garlands  new 
That  are  hung  in  this  place  of  mourning, 

He  will  start  to  meet 

The  coming  feet 
Of  HIM  whom  he  dreamt  returning. 

On  the  grave's  wood-cross 

When  the  chaplets  toss, 
By  the  blasts  of  midnight  shaken, 

How  he  howleth !     Hark ' 

From  that  dwelling  dark 
The  slain  he  would  fain  awaken. 

When  the  snow  comes  fast 

On  the  chilly  blast, 
Blanching  the  bleak  churchyard, 

\Vith  limbs  outspread 

On  the  dismal  bed 
Of  his  liege,  he  still  keeps  guard. 


258 


TOEMS  OF  FRANCIS   MAHONY. 


Oft  in  the  night, 

With  main  and  might, 
He  strives  to  raise  the  stone  • 

Short  respite  takes — 

"  If  master  wakes, 
He'll  call  me  " — then  sleeps  on. 

Of  bayonet-blades, 

Of  barricades, 
And  guns,  he  dreameth  most ; 

Starts  from  his  dream, 

And  then  would  seem 
To  eye  a  bleeding  ghost. 

He'll  linger  there 

In  sad  despair, 

And  die  on  his  master's  grave. 
.       His  name  ?     'Tis  known 

To  the  dead  alone — 
He's  the  dog  of  the  nameless  brave ! 

Give  a  tear  to  the  dead, 
And  give  some  bread 
To  the  dog  of  the  Louvre  gate  ! 
Where  buried  lie  the  men  of  July, 
Ani  flowers  are  flung  by  the  passers-by, 
And  the  dog  howls  desolate. 


THE  MISTLETOE, 

A   TYPE    OF   THE    HEAVEN-BORN. 
I. 

A  PROPHET  sat  by  the  Temple  gate, 

And  he  spake  each  passer-by — 
In  thrilling  tone — with  word  of  weight, 
And  fire  in  his  rolling  eye. 
"  Pause  thee,  believing  Jew  ! 
Nor  move  one  step  beyond, 
Until  thy  heart  hath  pondered 
The  mystery  of  this  wand" 
And  a  rod  from  his  robe  he  drew — 

'Twas  a  withered  bough  torn  long  ago 
From  the  trunk  on  which  it  grew, 

BT.  the  branch  long  torn  showed  a  bud  new 

born 

That  had  blossomed  there  anew. 
'Twas  JESSE'S  rod ! 
And  the  bud  was  the  birth  of  GOD. 


n. 
A  priest  of  Egypt  sat  meanwhile 

Under  a  lofty  palm, 
And  gazing  on  his  native  Nile, 

As  in  a  mirror  calm, 
He  saw  a  lowly  Lotus  plant — 

Pale  orphan  of  the  flood. 
And  well  did  th'  aged  hierophant 

Mark  the  mysterious  bud  : 
For  he  fitly  thought,  as  he  saw  it  float 

O'er  the  waste  of  waters  wild, 
That  the  symbol  told  of  the  cradle  boat 

Of  the  wondrous  Hebrew  child. 
Nor  was  that  bark-like  Lotus  dumb 

Of  a  mightier  infant  yet  to  come, 
Whose  graven  skiff  in  hieroglyph 

Marks  obelisk  and  catacomb. 

in. 
A  Greek  sat  on  Colonna's  cape, 

In  his  lofty  thoughts  alone, 
And  a  volume  lay  on  Plato's  lap, 

For  he  was  that  lonely  one. 
And  oft  as  the  sage  gazed  o'er  the  page 

His  forehead  radiant  grew  ; 
For  in  Wisdom's  womb  of  the  Word  to  coine*. 

The  vision  blessed  his  view. 
He  broached  that  theme  in  the  Academe, 

In  the  teachful  olive  grove ; 
And  a  chosen  few  that  secret  knew 

'In  the  Porch's  dim  alcove. 

IV. 

A  Sibyl  sat  in  Cumse's  cave — 

'Twas  the  hour  of  infant  Rome — 
And  vigil  kept,  and  warning  gave 

Of  the  holy  one  to  come. 
'Twas  she  who  had  culled  the  hallowed  braucn,, 

And  sat  at  the  silent  helm, 
When  jEneas,  sire  of  Rome,  would  launch 

His  bark  o'er  Hades'  realm. 
And  now  she  poured  her  vestal  soul 

Through  many  a  bright  illumined  scroll; 
By  priest  and  sage  of  an  after-age 

Conned  in  the  lofty  capitol. 

\. 

A  Druid  stood  in  the  dark  oak  wood 

Of  a  distant  northern  land, 
And  he  seemed  to  hold  a  sickle  of  gold 

In  the  grasp  of  his  withered  hand  ; 
And  slowly  moved  around  the  girth 

Of  an  aged  oak,  to  see 


POEMS   OF   FKANCls    MAIU'NY. 


If  a  blessed  plant  of  wondrous  birth 
Had  clung  to  the  old  o;ik  tree. 

And  anon  be  knelt,  and  from  his  belt 
Unloosened  his  golden  bliide, 

Thee  rose  and  culled  the  MISTLETOE 
Under  the  woodland  shade. 

VI. 

0  blessed  bough  !  meet  emblem  thou 

Of  all  dark  Egypt  knew, 
Of  all  foretold  to  the  wise  of  old, 

To  Roman,  Greek,  and  Jew. 
And  long  God  grant,  time-honored  plant, 

May  we  behold  thee  hung 
In  cottage  small,  as  in  baron's  hall, 

Banner  and  shield  among. 
Thus  fitly  rule  the  mirth  of  Yule 

Aloft  in  thy  place  of  pride; 
Still  usher  forth  in  each  land  of  the  north 

The  solemn  Christmas  tide. 


SHOOTING   STARS. 

ND  .  '.hey  say  that  a  star  presides 

Over  life » "— "  'Tis"  a  truth,  my  son  ! 
Its  secrets  from  men  the  firmament  hides, 

But  tells  tofcome  favored  one." — 
"  Shepherd  !  they  say  that  a  link  unbroken 

Connects  our  fate  with  some  favorite  star ; 
What  may  yon  shooting  light  betoken, 

That  falls,  falls,  and  is  quenched  afar?'' 

'•  The  death  of  a  mortal,  my  son,  who  held 

In  his  banqueting- hall  high  revel; 
And  his  music  was  sweet,  and  his  wine  excelled, 

Life's  path  seemed  long  and  level : 
No  sign  was  given,  no  word  was  spoken, 

13 is  pleasure  death  comes  to  mar." 
'  lint  what  does  yon  milder  light  betoken, 

That  falls,  falls,  and  is  quenched  afar  > " 

-  Tis  tne  knell  of  beauty ! — it  marks  the  close 

<  M'  a  pure  and  gentle  maiden ; 
And  her  cheek  was  warm  with  its  bridal  rose, 

And  her  brow  with  its  bride- wreath  laden  : — 
The  thousand  hopes  young  love  had  woken 

Lie  crushed,  and  her  dream  is  past." — 
"  But  what  c*»n  yon  rapid  light  betoken, 

That  falls,  falls,  and  is  quenched  so  fast?" 

*  'Tis  the  emblem,  my  son,  of  quick  decay  ! 

'Tis  a  rich  lord's  child  newly  born  : 


The  cradle  that  holds  his  inanimate  clay, 

Gold,  purple,  and  silk  adorn  ; 
The  panders  pr.-pared  through  life  to  haunt  him 

Must  seek  some  one  else  in  his  room." — 
"  Look,  now  !  what  means  yon  dismal  phantom 

That  falls,  falls,  and  is  lost  in  gl:x>m  ? 

"  There,  son  !  I  see  the  guilty  thought 

Of  a  haughty  statesman  fail, 
Who  the  poor  man's  comforts  sterr.ly  sough  \ 

To  plunder  or  curtail. 
His  former  sycophants  have  cursed 

Their  idol's  base  endeavor." — 
"  But  watch  the  light  that  now  has  burst, 

Falls,  falls,  and  is  quenched  forever  1" 

"  What  a  loss,  0  my  son,  was  there ! 

Where  shall  hunger  now  seek  relief! 
The  poor,  who  are  gleaners  elsewhere, 

Could  reap  in  Aw  field  full  sheaf! 
On  the  evening  he  died,  his  door 

Was  thronged  with  a  weeping  crowd." — 
"  Look,  shepherd  !  there's  one  star  more 

That  falls,  and  is  quenched  in  a  cloud." 

"'Tis  a  monarch's  star?     Do  thou  preserve 

Thy  innocence,  my  child  ! 
Nor  from  thy  course  appointed  swerve, 

But  there  shine  calm  and  mild. 
Of  thy  star,  if  the  sterile  ray 

For  no  useful  purpose  shone, 
At  thy  death,  'See  that  star,'  they'd  say  ; 

'It  falls  1  falls!  is  past  and  gone! '  " 


A  PANEGYRIC  ON  GEESE   (1810). 

I  HATE  to  sing  your  hackneyed  birds — 

So,  doves  and  swans,  a  truce ! 
Your  nests  have  been  too  often  stinod 
My  hero  shall  be — in  a  word — 
A  goose. 

The  nightingale,  or  else  "  bulbul,** 

By  Tommy  Moore  let  loose, 
Is  grown  intolerably  dull — 
/  from  the  feathered  nation  cull 

A  gOOM 

Can  roasted  Philomel  a  liver 
Fit  for  a  pic 


260 


POEMS   OF   FRANCIS  MAHONY. 


Fat  pies  that  on  the  Rhine's  sweet  river 
Fair  Strasburg  bakes.    Pray  who's  the  giver  ? 
A  goose ! 

An  ortolan  is  good  to  eat, 

A  partridge  is  of  use  ; 
But  they  are  scarce — whereas  you  meet 
At  Paris,  ay,  in  every  street, 

A  goose ! 

When  tired  of  war  the  Greeks  became, 

They  pitched  Troy  to  the  deuce ; 
Ulysses,  then,  was  not  to  blame 
For  teaching  them  the  noble  "  game 
Of  goose." 

May  Jupiter  and  Bonaparte, 

Of  thunder  less  profuse, 
Suffer  their  eagles  to  depart, 
Encourage  peace,  and  take  to  heart 
A  goose. 


ODE  TO  TIME. 

IF  my  mind's  independence  one  day  I'm  to  sell, 
If  with    Vice    in    her    pestilent  haunts  I'm   to 
dwell — 

Then  in  mercy,  I  pray  thee,  O  TIME  ! 
Ere  that  day  of  disgrace  and  dishonor  comes  on, 
Let  my  life  be  cut  short ! — better,  better  be  gone 

Than  live  here  on  the  wages  of  crime. 

But  if  yet  I'm  to  kindle  a  flame  in  the  soul 
Of  the  noble  and  free — if  my  voice  can  console, 

In  the  day  of  despondency,  some — 
If  I'm   destined  to  plead  in  the  poor  man's  de- 
fence— 
If  my  writings  can  force  from  the  national  sense 

An  enactment  of  joy  for  his  home:* 

Time  !  retard  thy  departure  !  and  linger  awhile — 
Let  m^  "  songs"  still  awake  of  my  mother  the 

smile — 

Of  my  sister  the  joy,  as  she  sings. 
dut,  0  GLORY  and  VIRTUE  !  your  care  I  engage  ; 
When  I'm  old — when  my  head  shall  be  silvered 

with  age, 
Come  and  shelter  my  brow  with  your  wings  ! 

•  Mahony  alluJas  to  O'Connell's  conduct  on  the  Poor  Law  for 
Lr«land. 


THE  GARRET  OF  BERANGER. 

On  !  it  was  here  that  Love  his  gifts  bestowed 

On  youth's  wild  age  ! 
Gladly  once  more  I  seek  ray  youth's  abode, 

In  pilgrimage  : 
Here  my  young  mistress  with  her  poet  dared 

Reckless  to  dwell : 
She  was  sixteen,  I  twenty,  and  we  shared 

This  attic  cell. 


Yes,  'twas  a  garret !  be  it  known  to  all 

Here  was  Love's  shrine  ; 
There  read,  in  charcoal  traced  along  the  wall, 

Th'  unfinished  line — 

Here  was  the  board  where  kindred  hearts  would 
blend — 

The  Jew  can  tell 
How  oft  1  pawned  my  watch,  to  feast  a  fricn.l 

In  attic  cell ! 

Oh !  my  Lisette's  fair  form  could  I  recall 

With  fairy  wand ; 

There  she  would  blind  the  window   with    aer 
shawl — 

Bashful,  yet  fond. 

What  though  from  whom  she  got  her  dress  I've 
since 

Learnt  but  too  well, 
Still  in  those  days  I  envied  not  a  prince 

In  attic  cell ! 

Here  the  glad  tidings  on  our  banquet  burst, 

'Mid  the  bright  bowls  : 
Yes,  it  was  here  Marengo's  triumph  first 

Kindled  our  souls. 

Bronze  cannon  roared ;  France  with  redoubled 
might 

Felt  her  heart  swell. 
Proudly  we  drank  our  consul's  health  that  night 

In  attic  cell ! 

Dreams  of  my  joyful  youth  !     I'd  frteiy  give, 

Ere  my  life's  close, 
All  the  dull  days  Fm  destined  yet  to  live, 

For  one  of  those. 
Where  shall  I  now  find  raptures  that  were  felt, 

Joys  that  befell, 
And  hopes  that  dawned  at  tweity,  when  I  dwelt 

In  attic  cell  ? 


POEMS  OF  FRANCIS   MAIIOXY. 


POLITICAL  ECONOMY  OF  THE  GYPSIES. 

SONS  of  witchcraft !  tribe  of  thieves ! 
Whom  the  villager  believes 

To  deal  with  Satan, 
Tell  us  your  customs  and  your  rules : 
Whence  came  ye  to  this  land  of  fools, 

On  whom  ye  fatten  ? 

"  Whence  do  we  come  ?  Whence  comes  the  swal- 
low? 
Where  does  our  home  lie  ?     Try  to  follow 

The  wild  bird's  flight, 
Speeding  from  winter's  rude  approach  : 
Such  home  is  ours.     Who  dare  encroach 

Upon  our  right  ? 

Prince  we  have  none,  nor  gypsy  throne, 
Nor  magistrate  nor  priest  we  own, 

Nor  tax  nor  claim  ; 
Blithesome,  we  wander  reckless,  free, 
And  happy  two  days  out  of  three  : 

Who'll  say  the  same  ? 

Away  with  church-enactments  dismal! 
We  have  no  liturgy  baptismal 

When  we  are  born  , 
Save  the  dance  under  greenwood  tree, 
And  the  glad  sound  of  revelry 

With  pipe  and  horn. 

At  our  first  entrance  on  this  globe, 
WThere  Falsehood  walks  in  varied  robe, 

Caprice,  and  whims, — 
Sophist  or  bigot,  heed  ye  this  ! — 
The  swathing-bands  of  prejudice 

Bound  not  our  limbs. 

Well  do  we  ken  the  vulgar  mind, 
Ever  to  Truth  and  Candor  blind, 

But  led  by  Cunning; 
What  rogue  can  tolerate  a  brother  ? 
(;v|»sies  contend  with  priests,  each  other 

In  tricks  outrunning. 

Your  '  towered  cities'  please  us  not ; 
But  give  us  some  secluded  spot, 

Far  from  the  millions  : 
Far  from  the  busy  haunts  of  men, 
Ki>e  for  the  night,  in  shady  glen, 

Our  dark  pavilions. 


Soon  we  are  off;  for  we  can  see 
Nor  pleasure  nor  philosophy 

In  fixed  dwelling. 
Ours  is  a  life — the  life  of  clowns, 
Or  drones  who  vegetate  in  towns, 

Far,  far  excelling! 

Paddock  and  park,  fence  and  inclosure, 
We  scale  with  ease  and  with  composure : 

'Tis  quite  delightful ! 
Such  is  our  empire's  mystic  charm, 
We  are  the  owners  of  each  farm, 

More  than  the  rightful. 

Great  is  the  folly  of  the  wise, 
If  on  relations  he  relies, 

Or  trusts  in  men; 

'  Welcome  !'  they  say,  to  babes  born  newly, 
But  when  your  life  is  eked  out  duly, 

'Good  evening!'  then 

None  among  us  seeks  to  illude 
By  empty  boast  of  brotherhood, 

Or  false  affection ; 

Give,  when  we  die,  our  souls  to  God, 
Our  body  to  the  grassy  sod, 

Or  '  for  dissection.' 

Your  noblemen  may  talk  of  vassals, 
Proud  of  their  trappings  and  their  tassels ; 

But  never  heed  them  : 
Our's  is  the  life  of  perfect  bliss — 
Freedom  is  man's  best  joy,  and  this 

Is  PERFECT  FREEDOM  !" 


THE  GOD  OF  BERANGER. 

THKRK'S  a  God  whom  the  poet  in  silence  adore*, 
But  molests  not  his  throne  with  iraportuna 

prayer ; 

For  he  knows  that  the  evil  he  sees  and  abhors, 
There  is  blessing  to  balance  and  balm  to  re- 
pair. 
But  the  plan  of  the  Deity  beams  in  the  bowl, 

And  the  eyelid  of  beauty  reveals  his  design  : 
Oh !  the  goblet  in  hand,  I  abandon  my  soul 
To  the  Giver  of  genius,  love,  friendship,  and 
wine. 


262 


POEMS   OF  FRANCIS   MAHONY. 


A.t  the  door  of  my  dwelling  the  children  of  want 

Ever  find  the  full  welcome  its  roof  can  afford. 

While  the  dreams  of  the  rich  pain  and  poverty 

haunt, 
Peace  awaits  on  my  pillow,  and  joy  at  my 

board. 

Let  the  god  of  the  court  other  votaries  seek — 
No  !  the  idol  of  sycophants  never  was  mine  ; 
But  I  worship  the  God  of  the  lowly  and  meek, 
In  the  Giver  of  genius,  love,  friendship,  and 
wine. 

1  have  seen  die  a  captive,  of  courtiers  bereft, 
Him,  the  sound  of  whose  fame  through  our 

hemisphere  rings ; 
I  have  marked  both  his  rise  and  his  fall :  he  has 

left 
The  imprint  of  his  heel  on  the  forehead  of 

kings. 
Oh,  ye  monarchs  of  Europe !  ye  crawled  round 

his  throne — 
Ye,  who  now  claim  our  homage,  then  knelt  at 

his  shrine  ; 

But  I  never  adored  him,  but  turned  me  alone 
To  the  Giver  of  genius,  love,  friendship,  and 
wine. 

The  Russians  have  dwelt  in  the  home  of  the 

Frank ; 
In  our  halls  from  their  mantles  they've  shaken 

the  frost ; 
Of  their  war-boots  our  Louvre  has  echoed  the 

clank, 

As  they  pa&sed,  in  barbarian  astonishment  lost. 
O'er  the  ruins  of  France,  take,  0  England  !  take 

pride ! 
Yet  a  similar  downfall,  proud  land  !  may  be 

thine ; 

But  the  poet  of  freedom  still,  still  will  confide 
In  the  Giver  of  genius,  love,  friendship,   and 
wine. 

This  planet  is  doomed,  by  the  priesthood's  decree, 
To  deserved  dissolution  one  day,  0  my  friends! 
Lo!  the  hurricane  gathers,  the  bolt  is  set  free, 
And  the  thunder  on  wings  of  destruction  de- 
scends. 

Of  thy  trumpet,  archangel,  delay  not  the  blast ; 
Wake  the  dead  in  the  graves  where  their 

ashes  reoline : 

While  the  poet,  unmoved,  puts  his  trust  to  the 
last 


In  the  Giver  of  genius,  love,  friendship,  and 
wine. 

But  away  with  the  nightmare   of  gloomy  fore- 
thought! 
Let  the  ghoul  Superstition  creep  back  to  its 

den ; 
Oh !  this  fair  goodly  globe,  filled  with  plenty, 

was  wrought 

By  a  bountiful  hand,  for  the  children  of  mea. 
Let  me  take  the  full  scope  of  my  years  as  they 

roll, 
Let  me  bask  in  the  sun's  pleasant  rays  while 

they  siiine ; 

Then,  with  goblet  in  hand,  I'll  abandon  my  soul 
To  the  Giver  of  genius,  love,  friendship,  and 
wine. 


THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  P.  J.  DK 
BERANGER. 

PARIS!    gorgeous  abode    of  the  gay!      Paris! 

haunt  of  despair! 
There  befell  in  thy  bosom  one  day  an  occur 

rence  most  weighty, 
At  the  house  of  a  tailor,  my  grandfather,  under 

whose  care 

I  was  nursed,  in  the  year  of  our  Lord  seven- 
teen hundred  and  eighty. 
By  no  token,  'tis  true,  did  my  cradle  announce 

a  young  Horace — 
And  the  omens  were  such  as  might  well  lead 

astray  the  unwary ; 
But  with    utter  amazement   one   morning    my 

grandfather,  Maurice, 
Saw    his  grandchild  reclining  asleep  in  the 

arms  of  a  fairy. 
And  this  fairy  so  handsome 
Assumed  an  appearance  so  striking, 
And  for  me  seemed  to  take  such  a  liking, 
That  he  knew  not  what   gift  he   should  offer 
the  dame  for  my  ransom. 

Had  he  previously  studied  thy  Legends,  0  rare 

Crofty  Croker ! 
He'd  have  learnt  how  to  act  from  thy  pages — 

('tis  there  that  the  charm  is), 
But  my  guardian's  first  impulse  was  rather  to 

look  for  the  poker, 

To  rescue  his  beautiful  boy  from  her  hands 
vi  et  armis. 


I'OK.MS   (»F   FUANCIS   MAHONY 


363 


Yet  he  paused  in  his  plan,  and  adopted  a  milder 

suggestion, 
For  her  attitude,  calm  and  unterrlfied,  made 

him  respect  her. 
€o  h«  thought  it  was  best  to  be  civil,  and  fairly 

to  question, 

Concerning  my  prospects  in  life,  the  benevo- 
lent spectre. 

And  the  fairy,  prophetical, 
Read  my  destiny's  book  in  a  minute, 
With  all  the  particulars  in  it : 
-And  its  outline  she   drew  with  exactitude  most 
geometrical. 

'"His    career    sball    be    mingled   with    pleasure, 

though  checkered  with  pain, 
And  some  bright  sunny  hours  shall  succeed  to 

a  rigorous  winter: 
fJee  him  first  a  gar$on  at  a  hostelry — then,  with 

disdain 
See  him  spurn  that  vile  craft,  and  apprentice 

himself  to  a  printer. 
As  n  poor  university-clerk  view  him  next  at  his 

desk ; — 

>lart  that  flash  I1 — he  will  have  a  most  nar- 
row escape  from  the  lightning: 
But  behold  after  sundry  adventures,  some  bold, 

some  grotesque, 
The  horizon  clears  up,  and  his  prospects  appear 

to  be  brightening." 
Anc  the  fairy,  caressing 
The  infant,  foretold  that,  ere  long, 
He  would  warble  unrivalled  in  soug ; 
All    France    in    the    homage  which  Paris  had 
paid  acquiescing. 

44  Yes,  the  muse  has  adopted  the  boy  !     Ou  his 

brow  see  the  laurel ! 
In  his  hand  'tis  Anacreon's  cup! — with  the 

<h'eek  he  has  drank  it. 
Mark  the   high-miuded  tone  of  his  songs,  and 

their  exquisite  moral, 
Giving  joy  to  the  cottage,  and  heightening  the 

blaze  of  the  banquet. 
Now  the  future  grows  dark — see  the  spectacle 

France  has  become! 

'Mid  the  wreck  of  his  country,  the  poet,  un- 
daunted and  proud, 

»  Beraiipcr  tells  us  in  n  note,  that  In  curly  life  IIP  h»l  well  nigh 
peris-bed  by  the  electric  fluid  in  n  thunder-Sturm.  The  name  is  re- 
lated of  Luther,  when  at  the  university.  The  flash  which,  In  Lu- 
iber'i  ca.-*-.  rbnnged  Uic  Minimi  Into  a  monk.  In  Biranger's  con- 
Terted  the  tailor  »  noose  into  a  swan. 


To  the  public  complaints  shall  give  utterance : 

slaves  may  be  dumb, 
But  he'll  ring  in  the  hearing  of  despots  defiance 

aloud !" 

And  the  fairy  addressing 
My  grandfather,  somewhat  astonished, 
So  mildly  my  guardian  admonished, 
That  he  wept  while  he  vanished  away  with  • 
smile  and  a  blessing. 


MEDITATIONS   IN   A   WINE-CELLAR. 

BY  THE  JESUIT  VANIKKE. 

"  Intrmlnxit  tne  in  cellam  vinariam." — Song  of  Solomon,  cap 
IL  v.  4.     (Vulgate  Version.) 

I'VE  taught  thus  far  a  vineyard  how  tx>  plant, 
Wielded   the  pruning-hook  and  plied    the 

hoe, 
And  trod  the  grape;  now,  Father   Bacchus, 

grant 

Entrance  to  where,  in  many  a  goodly  row, 
You  keep  your  treasures  safely  lodged  below 
Well  have  I  earned  the  privilege  I  ask ; 

Then  proudly  down  the  cellar-steps  I  go  : 
Fain  would  I  terminate  my  tuneful  ta^k, 
Pondering   before   each   pipe,  communing  with 
each  cask. 

Hail,  horrors,  hail !    Welcome,  Cimmerian  cel- 
lar ! 

Of  liquid  bullion  inexhausted  mine! 
Cumean  cave  ! — no  sibyl  thy  indweller  : 
Sole  Pythoness,  the  witchery  of  wine! 
Pleased  I  explore  this  sanctuary  of  thine, 
A  humble  votary,  whom  venturous  feet 

Have  brought  into  thy  subterranean  shrine . 
Its  mysteries  I  reverently  greet, 
Pacing   these   solemn    vaults   in  contemplation 
sweet. 

Armed  with  a  lantern  though  the  poet  walks, 
Who  dares  upon  those  silent  halls  intrude, 

He  coineth  not  a  pupil  of  GUT  FAUX, 
O'er  treasonable  practices  to  brood 
Within  this  deep  and  awful  solitude; 

Albeit  LOYOLA  claims  him  for  a  son, 

Yet,  with  the  kindliest  sympathies  imbued 

For  every  human  tiling  heaven  *hiti«'s  upon, 
Nauirht  in  his  bosom  beat*  but  love  and  l>.-ni<on. 


264 


POEMS   OF   FRANCIS   MALLOXY. 


He  knows  nor  cares  not  what  be  other  men's 
Notions  concerning  orthodox  belief; 

Others  may  seek  theology  in  "  DENS," 
He  in  this  grot  would  rather  take  a  leaf 
From  Wisdom's  book,  and  of  existence  brief 

Learn  not  to  waste  in  empty  jars  the  span. 
If  jars  there  must-be  in  this  vale  of  grief, 

Let  them  be  full  ones;  let  the  flowing  can 
Reign  umpire  of  disputes,  uniting  man  with  man. 

'Twere  better  thus  than  in  collegiate  hall, 
Where  wrangling  pedants  and  dull  ponder- 
ous tomes 
Build  up  Divinity's  dark  arsenal, 

Grope    in     the     gloom    with    controversial 

gnomes — 

Geneva's  gospel  still  at  war  with  Rome's : 
Better  to  bury  discord  and  dissent 

In  the  calm  cellar's  peaceful  catacombs, 
Than  on  dogmatic  bickerings  intent, 
1'oison  the  pleasing  hours  for  man's  enjoyment 
meant. 

Doth  yonder  cask  of  BURGUNDY  repine 

That  some  prefer  his  brother  of  BORDEAUX  ? 
Is  old  GARUMNA  jealous  of  the  RHINE  ? 

Gaul,  of  the  grape  Germanic  vineyards  grow? 
Doth   XERES  deem   bright   LACHRYMA    his 

foe? 

On  the  calm  banks  that  fringe  the  blue  MO- 
SELLE, 

On  LEMAN'S  margin,  ou  the  plains  of  Po, 
Pure  from  one  common  sky  these  dewdrops 

fell 

Hast  thou  preserved  the  juice  in  purity  ?    "Tis 
well ! 

Lessons  of  love,  and  light,  and  liberty, 

Lurk    in    these   wooden  volumes.      Free- 
dom's code 

Lies  there  and  pity's  charter.     Poetry 
And  genius  make  their  favorite  abode 
In     double    range    of    goodly    puncheons 

stowed ; 

Whence  welling  up  freely,  as  from  a  fount, 
The  flood  of  fancy  in  all  time  has  flowed, 
Gushing  with  more  exuberance,  I  count, 
Than    from    Pierian  sprang  on  Greece's  fabled 
mount. 

School  of  Athenian  eloquence  !  did  not 
Demosthenes,  half-tonsured,  love  to  pass 


Winters  in  such  preparatory  grot, 
His  topics  there  in  fit  array  to  cla--, 
And  stores  of  wit  and  argument  amass  f 

O 

Hath  not  another  Greek  of  late  arisen, 

Whose  eloquence  partaketh  of  the  glass, 
Whose    nose  and  tropes  with  rival  radiancv 

glisten, 

And  unto  whom  the  Peers   night   after   night 
must  listen  ? 

Say  not  that  wine    hath  bred    dissensions — 

wars; 
Charge  not  the  grape,  calumnious,  with  the 

blame 

Of  murdered  Clytus.     Lapithae,  Centaurs, 
Drunkards  of  every  age,  will  aye  defame 
The  innocent  vine  to  palliate  their  shame. 
0  Thyrsus,  magic  wand !  thou  mak'st  appear 
Man  in  his  own  true  colors — vice  proclaim. 
Its  infamy — sin  its  foul  figure  rear, 
Like  the  recumbent  toad  touched  by  Ithuriel's- 
spear ! 

A  savage  may  the  glorious  sun  revile,1 

And  shoot  his  arrows  at  the  god  of  day; 
Th'  ungrateful  ^Ethiop  on  thy  banks,  O  Nile  f 
With  barbarous  shout  and  insult  may  repay 
Apollo  for  his  vivifying  ray, 
Unheeded  by  the  god,  whose  fiery  team 

Prances  along  the  sky's  immortal  way  ; 
While  from  his  brow,  flood-like,  the  bounte- 
ous beam 

Bursts  on  the  stupid  slaves  who  gracelessly  blas- 
pheme. 

That  savage  outcry  some  attempt  to  ape, 
Loading  old  Bacchus  with  absurd  abuse ; 

But,  pitying  them,  the  father  of  the  grape, 
And  conscious  of  their  intellect  obtuse, 
Tells  them  to  go  (for  answer)  to  the  juice  ^ 

Meantime  the  god,  whom  fools  would  fain  an- 
noy, 
Rides  on  a  cask,  and,  of  his  wine  profuse, 


1  Le  Nil  a  vu  sur  ses  rivagos 

Leg  noirs  habitans  des  doserts 
Insulter,  par  de  cris  sanvages, 

L'astre  brillant  <le  1'univers. 
Cris  impuissans!  fureurs  bizarresl 
Tandis  que  ces  monstres  tmrbares 

1'oussent  d'inutiles  clameiirs, 
Le  Dieu,  poursuivant  sa  carrii-ro, 
Verso  des  torrens  de  luintere 

Sur  ses  obscurs  blasphemntears. 
jsfranc  de 


POEMS   OK   FRANCIS    M.MloNY. 


Sends  up  to  earth  the  flood  without 
Whence  round  the  general  globe  circles  the  cup 
of  joy. 

Hard  was  thy  fate,  much-injured  HYLAS  !  whom 
The  roguish  Naiads  of  the  fount  entrapped; 
Thine  was,  in  sooth,  a  melancholy  doom  — 
In  liquid    robes  for  wintry  wardrobe  wrap- 
ped, 

And  "  in  Elysium"  of  spring- water  "  lapped !" 
Better  if  hither  thou  hadst  been  enticed, 
Where  casks  abound  and  generous  wine  is 

tapped  ; 
Thou   wouldst  not  feel  as  now,  thy  limbs  all 

iced, 

But  deem  thyself  in  truth  blessed   and  impara- 
dised. 

A  Roman  king — the  second  of  the  series — 

NUMA,  who  reigned  upon  Mount  PALATINE, 
Possessed  a  private  grotto  called  Eyeries ; 
Where,  being  in  the  legislative  line, 
He  kept  an  oracle  men  deemed  divine. 
What  nymph  it  was  from  whom  his  "  law  "  he 

got 
None  ever  knew;    but  jars,  that  smelt  of 

wine, 

Ilave  lat.vly  been  discovered  in  a  grot 
Of  that  JSyerian   vale.     Was  this  the   nyrnph  ? 
God  wot. 

Here  would  I  dwell !     Oblivious ! '  aye  shut 

out 
Passions  and  pangs  that  plague  the  human 

heart, 

Content  to  range  this  goodly  grot  throughout, 
Loath,  like  the  lotus-eater,  to  depart, 
Deeming  this  cave  of  joy  the  genuine  mart; 
CELLAR,  though  dark  and  dreary,  yet  I  weeu 

Depot  of  brightest  intellect  thou  ;irt. 
Calm  reservoir  of  sentiment  serene ! 
Miscellany  of  mind'  wit's  GLORIOUS  MAGAZINE. 


LINES  ON  A  MOTH-EATEN  BOOK. 

FROM    THE    LATIN   OF   BEZA. 

THK  soldier  soothes  in  his  behalf 
Bellona,  with  a  victim  calf; 

1  "QuittoM  ce  lieu  oil  ma  raison  s'onlvrc."     R 


Th«-  farmer's  fold  victims  «'.\Ii  mst— 
Ceres  must  have  her  holocaust  : 
And  shall  the  bard  alone  ret; 
A  votive  offering  to  his  nui>c, 
Proving  the  only  uncompliant, 
Unmindful,  and  ungrateful  client? 

What  gift,  what  sacrifice  select, 
May  best  betoken  his  respect? 
Stay,  let  me  think — O,  happy  notion  ! 
What  can  denote  more  true  devotion, 
What  victim  gave  more  pleasing  odor, 
Than  yon  small  grub,  yon  wee  corruder, 
Of  sluggish  gait,  of  shape  uncouth, 
With  Jacobin  destructive  tooth  ? 

Ho,  creeper !  thy  last  hour  is  come ; 

Be  thou  the  muses'  hecatomb!1 

With  whining  tricks  think  not  to  gull  us: 

Have  I  not  caught  thee  in  Catullus, 

Converting  into  thy  vile  marrow 

His  matchless  ditty  on  "  the  Sparrow  !  " 

Of  late,  thy  stomach  had  been  partial 

To  sundry  tit-bits  out  of  Martial ; 

Nay,  I  have  traced  thee,  insect  kecn-tvuu  ! 

Through  the  fourth  book  of  Maro's  "^Kncic 

On  vulgar  French  couldst  not  thou  fallen. 

And  curb  thy  appetite  for  Latin  ? 

Or,  if  thou  wouldst  take  Latin  from  us, 

Why  not  devour  Duns  Scot  and  Thomas? 

Might  not  the  "Digest"  and  "Decretals" 

Have  served  thee,  varlet,  for  thy  victuals  f 

Victim!  come  forth  !  crawl  from  thy  nuok ! 

Fit  altar  be  this  injured  book  ; 

Caitiff!  'tis  vain  slvlv  to  simulate 

Torpor  and  death  ;  thee  this  shall  immolate — 

This  penknife,  fitting  guillotine 

To  shed  a  bookworm's  blood  obscene  '. 

Nor  can  the  poet  better  mark  his 

Zeal  for  the  muse  than  on  thy  carcass. 

The  deed  is  done !  the  insect  Goth 
Unmourned  (save  by  maternal  moth), 
Slain  without  mercy  or  remorse, 
Lies  there,  a  melancholy  corse. 
The  page  he  had  profaned  'tis  meet 
Should  be  the  robber's  winding-sheet; 
While  for  the  deed  the  muse  decrees  u 
Wreath  of  her  brightest  bays  to  BK/.  v. 

*  Quart,  H»ck,  »  tome  T—  PrinUr't 


2G6 


POEMS  OF  FRANCIS   MAHONY. 


THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  ST.  NAZARO. 

FKOM    THE    LATIN    OF    SANN'AZAR. 

THE  HE'S  a  fount  at  the  foot  of  Pausilipe's  hill, 

Springing  up  on  our  bay's  sunny  margin, 
And  the  mariner  loveth  his  vessel  to  fill 

At  this  fount,  of  which  I  am  the  guardian. 
""Tis   the  gem    of  my    villa,    the    neighborhood's 
boast, 

And  with  pleasure  and  pride  I  preserve  it; 
Fur  alone  it   wells  out,  while   the   vine-covered 
coast 

In  the  summer  lies  panting  and  fervid. 

When  the  plains  are  all  parched,  a^d  the  rivers 

run  low, 

Then  a  festival  comes  I  love  dearly : 
Here,  with  goblet  in  hand,  my  devotion  I  show 

To  the  day  of  my  birth  that  comes  yearly. 
''Tis  the  feast  of  my  patron,  NAZARO  the  Saint ; 

Nor  for  aught  that  fond  name  would  I  barter : 
To  this  fount  I  have  fixed  that  fond  name,  to  ac- 
quaint 
All  mankind  with  my  love  for  the  martyr. 

He's  the  tutelar  genius  of  me  and  of  mine, 

And  to  honor  the  saints  is  my  motto : 
Unto  him  I  devoted  this  well,  and  a  shrine 

Unto  him  I  have  built  in  the  grotto. 
There    his    altar    devoutly   with    shells    I    have 
decked — 

I  have  decked  it  with  crystal  and  coral ; 
And  have  strewed  all  the  pavement  with  branches 
select 

Of  the  myrtle,  the  pine,  and  the  laurel. 

By  the  brink  of  this  well  will  I  banquet  the  day 

Of  my  birth,  on  its  yearly  recurring; 
Then  at  eve,  when  the  bonny  breeze  wrinkles  the 
bay, 

And  the  leaves  of  the  citron  are  stirring, 
Beneath  my  calm  dwelling  before  I  repair, 

To  the  Father  of  mercy  addressing, 
In  a  spirit  of  thankfulness,  gratitude's  prayer, 

I'll  invoke  on  his  creatures  a  blessing. 

And  long  may  the  groves  of  Pausilipe  shade 
By  this  fount,  holy  martyr,  thy  client : 

Thus  long  may  he  bless  thee  for  bountiful  aid, 
And  remain  on  thy  bounty  reliant. 


To  thy   shrine  shall   the   maids  of  Parthenope 
bring 

Lighted  tapers,  in  yearly  procession ; 
While  the  pilgrim  hereafter  shall  visit  this  spring 

7*0  partake  of  the  Saint's  intercession. 


PETRARCA'S    DREAM. 
(AFTER  THE  DEATH  OF  LAURA.) 

SHE  has  not  quite  forgotten  me;  her  shade 

My  pillow  still  doth  haunt, 

A  nightly  visitant, 
To  soothe  the  sorrows  that  herself  had  made  : 

And  thus  that  spirit  blessed, 
Shedding  sweet  influence  o'er  my  hour  of  rest, 
Hath  healed  my  woes,  and  all  my  love  repaid. 

Last  night,  with  holy  calm, 

She  stood  before  my  view, 

And  from  her  bosom  drew 
A  wreath  of  laurel  and  a  branch  of  pairs  : 

And  said,  "To  comfort  thee, 
O  child  of  Italy  ! 
From  my  immortal  home, 
Petrarca,  I  am  come,"  etc.,  etc. 


ON   SOLAR   ECLIPSES. 

(A     NEW    THEORY.) 

For  the  use  of  the  London  University. 

ALL  heaven,  I  swear  by  Styx  that  rolls 
Its  dark  flood  round  the  land  of  souls ! 

Shall  play  this  day  at  "Blind  man's  bull'. 
Come,  make  arrangements  on  the  spot; 
Prepare  the  'kerchief,  draw  the  lot — 

So  Jove  commands  !     Enough  ! 

Lot  fell  on  SOL  :  the  stars  were  struck 
At  such  an  instance  of  ill  luck. 

Then  Luna  forward  came, 
And  bound  with  gentle,  modest  hand, 
O'er  his  bright  brow  the  muslin  band ; 

Hence  mortals  learned  the  game. 


1'OEMS   OF    FKANV1S    M.MK'NV 


THE   FLIGHT   INTO   EGYPT. 

A    BALLAD. 

THJRU'S  a  legend  that's  told  of  a  gypsy  who 

dwelt 

In  the  land  where  the  Pyramids  be  ; 
Aud  her  robe  was  embroidered  with  stars,  and 

her  belt 

With  devices,  right  wondrous  to  see : 
And  she  lived  in  the  days  when  our  Lord  was  a 

child 

On  his  mother's  immaculate  breast; 
When   he  fled  from   his  foes — when  to  Egypt 

exiled, 
He  went  down  with  St.  Joseph  the  blessed. 

This   Egyptian   held  converse   with   rnagic,   me- 
thinks, 

And  the  future  was  given  to  her  gaze; 
For  an  obelisk  marked  her  abode,  and  a  sphinx 

On  her  threshold  kept  vigil  always. 
She  was  pensive  and  ever  alone,  nor  was  seen 

In  the  haunts  of  the  dissolute  crowd  ; 
But  communed  with  the  ghosts  of  the  Pharaohs, 
I  ween, 

Or  with  visitors  wrapped  in  a  shroud. 

And  there  carne  an  old  man  from  the  desert  one 
day, 

With  a  maid  on  a  mule,  by  that  road ; 
And  a  child  on  her  bosom  reclined — and  the  way 

Led  them  straight  to  the  gypsy's  abode: 
And  they  seemed  to  have  travelled  a  wearisome 
path, 

From  their  home  many,  many  a  league — 
From  a  tyrant's  pursuit,  from  an  enemy's  wrath, 

Spent  with  toil,  and  o'ercome  with  fatigue. 

Aud   the  gypsy  came  forth  from  her  dwelling, 
.11  nl  prayed 

That  the  pilgrims  would  rest  them  a \\hile; 
And  she  offered  her  couch  to  that  delicate  maid, 

Who  had  come  many,  many  a  mile;* 
And  siie  fondled  the  babe  with  affection's  caress, 

And  she  begged  the  old  man  would  repose  ; 
*  Here   the  stranger,"  she  said,  "ever  finds  free 
access, 

And  the  wanderer  balra  for  his  woes." 

H  «n  her  guests  from  the  glare  of  the  noonday 

t-li"  led 


To  a  seat  iu  her  grotto  so  cool ; 
Where  she  spread  them  a  banquet  of  fruit* — and 

a  shed, 

With  a  manger,  was  found  for  the  mule ; 
With  the  wine  of  the  palm-tree,  with  the  date- 
newly  culled, 

All  the  toil  of  the  road  she  beguiled, 
And   with   song   in  a  language    mysterious  she 

lulled 
On  her  bosom  the  wayfaring  child. 

When  the  gypsy  anon  in  her  Ethiop  hand 

Placed  the  infant's  diminutive  palm, 
Oh,  'twas   fearful    to   see   how    the   features  she 

scanned 

Of  the  babe  in  his  slumber  so  calm. 
Well  she  note<l  each  mark  and  each  furrow  thai 

crossed 

O'er  the  tracings  of  destiny's  line  : 
"  WHENCE  CAME  YE?''  she  cried, in  astonishmen 
lost, 

"Foit  THIS  CHILD  IS  OF  LINEAGE  DIVINE  !" 

"From  the  village  of  Nazareth,"  Joseph  replied, 

"  Where  we  dwelt  in  the  land  of  the  Jew  ; 
We  have  fled  from  a  tyrant,  whose  garment 
dyed 

In  the  gore  of  the  children  he  slew. 
We  were  told  to  remain  till   an   angel's   com- 
mand 

Should  appoint  us  the  hour  to  return ; 
But  till  then  we  inhabit  the  foreigner's  land, 

And  in  Egypt  we  make  our  sojourn." 

"Then    ye  tarry  with   rne !"  cried   the  gypsy  ii. 

j°y» 

"  And  ye  make  of  ray  dwelling  your  home  : 
Many  years  have    I   prayed    that   the   Israelite 

boy 

(Blessed  hope  of  the  Gentiles!)  would  come." 
An<l  she  kissed  both   the  feet  of  the  infant,  and 

kn.-lt. 

And  adored  him  at  once; — then  a  smile 
Lit  the  face  of  his  mother,  who  cheerfully  dwelt 
With  her  host  on  the  banks  of  the  Nile. 


268 


POEMS  OF  FRANCIS   MAHONY. 


THE  VEIL.    AN  ORIENTAL  DIALOGUE. 

FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  VICTOR  HUGO. 

"Have  you  prayed  to-night,  D^sdemona ?" — SHAKKSPKARK. 

THE  SISTEK. 

WHAT  has  happened,  my  brothers  ?     Your  spirit 

to-day 

Some  secret  sorrow  damps: 
There's  a  cloud  on  your  brow.     What  has  hap- 
pened ?  oh,  say ! 

For  your  eyeballs  glare  out  with  a  sinister  ray, 
Like  the  light  of  funeral  lamps. 

The  blades  of  your  poniards  are  half-unsheathed 
In  your  zone — and  ye  frown  on  me ! 

There's  a  woe  untold,  there's  a  pang  unbreathed, 
In  your  bosom,  my  brothers  three! 

ELDEST  BROTHER. 

Gulnara.  make  answer!  Hast  thou,  since  the  dawn, 
To  the  eye  of  a  stranger  thy  veil  withdrawn  ? 

THE  SISTER. 

Ae  I  came,  O  my  brothers  ! — at  noon — from  the 

bath- 
As  I  came — it  was  noon — my  lords — 
And  your  sister  had  then,  as  she  constantly  hath, 
Drawn  her  veil  close  around  her,  aware  that  the 

path 
Is  beset  by  these  foreign  hordes. 

But  the  weight  of  the  noonday's  sultry  hour 
Near  the  mosque  was  so  oppressive, 

That — forgetting   a    moment    the    eye    of    the 

Giaour — 
I  yielded  to  heat  excessive. 

SECOND  BROTHER. 

Gulnara,  make  answer  !     Whom,  then,  hast  thou 

seen, 
In  a  turban  of  white,  and  a  caftan  of  green  ? 

THE  SISTER. 

Nay,  he  might  have  been  there;  but  I  muffled 

me  so, 

He  could  scarce  have  seen  my  figure. — 
But  why  to  your  sister  thus  dark  do  you  grow  ? 
What  words  to  yourselves  do  yo«  mutter  thus 

low, 
Of  "blood,"  and  "an  intriguer?" 


Oh  !  ye  cannot  of  murder  bring  down  the  red 

guilt 

On  your  souls,  my  brothers,  surely  ! 
Though  I  fear  —  from  your  hand  that  I  see  ji.  the 

hilc, 
And  the  hints  you  give  obscurely. 

THIRD  BROTHZk. 

Gulnara!  this  evening  when  sank  clic  red  suu, 
Hast  thou  marked  how  like  blood  in  descending 
it  shone  ? 


Mercy  !   Allah  !  three  daggers  !    have  pity  !  oh, 
spare  ! 

See  !  I  cling  to  your  knees  repenting  ! 
Kind  brothers,  forgive  me  !  for  mercy,  forbear  ! 
Be  appeased  at  the  voice  of  a  sister's  despair, 

For  your  mother's  sake  relenting. 

0  God  !  must  I  die  ?     They  are  deaf  to  my  cries 

Their  sister's  life-blood  shedding: 
They  have  stabbed  me  again  —  and  I  faint  —  o'e* 
my  eyes 

A  VEIL  OF  DEATH  is  spreading  !  — 


ELDEST  BROTHER. 

Guluara,  farewell  !  take  that  veil  ;  'tis  the  gift 
Of  thy  brothers  —  a  veil  thou  wilt  never  lit'tl 


THE  BRIDE  OF  THE  CYMBALEER. 

A    BALLAD    FROM    VICTOR    HUGO. 

"  My  liege,  the  Duke  of  Brittany. 

Has  summoned  his  vassals  ail, 
The  list  is  a  lengthy  litany  ! 
Nor  'mong  them  shall  ye  meet  any 

But  lords  of  land  and  hall. 

Barons,  who  dwell  in  donjon-keep, 
And  mail-clad  count  and  peer, 

Whose  fief  is  fenced  with  fosse  deep* 

But  none  excel  in  soldiership 
My  own  loved  cymbalcer. 

Clashing  his  cymbals  forth  he  went, 
With  a  bold  and  gallant  bearing; 
Sure  for  a  captain  he  was  meant, 


TORMS   OF   FRANCIS    MAIK'NY 


209 


To  judge  from  bis  accoutrement, 
And  the  cloth  of  gold  li'-'s  wearing. 

But  in  ray  soul  since  then  I  feel 

A  fear,  in  secret  creeping  ; 
And  to  Saint  Bridget  oft  I  kneel, 
That  she  may  recommend  his  weal 

To  his  guardian  angel's  keeping 

I've  begged  our  abbot,  Bernard ine, 

His  prayers  not  to  relax ; 
And,  to  procure  him  aid  divine, 
I've  burnt  upon  Saint  Gilda's  shrine 

Three  pounds  of  virgin  wax, 

Our  Lady  of  Loretto  knows 

The  pilgrimage  I  vowed  : 
To  wenr  the  scollop  I  propose, 
If  health  and  safety  from  the  foes 

My  Lover  it  allowed. 

No  letter  (fond  affection's  gage  !) 

From  him  could  I  require, 
The  pain  of  absence  to  assuage — 
A  vassal-maid  can  have  no  page, 

A  liegeman  has  no  squire. 

This  day  will  witness,  with  the  duke's 

My  cyrabaleer's  return  : 
Gladness  and  pride  beam  in  my  looks, 
Delay  my  heart  impatient  brooks, 

All  meaner  thoughts  I  spurn. 

Back  from  the  battle-field  elate, 

His  banner  brings  each  peer; 
Come,  let  us  see,  at  the  ancient  gate, 
The  martial  triumph  pass  in  state, 

And  the  duke  and  my  cymbaleer. 

We'll  see  from  the  rampart-walls  of  Nautz 

What  an  air  his  horse  assumes; 
His  proud  neck  swells,  his  glad  hoofs  prance, 
And  on  his  head  unceasing  dance, 
In  a  gorgeous  tuft,  red  plumes! 

!>(-•  ijuiek,  my  sisters!  dress  in  haste! 

Come,  see  him  bear  the  bell, 
With  laurels  decked,  with  true-love  graced; 
While  in  his  bold  hand,  fitly  placed, 

The  bounding  cymbals  swell ! 

ark  well  the  mantle  that  he'll  wear, 
Embroidered  by  his  bride  : 


Admire  his  burnished  helmet's  glare, 
O'ershadowed  by  the  dark  horse- hair 
That  waves  in  jet  folds  wide  ' 

The  gypsy  (spiteful  wench  !)  foretold 

With  voice  like  a  viper  hissing 
(Though  I  had  crossed  her  palm  with  gold), 
That  from  the  ranks  a  spirit  bold 

Would  be  to  day  found  missing. 

But  I  have  prayed  so  hard,  I  trust 

Her  words  may  prove  untrue  ; 
Though  in  her  cave  the  hag  accursed 
Muttered  u  Prepare  thee  for  the  loorst  ?" 

With  a  face  of  ghastly  hue. 

My  joy  her  spells  shall  not  prev.-nt. 

Hark !   I  can  hear  the  drums  ! 
And  ladies  fair  from  silken  tent 
Peep  forth,  and  every  eye  is  bent 

On  the  cavalcade  that  comes 

Pikemen,  dividing  on  both  flanks, 

Open  the  pageantry ; 
Loud,  as  they  tread,  their  armor  clanks, 
And  silk-robed  barons  lead  the  ranks. 

The  pink  of  gallantry. 

In  scarfs  of  gold,  the  priests  admire  ; 

The  heralds  on  white  steeds; 
Armorial  pride  decks  their  attire, 
Worn  in  remembrance  of  a  sire 

Famed  for  heroic  deeds. 

Feared  by  the  Paynim's  dark  divan, 

The  Templars  next  advance  ; 
Then  the  brave  bowmen  of  Lausanne, 
Foremost  to  stand  in  battle's  van, 

Against  the  foes  of  France. 

Next  comes  the  duke  with  radiant  brow. 

Girt  with  bis  cavaliers  ; 
Round  his  triumphant  banner  bow 
Those  of  the  foe.     Look,  sisters,  now  ! 

Now  come  the  oymbaleers  !" 

She  spoke — with  searching  eye  survey.'  i 

Their  ranks — then  pale,  aghast, 
Sunk  in  the  crowd!     Death  came  in  aid — 
'Twas  mercy  to  that  gentle  maid: 
Tlie  cymbalecrs  had  pawd  .' 


270 


POEMS   OF    FRANCIS   MAUONY 


THE   MILITARY   PROFESSION 

IN    FRANCE. 

OH,  the  pleasant  life  a  soldier  leads ! 
Let  the  lawyer  count  his  fees, 
Let  old  women  tell  their  beads, 
Let  each  booby  squire  breed  cattle,  if  he  please. 
Far  better  'tis,  I  think, 
To  make  love,  fight,  and  drink. 

Odds  boddekin  ! 
Such  life  makes  a  man  to  a  god  akin. 

Do  we  enter  any  town  ? 
The  portcullis  is  let  down, 

And  the  joy-bells  are  rung  by  municipal  author- 
ity ; 

The  gates  are  opened  wide, 
And  the  city-keys  presented  us  beside, 
Merely  to  recognize  our  vast  superiority. 
The  married  citizens,  'tis  ten  to  one, 
Would  wish  us  fairly  gone; 
But  we  stay  while  it  suits  our  good  pleasure. 
Then  each  eve,  at  the  rising  of  the  moon, 
The  fiddler  strikes  up  a  merry  tune, 
We  meet  a  buxom  partner  full  soon, 
And  we  foot  it  to  a  military  measure. 

[  Chorus  of  drums. 

When  our  garrison  at  last  gets  "  the  route," 

Who  can  adequately  tell 
The  regret  of  the  fair  all  the  city  throughout, 
And  the  tone  with  which  they  bid  us  '•'fare- 
well ?  " 
Their  tears  would  make  a  flood — -a  perfect  river : 

And,  to  soothe  her  despair, 
Each  disconsolate  maid  entreats  of  us  to  give  her, 
Ere  we  go,  a  single  lock  of  our  hair. 
Alas  !  it  is  not  often 
That  my  heart  can  soften 
Rosponsive  to  the  feelings  of  the  fair. 

[  Chorus  of  drums 

On  a  march,  when  our  gallant  divisions 

In  the  country  make  a  halt, 
Think  not  that  we  limit  our  provisions 

To  Paddy's  fare,  "  potatoes  and  salt." 
Could  such  beggarly  cheer 
Ever  answer  a  French  grenadier? 

No !  we  send  a  dragoon  guard 

To  each  neighboring  farmyard, 
To  collect  the  choicest  pickings — 


Turkeys,  sucking-pigs,  and  chickens. 
For  why  should  mere  rustic  rapscallions 

Fatten  on  such  tit-bits, 

Better  suited  to  the  spits 
Of  our  hungry  and  valorous  battalions '« 

But,  oh  !  at  our  return 
To  our  dear  native  France, 
Each  village  in  its  turn, 
With  music,  and  wine,  and  merry  dance, 
Forth  on  our  joyful  passage  comes ; 
And  the  pulse  of  each  heart  beats  time  to  the 
drums. 

[  Chorus  of  drums. 
Oh,  the  merry  life  a  soldier  leads ! 


TIME   AND   LOVE. 

OLD  TIME  is  a  pilgrim — with  onward  course 

He  journeys  for  months,  for  years  ; 
But  the  trav'ller  to-day  must  halt  perforce — 

Behold,  a  broad  river  appears  ! 
"Pass  me  over,"  Time  cried  ;  "Oh  !  tarry  not, 

For  I  count  each  hour  with  my  glass ;' 
Ye,  whose  skiff  is  moored  to  yon  pleasant  spot — 

Young  maidens,  old  TIME  come  pass!" 

Many  maids  saw  with  pity,  upon  the  bank, 

The  old  man  with  his  glass  in  grief; 
Their  kindness,  he  said,  he  would  ever  thank, 

If  they'd  row  him  across  in  their  skiff. 
While  some  wanted  LOVE  to  unmoor  the  bark, 

One  wiser  in  thought  sublime : 
"  Oft  shipwrecks  occur,"  was  the  maid's  remark, 

"  When  seeking  to  pass  old  TIME  !  " 

From   the  strand  the  small  skiff  LOVE  pushed 
afloat — 

lie  crossed  to  the  pilgrim's  side, 
And  taking  old  TIME  in  his  well-trimmed  boat, 

Dipped  his  oars  in  the  flowing  tide. 
Sweetly  he  sung  as  he  worked  at  the  oar, 

And  this  was  his  merry  song — 
'•You  see,  young  maidens  who  crowd  the  shore, 

IIow  with  LOVE  Time  passes  along  ?" 

But  soon  the  poor  boy  of  his  task  grew  tired, 

As  he  often  had  been  before  ; 
And  faint  from  his  toil,  for  mercy  desired 

Father  TIME  to  take  up  the  oar. 


POEMS   OF  1-UANC1S    MAllnNY 


271 


In  lr'/  ,nrn  grown  tuneful,  the  pilgrim  old 
With  ihe  paddles  resumed  the  lay ; 

-Hv   he  changed   it  and  sung,  "  Young   maids, 

•Behold 
Hotv  with  TJUE  Love  passes  away  !" 


PETRARCA'S   ADDRESS 

TO    THB    SUMMER    HAUNT    OF    LAURA. 

SWEET  fountain  of  Vaucluse  ! 
The  virgin  freshness  of  whose  crystal  bed 
The  ladye,  idol  of  my  soul !  hath  led 

Within  thy  wave  her  fairy  bath  to  choose ! 
And  thou,  O  favorite  tree ! 

Whose  branches  she  loved  best 
To  shade  her  hour  of  rest — 
Her  own  dear  native  land's  green  mulberry! 
Uoses,  whose  earliest  bud 
To  her  sweet  bosom  lent 
Fragrance  and  ornament! 
Zephyrs,  who  fan  the  murmuring  flood  ! 
Cool  grove,  sequestered  grot ! 
Here  in  this  lovely  spot 

I    pour  my  last  sad  lay,  where  first  her  love  I 
wooed. 

If  soon  my  earthly  woes 
Must  slumber  in  the  tomb, 
And  if  my  life's  sad  doom 

Must  so  in  sorrow  close ! 
.Where  yonder  willow  grows 

Close  by  the  margin  lay 

My  cold  and  lifeless  clay, 
That  unrequited  love  may  find  repose ! 
Seek  thou  thy  native  realm, 

My  soul !  and  when  the  fear 
*       Of  dissolution  near, 
And  doubts  shall  overwhelm, 
A  ray  of  comfort  round 

My  dying  couch  shall  hover, 

If  some  kind  hand  will  cover 
My  miserable  bones  in  yonder  hallowed  ground ! 

But  still  alive  for  her 

Oft  may  my  ashes  greet 

The  sound  of  coming  feet ! 
And  Laura's  tread  gladden  ray  sepulchre! 
Relenting  on  my  grave, 


My  mi>tre*s  may,  perchance, 
With  one  kind  pitying  glan.-.- 
Honor  the  dust  of  her  devoted  slave. 
Then  may  she  intercede, 

With  prayer  and  sigh,  for  one 
^  ho,  hem:.-  forever  gone, 
Of  mercy  stands  in  need  ; 
And  while  for  me  hnr  rosary  -h-  i,-||>, 
May  her  uplifted  eyes 
Win  pardon  from  the  skies, 
While  angels  through  her  veil  behold  the  tear 
that  swells! 

Visions  of  love  !  ye  dwell 
In  memory  still  enshrined. — 
Here,  as  she  once  reclined, 
A  shower  of  blossoms  on  her  bosom  fell '. 
And  while  th'  enamored  tree 
From  all  its  branches  thus 
Rained  odoriferous, 
She  sat,  unconscious,  all  humility. 
Mixed  with  her  golden  hair, those  blossoms  sweet 
Like  pearls  on  amber  seemed  ; — 
Some  their  allegiance  deemed 
Due  to  her  floating  robe  and  lovely  feet : 
Others,  disporting,  took 
Their  course  adown  the  brook  : 
Others  aloft,  wafted  in  airy  sport, 
Seemed    to    proclaim,  ''To-day  Love  holds  hi* 
merry  court !  " 

I've  gazed  upon  thee,  jewel  beyond  price  ! 
Till  from  my  inmost  soul 
This  secret  whisper  stole — 

"Of  Earth  no  child  art  thou,  daughter  of  Para- 
dise ! " 

Such  sway  thy  beauty  held 
O'er  the  enraptured  sense, 
And  such  the  influence 
Of  winning  smile  and  form  unparalleled  ! 
And  I  would  marvel  then 
"How  came  I  here,  and  when, 
Wafted  by  magic  wand, 
Earth's  narrow  joys  beyond  ?  " 
Oh,  I  shall  ever  count 

Mj  happiest  days  spent  here  b»   '.his  roinant  c 
fount! 


272 


POEMS   OF   FRANCIS   MAHONY. 


THE   PORCH   OF   HELL. 
(DANTE.) 

"Seeft  we  tfie  patl)  traced  bye  tlje  torattj  of  (Got)  for 

sfnfitll  mortals  ? 
€>f  Hie  reprobate  tl)fs  fs  tlje  sjate,  tljese  are  tlje 

portals, 
jfor  siune  niitJ  crime  from  tfie  bt'rtl)  of  tinue 

t fit's  (GulpI)  infernal. 
Ofitest!   let  al!  ?J$ope  on  tfifs  tljcesljolu    stop!  1)ere 

refgns  Despau  Hternal." 

I  HEAD  with  tears  these  characters — tears  shed 

on  man's  behalf; 
Sach  word  seemed  fraught  with  painful  thought, 

the  lost  soul's  epitaph. 
Turning  dismayed,  "0  mystic  shade!"  I  cried, 

"my  kindly  Mentor, 
Of  comfort,  say,  can   no  sweet  ray  these  dark 

dominions  enter?  " 

*  My  son!"  replied  the  ghostly  guide,  "this  is 
the  dark  abode 

Of  the  guilty  dead — alone  they  tread  hell's  mel- 
ancholy road. 

Brace  up  thy  nerves!  this  hour  deserves  that 
Mind  should  have  control, 

And  bid  avaunt  fears  that  would  haunt  the  clay- 
imprisoned  soul. 

Mine  be  the  task,  when  thou  shall  ask,  each  mys- 
tery to  solve ; 

Aaon  for  us  dark  Erebus  back  shall  its  gates  re- 
volve— 

Hell  shall  disclose  its  deepest  woes,  each  punish- 
ment, each  pang, 

Saint  hath  revealed,  or  eye  beheld,  or  flame- 
tongued  prophet  sang." 

Gates   were  unrolled   of  iron   mould — a  dismal 

dungeon  yawned! 
We  passed — we  stood — 'twas  hell  we  viewed — 

eternity  had  dawned ! 
Space  on  our  sight  burst  infinite — echoes  were 

heard  remote; 
Shrieks   loud    and    drear  startled   our   ear,   ami 

stripes  incessant  smote. 

Onward  we  went.     The  firmament  was  starless 

o'er  our  head, 
Spectres    swept  by  inquiringly — clapping   their 

hands  thev  flee1 


Borne  on  the  blast  strange  whispers  passed ;  and 
ever  and  anon 

Athwart  the  plain,  like  hurricane,  God's  ven- 
geance would  come  on ! 

Then  sounds,  breathed  low,  of  gentler  woe  soft 

on  our  hearing  stole  ; 
Captives  so  meek  fain  would  I  seek  to  comfort 

and  console  : 
"  Oh,  let  us  pause  and  learn  the  cause  of  so  much 

grief,  and  why 
Saddens  the  air  of  their  despair  the  unavailing 

sigh!" 

"  My  son !    Heaven   grants   them  utterance  in 

plaintive  notes  of  woe  ; 
In  tears  their  grief  may  find  relief,  but  hence 

they  never  go. 
Fools !  they  believed  that  if  they  lived  blameless 

and  vice  eschewed,  ' 
God  would  dispense  with   excellence,  and   give 

beatitude. 

They  died  !  but  naught  of  virtue  brought  to  win 

their  Maker's  praise ; 
No  deeds  of  worth  the  page  set  forth  thatchron 

icled  their  days. 
Fixed  is  their  doom — eternal  gloom  !  to  mourn 

for  what  is  past, 
And   weep  aloud  amid  that  crowd  witb   whom 

their  lot  is  cast. 

One  fate  they  share  with  spirits  fair,  who,  when 
rebellion  shook 

God's  holy  roof,  remained  aloof,  nor  part  what- 
ever tookj 

Drew  not  the  sword  against  their  Lord,  nor  yet 
upheld  his  throne: 

Could  God  for  this  make  perfect  bliss  theirs  when 
the  fight  was  won  ? 

The  world  knows  not  their  dreary  lot,  nor  can 

assuage  their  pangs, 
Or  cure  the  curse  of  fell  remorse,  or  blunt  the 

tiger's  fangs. 
Mercy  disdains  to  loose  their  chains — the  hour 

of  grace  has  been  ! 
Son !    let   that   class   unheeded    pass — unwept 

though  not  unseen." 


POEMS  OF  FRANCIS  MAHONY. 


273 


A  TRUE  BALLAD, 

CONTAINING  TUB  PLIOIIT  OF  NAPOLEON  BONAPARTE,  WITH  THI 
LOBS  OP  BIB  SWORD,  III8  HAT.  AND  IMPERIAL  BATON,  BESIDES  A 
WOUND  IN  THE  HEAD  ;  THE  GOOD  LUCK  OF  TUB  PRUSSIANS  IN 
OETTINO  HOLD  OF  BIB  VALUABLES.  IN  DIAMONDS  AND  OTHER 
PROPERTY;  ANP  LASTLY,  THE  IIAPI-Y  ENTRY  OF  BIS  MAJESTY, 
LOUIS  DIX-UUIT,  INTO  PARIS. 

FROM    THE    ITALIAN    OF    NICODEMU8    LKKMIL. 
TUNE — "  On  Linden  when." 

WHEN  Bonaparte,  overcome, 

Fled  from  the  sound  of  Prussian  drum, 

Aghast,  discomfited,  and  dumb, 

Wrapped  in  his  roquelaure, — 

To  wealth  and  power  he  bade  adieu— 
Affairs  were  looking  Prussic  blue: 
In  emblematic  tatters  flew 

The  glorious  tricolor. 

What  once  had  seemed  fixed  as  a  rock 
Had  now  received  a  fatal  shock, 
And  he  himself  had  got  a  knock 

From  a  Cossack  on  the  head. 

Gjne  was  his  hat,  lost  was  his  hope; 
The  hand,  that  once  had  smote  the  Pope, 
Had  even  dropped  its  telescope 
In  the  hurry  as  he  fled. 

Old  Blucher's'  corps  a  capture  made 
Of  his  mantle,  sabre,  and  cockade  ; 
Which  in  "  Rag  Fair"  would,  "from  the  trade," 
No  doubt  a  trifle  fetch. 

But  though  the  Prussians  ('tis  confessed) 
Of  all  his  wardrobe  got  the  best 
(Besides  the  military  chest), 

Himself  they  could  not  catch. 

He's  gone  somewhere  beyond  the  seas, 
To  expiate  his  rogueries  : 
King  Louis  in  the  Tuileries 

Has  recommenced  to  reign. 

Gladness  pervades  the  allied  camps, 
And  naught  the  public  triumph  damps; 
But  every  house  is  lit  with  lamps, 
E'en  in  each  broken  pane. 

Paris  is  one  vast  scene  of  joy  ; 
And  all  her  citizens  employ 


Their  throats  in  shouting  Vive  le  roi! 
Amid  the  roar  of  cannon. 

Oh  !  when  they  saw  the  "  blanc  drapeau  " 
Once  more  displayed,  they  shouted  no 
You  could  have  heard  them  from  the  Po, 
Or  from  the  banks  of  Shannon. 

Gadzooks !  it  was,  upon  my  fay, 
An  European  holiday  ; 
And  the  land  laughed,  and  all  were  gay, 
Except  the  sans  culottes. 

You'd  see  the  people  playing  cards, 
And  gay  grisettes  and  dragoon  guard* 
Dancing  along  the  boulevards — 
Of  brandy  there  were  lots. 

Now,  Bonaparte  and  Murat, 
My  worthy  heroes !  after  that, 
I'd  like  to  know  what  you'll  be  at — 
I  think  you  must  feel  nervous. 

Perhaps  you  are  not  so  besotted 
As  to  be  cutting  the  "carotid" — 
But  there's  the  horsepond ! — there,  odd  rot  it ! 
From  such  an  end  preserve  us ! 


THE   WINECUP  BESPOKEN. 

FHOM    THE    ITALIAN    OF    CLAUDIO    TOLOMEI. 
AIR—"  One  bumper  at  pm-ting." 

GREAT  Vulcan  !  your  dark  smoky  palace, 

With  these  ingots  of  silver,  I  seek ; 
And  1  beg  you  will  make  me  a  chalice*, 

Like  the  cup  you  once  forged  for  the  Greek. 
Let  no  deeds  of  Bellona  "the  bloody" 

Emblazon  this  goblet  of  mine ; 
But  a  garland  of  grapes,  ripe  and  ruddy, 

In  sculpture  around  it  entwine. 

The  festoon  (which  you'll  gracefully  model) 

Is,  remember,  but  part  of  the  whole ; 
Lest,  perchance,  it  might  enter  your  noddle 

To  diminish  the  size  of  the  bowl. 
For  though  dearly  what's  deemed  ornamental, 

And  of  art  the  bright  symbols,  I  prize; 
Still  I  cling  with  a  fondness  parental 

Hound  a  cup  of  th«*  true  good  old  size. 


274 


POEMS   OF  FRANCIS   MAHONY. 


Let  me  have  neither  sun,  moon,  nor  planet, 

Nor  «  the  Bear,"  nor  "  the  Twins,"  nor  "  the 

Goat :" 
Yet  its  use  to  each  eye  that  may  scan  it, 

Let  a  glance  at  its  emblems  denote. 
Then  away  with  Minerva  and  Venus ! 

Not  a  rush  for  them  both  do  I  care ; 
But  let  jolly  old  Father  Silenus, 

Astride  on  his  jackass,  be  there ! 

Let  a  dance  of  gay  satyrs,  in  cadence 

Disporting,  be  seen  'mid  the  fruit ; 
A.nd  let  Pan  to  a  group  of  young  maidens 

Teach  a  new  vintage-lay  on  his  flute ; 
Cupid,  too,  hand  in  hand  with  Bathyllus, 

May  purple  his  feet  in  the  foatn  : 
Long  may  last  the  red  joys  they  distil  us ! 

Though  Love  spread  his  winglets  to  roam ! 


VILLAGE   SONG. 

HUSBANDS,  they  tell  me,  gold  hath  won 

More  than  aught  else  beside: 
Gold  I  have  none  ;  can  I  find  one 
To  take  me  for  his  bride  ? 
Yet  who  knows 
How  the  wind  blows — 
.  Or  who  can  say 
I'll  not  find  one  to-day  ? 

I  can  embroider,  I  can  sew — 

A  husband  I  could  aid  ; 
I  have  no  dowry  to  bestow — 
Must  I  remain  a  maid  ? 
Yet  who  knows 
How  the  wind  blows — 
Or  who  can  say 
I'll  not  find  one  to-day  ? 

A  simple  maid  I've  been  too  long — 

A  husband  I  would  find  ; 
But  then  to  ask — no! — that  were  wrong; 
So  I  must  be  resigned. 
Yet  who  knows 
How  the  wind  blows — 
Or  who  can  say 
I'll  not  find  one  to-day  ? 


THE   VISION   OF  PETRARCA. 

A  FORM  I  saw  with  secret  awe — nor  ken  I  what 

it  warns ; 
Pure  as  the  snow,  a  gentle  doe  it  seemed  with 

silver  horns. 
Erect  she  stood,  close  by  a  wood  between  two 

running  streams ; 
And  brightly  shone  the  morning  sun  upon  that 

land  of  dreams. 

The  pictured  hind  fancy  designed  glowing  with 
love  and  hope ; 

Graceful  she  stepped,  but  distant  kept,  like  the 
timid  antelope ; 

Playful,  yet  coy — with  secret  joy  her  image 
filled  my  soul ; 

And  o'er  the  sense  soft  influence  of  sweet  obliv- 
ion stole. 

Gold  I  beheld  and  emerald  on  the  collar  that 
she  wore ; 

Words  too — but  theirs  were  characters  of  legen- 
dary lore : 

"  Caesar's fcecree  liatlj  maUe  me  free;  anU  tijrougl)  Iji* 
solemn  cl)ar0e, 

aSutoucbetJ  b»  men  o'ev  Ijfll  anD  flleu  K  toauUer  Ijere 
at  large." 

The  sun  had  now  with  radiant  brow  climbed  his 

meridian  throne, 
Yet  still  mine  eye  untiringly  gazed  on  that  lovely 

one. 
A  voice  was  heard — quick  disappeared  my  dream. 

The  spell  was  broken. 
Then  came  distress — to  the  consciousness  of  life 

I  had  awoken. 


A  VENETIAN  BARCAROLLE. 

"  PRITHEE,  young  fisherman,  come  over- 
Hither  thy  light  bark  bring  ; 

Row  to  this  bank,  and  try  recover 
My  treasure — 'tis  a  ring!" 

The  fisher-boy  of  Como's  lake 

His  bonny  boat  soon  brought  her, 

And  promised  for  her  beauty's  sake 
To  search  beneath  the  water. 


POEMS  OF   FRANCIS  MAUONY. 


275 


"  I'll  give  thee,"  said  the  ladye  fair, 
"One  hundred  sequins  bright, 

If  to  my  villa  thou  wilt  bear, 
Fisher,  that  ring  to-night." 

44  A  hundred  sequins  I'll  refuse 
When  I  shall  come  at  eve : 

But  there  is  something,  if  you  choose, 
Lady,  that  you  can  give ! " 

The  ring  was  found  beneath  the  flood ; 

Nor  need  my  lay  record 
What  was  that  lady's  gratitude, 

What  was  that  youth's  reward. 


ODE  TO  THE  WIG  OF  FATHER  BOSCO- 
VICH, 

T11B    CKLKItKATlVU    A8TKONOMBK. 

FROM    THE    ITALIAN    OF    JULIUS    CAESAR    CORDAKA. 

WITH  awe  I  look  on  that  peruke, 

Where  Learning  is  a  lodger, 
And  think,  whene'er  I  see  that  hair 
Which  now  you  wear,  'some  ladye  fair 

Had  worn  it  once,  dear  Roger ! 

On  empty  skull  most  beautiful 
Appeared,  no  doubt,  those  locks, 

Once  the  bright  grace  of  pretty  face ; 

Now  far  more  proud  to  be  allowed 
To  deck  thy  u  knowledge-box." 

Condemned  to  pass  before  the  glass 

Whole  hours  each  ble&sed  morning, 
'Twas  desperate  long,  with  curling-long 
And  tortoise-shell,  to  have  a  belle 
Thee  frizzing  and  adorning. 

Bright  ringlets  set  as  in  a  net, 

To  catch  us  men  like  fishes ! 
Your  every  lock  concealed  a  stock 
Of  female  wares — love's  pensive  cares, 

Vain  dreams,  and  futile  wishes! 

That  chevelure  has  caused,  I'm  sure, 

Full  many  a  lover's  quarrel  ; 
Then  it  was  decked  with  flowers  select 
And  myrtle-sprig :  but  now  a  wio, 
'Tis  circled  with  a  laurel ! 


Wli.-ri!  troli  and  new  at  first  they  givw, 

Of  whims,  and  tricks,  and  fancies, 
Those  locks  at  best  were  but  a  nest : — 
Their  being  spread  on  learned  head 
Vastly  their  worth  enhances 

From  flowers  exempt,  uncouth,  unkempt 

Matted,  entangled,  thick ! 
Mourn  not  the  loss  of  curl  or  gloss 
'Tis  infra  dig.     THOU  ART  THE  wio 

OF  ROGER  BOSCOVICH  ! 


THE   INTRUDER. 

FROM    THE   ITALIAN    OF    MENZIX1. 

THERE'S  a  goat  in  the  vineyard !  an  unbidden 
guest — 

He  comes  here  to  devour  and  to  trample ; 
If  he  keep  not  aloof,  I  must  make,  I  protest, 

Of  the  trespassing  rogue  an  example. 
Let  this  stone,  which  I  fling  at  his  ignorant  head, 

Deep  impressed  in  his  skull  leave  its  moral — 
That  a  four-footed  beast  'mid  the  vines  should 
not  tread, 

Nor  attempt  with  great  Bacchus  to  quarrel. 

Should  the  god  on  his  car,  to  which  tigers  are 

yoked, 

Chance  to  pass  and  espy  such  a  scandal, 
Quick  he'd  mark  his  displeasure — most  justly 

provoked 

At  the  sight  of  this  four-footed  Vandal. 
To  encounter  his  wrath,  or  be  found  on  his  path, 

In  the  spring  when  his  godship  is  sober, 
Silly  goat !  would  be  rash — and  you  fear  not  the 

lash 
Of  the  god  in  the  month  of  October. 

In  each  bunch,  thus  profaned  by  an  insolent 
tooth, 

There  has  perished  a  goblet  of  nectar ; 
Fitting   vengeance   will    follow   those    gamboU 
uncouth, 

For  the  grape  has  a  jealous  protector. 
On  the  altar  of  Bacchus  a  victim  must  bleed, 

To  avert  a  more  serious  disaster ; 
Lest  the  ire  of  the  deity  visit  the  deed 

Of  the  goat  on  his  negligent  master. 


276 


POEMS   OF  FRANCIS   MAHONY 


A    SERENADE. 

BY    VITTOHELLI. 

L*AI,E  to-night  is  the  disk  of  the  moon,  and  of 

azure  unmixed 

Is  the  bonny  blue  sky  it  lies  on ; 
And   silent  the   stream-let,   and    hushed    is   the 

zephyr,  and  fixed 
Is  each  star  in  the  calm  horizon ; 
And  the  hamlet  is  lulled  to  repose,  and  all  na- 
ture is  still — 

How  soft,  how  mild  her  slumbers! 
And  naught  but  the  nightingale's  note  is  awake, 

and  the  thrill 
Of  his  sweetly  plaintive  numbers. 

His  song  wakes  an   echo !    it  comes  from  the 

neighboring  grove — 
Love's  sweet  responsive  anthem  ! 
Lady  !  list  to  the  vocalist !     Dost  thou  not  envy 

his  love, 

And  the  joys  his  mate  will  grant  him  ? 
Oh,  smile  on   thy  lover  to-night!  let  a  transient 

hope 

Ease  the  heart  with  sorrow  laden : 
From  yon  balcony  wave  the  fond  signal  a  mo- 
ment— and  ope 
Thy  casement,  fairest  maiden. 


THE  REPENTANCE  OF  PETRARCA. 

BRIGHT  days  of  sunny  youth,  irrevocable  years, 

Period  of  manhood's  prime! 
O'er  thee  I  shed  sad  but  unprofitable  tears — 

Lapse  of  returnless  time. 

ObJ  I  have  cast  away,  like  so  much  worthless 
dross, 

Hours  of  most  precious  ore — 
Blessed  hours  I  could  have  coined  for  heaven, 
your  loss 

Forever  I'll  deplore ! 

Contrite  I  kneel,  0  God  inscrutable,  to  thee, 

High  heaven's  immortal  King! 
Thou  gavest  me  a  soul  that  to  thy  bosom  free 

Might  soar  on  seraph  wing  : 
My  mind  with  gifts  and   grace  thy  bounty  had 
endowed 


To  cherish  Thee  alone — 
Those  gifts  I   have   abused,   this  heart   I  have 

allowed 
Its  Maker  to  disown. 

But  from  his  wanderings  reclaimed,  with   full, 

with  throbbing  heart 
Thy  truant  has  returned  : 
Oh  !  be  the  idol  and  the  hour  that  led  him  to 

depart 

From  Thee,  forever  mourned. 
If  I  have  dwelt  remote,  if  I  have  loved  the  tents 

of  guilt — 

To  thy  fond  arms  restored, 
Here  let  me  die !     On  whom  can   my  eternal 

hopes  be  built, 
SAVE  UPON  THEE,  O  LORD  ! 


of 


Horace,  in  one  small  volume,  shows  us  what  it  it 
To  blend  together  every  kind  of  talent;  — 

Ti|a  bazaar  for  all  sorts  of  commodities, 
To  suit  the  grave,  the  sad,  the  brave,  the  gallant  : 

He  deals  in  songs  and  "sermons,"  whims  and  odditie§ 
I'.y  turns  is  philosophic  and  pot-valiant, 

And  not  unfrequently  with  sarcasm  slaughters 

The  vulgar  insolence  of  coxcomb  authors. 

ODE  I.  —  To  MEC^ENAS. 

"  Mfc»nas  !  atavis  edite  regibus,"  etc. 

Mr  FRIEND  and  PATRON,  in  whose  veins  runneth 

right  royal  blood, 
Give  but  to  some  the  HIPPODROME,  the  car,  the 

prancing  stud, 
Clouds  of  Olympic  dust  —  then  mark  what  ecstasy 

of  soul 
Their  bosom  feels,  as  the  rapt  wheels  glowing 

have  grazed  the  goal. 
Talk  not  to  them  of  diadem  or  sceptre,  save  the 

whip  — 
A  branch  of  palm  can  raise  them  to  the  GODS' 

companionship. 

And    there  be  some,  my  friend,  for  whom    the 

crowd's  applause  is  food, 
Who  pine  without  the  hollow  shout  of  ROME'S 

mad  multitude  ; 
Others,  whose  giant  greediness  whole  provinces 

would  drain  — 
Their  sole  pursuit  to  gorge  and  glut  huge  gran- 

aries with  grain. 


POEMS   OF  FRANCIS   MAHONY. 


277 


Yon  homely  hind,  calmly  resigned  his  narrow 

farm  to  plod, 
Seek  not  with  ASIA'S  wealth  to  wean  from  his 

paternal  sod  : 
\  e  can't  prevail !  no  varnished  tale  that  simple 

swain  will  urge, 
In  galley  built  of  CYPRUS  oak,  to  plough   th' 

Ki; KAN  surge. 

Your  merchant-mariner,  who  sighs  for  fields  and 

quiet  home, 
While  o'er  the  main  the  hurricane  howls  round 

his  path  of  foam, 
Will  make,  I  trow,  full  many  a  vow,  the  deep 

for  aye  t'  eschew. 
He    lands — what  then?     Pelf  prompts  again — 

his  ship  's  afloat  anew  ! 

Soft  Leisure  hath  its  votaries,  whose  bliss  it  is  to 

bask 
In  summer's  ray  the  live-long  day,  quaffing   a 

mellow  flask 
Under  the  green-wood  tree,  or  where,  but  newly 

born  as  yet, 
Religion  guards  the  cradle  of  the  infant  rivulet. 

Some  love  the  camp,  the  horseman's  tramp,  the 

clarion's  voice  ;  aghast 
Pale  mothers  hear  the  trumpeter,  and  loathe  the 

murderous  blast. 

Lo!    under  wintry  skies  his    game   the  Hunter 

still  pursues; 
And,  while  his  bonny  bride  with  tears  her  lonely 

bed  bedews, 
He  for  his  antlered  foe  looks  out,  or  tracks  the 

forest  whence 
Broke  the  wild  boar,  whose  daring  tusk  levelled 

the  fragile  fence. 

THEE  the  pursuits  of  learning  claim — a  claim  the 

gods  allow ; 
Thine  is  the  ivy  coronal  that  decks  the  scholar's 

brow: 

ME  in  the  woods'  deep  solitudes  the  Nymphs  a 

client  count, 
The  dancing  FAUN  on  the  green  lawn,  the  NAIAD 

of  the  fount. 
For  me  her  lute  (sweet  attribute!)  let  POLVHYM- 

NIA  sweep ; 


For  me,  oh  1  let  the  flageolet  breathe  from  Eu 

TERPE'S  lip; 
Give  but  to  me  of  poesy  the  lyric  wreath,  and 

'then 
Th'  immortal  halls  of  bliss  won't  hokl  a  prouder 

denizen. 


ODE  II. 

-  Jam  satis  terrls  nivis  stquc  <lir»  Grandinls,"  etc. 

SINCE  JOVK  decreed  in  storms  to  vent 
The  winter  of  his  discontent, 
Thundering  o'er  ROME  impenitent 

With  red  right  hand, 
The  flood-gates  of  the  firmament, 

Have  drenched  the  land  ! 

Terror  hath  seized  the  minds  of  men, 
Who  deemed  the  days  had  come  again 
When  PROTEUS  led,  up  mount  and  glen, 

And  verdant  lawn, 
Of  teeming  ocean's  darksome  den 

The  monstrous  spawn. 

When  PYRRHA  saw  the  ringdove's  nest 
Harbor  a  strange  unbidden  guest, 
And,  by  the  deluge  dispossessed 

Of  glade  and  grove 
Deers  down  the  tide,  with  antlered  crest, 

Affrighted  drove. 

WE  saw  the  yellow  TIBER,  sped 
Back  to  his  Tuscan  fountain-head, 
O'erwhelm  the  sacred  and  the  dead 

In  one  fell  doom, 
And  VESTA'S  pile  in  ruins  spread, 

And  NUMA'S  tomb. 

breaming  of  days  that  once  had  been, 
lie  deemed  that  wild  disastrous  scene 
Might  soothe  his  ILLA,  injured  queen  ! 

And  comfort  give  her, 
Reckless  though  JOVK  should  intervene, 

Uxorious  river ! 

Our  sons  will  ask,  why  men  of  ROIIK- 
Drew  against  kindred,  friends,  and  hum 
Swords  that  a  Persian  hecatomb 
Might  best  imbue — 


278 


POEMS  OF   FRANCIS   MAHONt. 


Sons,  by  their  fathers'  feuds  become 
Feeble  and  few ! 

Whom  can  our  country  call  in  aid  ? 
Where  must  the  patriot's  vow  be  paid  ? 
With  orisons  shall  vestal  maid 

Fatigue  the  skies  ? 
Or  will  not  VESTA'S  frown  upbraid 

Her  votaries  ? 

Augur  APOLLO  !  shall  we  kneel 
To  THEE,  and  for  our  commonweal 
With  humbled  consciousness  appeal? 

Oh,  quell  the  storm  ! 
Come,  though  a  silver  vapor  veil 

Thy  radiant  form ! 

Will  VENUS  from  Mount  ERYX  stoop, 
And  to  our  succor  hie,  with  troop 
Of  laughing  GRACES,  and  a  group 

Of  Cupids  round  her  ? 
Or  comest  THOU  with  wild  war-whoop, 

Dread  MARS  !  our  FOUNDER  ? 

Whose  voice  so  long  bade  peace  avaunt ; 
Whose  war-dogs  still  for  slaughter  pant ; 
The  tented  field  thy  chosen  haunt, 

Thy  child  the  ROMAN, 
Fierce  legioner,  whose  visage  gaunt 

Scowls  on  the  foeman. 

Or  hath  young  HERMES,  MAIA'S  son, 
The  graceful  guise  and  form  put  ou 
Of  thee,  AUGUSTUS  ?  and  begun 

(Celestial  stranger !) 
To  wear  the  name  which  THOU  hast  won — 

"  CAESAR'S  AVENGER  ?" 

Blessed  be  the  days  of  thy  sojourn, 
Distant  the  hour  when  ROME  shall  mourn 
The  fatal  sight  of  thy  return 

To  Heaven  again, 
Forced  by  a  guilty  age  to  spurn 

The  haunts  of  men. 

Rathei  remain,  beloved,  adored, 
Since  ROME,  reliant  on  thy  sword, 
To  thee  of  JULIUS  hath  restored 

The  rich  reversion ; 
Baffle  ASSYRIA'S  hovering  horde, 

And  smite  the  PERSIAN! 


ODE  TII. — To  THE  SHIP  BEARING  VIRGIL  TO 
GREECE. 

"Blc  te  diva  potens,"  etc. 

MAT   Love's  own  planet   guide   thee   o'er    tb. 

wave! 

Brightly  aloft 

HELEN'S  star-brother's  twinkling, 
And  jjEoLus  chain  all  his  children,  save 

A  west-wind  soft 
Thy  liquid  pathway  wrinkling, 
Galley !  to  whom  we  trust,  on  thy  parole, 

Our  VIRGIL — mark 
Thou  bear  him  in  thy  bosom 
Safe  to  the  land  of  GREECE  ;  for  half  my  soul, 

0  gallant  bark ! 
Were  lost  if  I  should  lose  him. 

A  breast  of  bronze  full  sure,  and  ribs  of  oak, 

Where  his  who  first 
Defied  the  tempest-demon ; 
Dared  in  a  fragile  skiff  the  blast  provoke, 

And  boldly  burst 
Forth  on  the  deep  a  Seaman  ! 
Whom  no  conflicting  hurricanes  could  daunt, 

Nor  BOREAS  chill, 
Nor  weeping  HYADS  sadden, 
E'en  on  yon  gulf,  whose  lord,  the  loud  LEVANT, 

Can  calm  at  will, 
Or  to  wild  frenzy  madden. 

What  dismal  form  must  Death  put  on  for  him 

Whose  cold  eye  mocks 
The  dark  deep's  huge  indwellers  ! 
Who  calm  athwart  the  billows  sees  the  grim 

CERAUNIAN  rocks, 
Of  wail  and  woe  tale-tellers  ! — 
Though  Providence  poured  out  its  ocean -flood, 

Whose  broad  expanse 

Might  land  from  land  dissever, 

Careering  o'er  the  waters,  Man  withstood 

Jove's  ordinance 
With  impious  endeavor. 

The  human  breast,  with  bold  aspirings  fraught, 

Throbs  thus  unawed, 
Untamed,  and  unquiescent, 
Fire  from  the  skies  a  son  of  Japbet  brought, 

And,  fatal  fraud! 
Made  earth  a  guilty  present. 
Scarce  was  the  spark  snatched  from  the  bright 
abode. 


i  -HI-IMS 


KI:ANCIS  MAIIONV. 


279 


When  round  us  straight 
A  ghastly  phalanx  thickened — 
Fever  anil  Palsy  ;  and  grim  Death,  who  strode 

With  tardy  gait 
Far  ofl, — his  coining  quickened. 

Wafted  on  oaring  art's  fictitious  plume, 

Tltr;  Cretan  rose, 
And  wj»ved  his  wizard  pinions  ; 
Downwards  Alcides  pierced  the  realms  of  gloom, 

Wnere  darkly  flows 
Styx,  through  the  dead's  dominions. 
Naught  is  beyond  our  reach,  beyond  our  scope, 

And  Heaven's  high  laws 
Still  fail  to  keep  us  under; 
How  can  our  unreposing  malice  hope 

Respite  or  pause 
From  Jove's  avenging  thunder? 


ODE  IV. 

"  Solvitur  acris  h yeina,"  etc. 

Now  Winter  melts  beneath 
Spring's  genial  breath, 

And  Zephyr 

Back  to  the  water  yields 
The  stranded  bark — back  to  the  fields 

The  stabled  heifer — 
And  the  gay  rural  scene 
The  shepherd's  foot  can  wean, 
Forth  from    his   homely    hearth,   to   tread   the 
meadows  green. 

Now  Venus  loves  to  group 
Her  merry  troop 

Of  maidens, 

Who,  while  the  moon  peeps  out, 
Dance  with  the  Graces  round  about 

Their  queen  in  cadence; 
While  far,  'mid  fire  and  noise, 
Vulcan  his  forge  employs, 

Where  Cyclops  grim  aloft  their  ponderous  sledges 
poise. 

Now  maids,  with  myrtle-bough, 
Garland  their  brow — 

Each  forehead 

Shining  with  flow'rets  decked  ; 
A'hile  the  glad  earth,  by  frost  unchecked, 


Buds  out  all  florid  ; — 
Now  let  the  knife  devote, 
In  some  still  grove  remote, 
A  victim-lamb  to  Faun  ;   or,  should  he  list,  a 
goat. 

Death,  with  impartial  foot, 
Knocks  at  the  hut; 

The  lowly 

As  the  most  princely  gate. 
0  favored  friend  !  on  life's  brief  date 

To  count  were  folly ; 
Soon  shall,  in  vapors  dark, 
Quenched  be  thy  vital  spark, 
And  thou,  a  silent  ghost,  for  Pluto's  land  em- 
bark? 

Where  at  no  gay  repast, 
By  dice's  cast 

King  chosen, 

Wine-laws  shalt  thou  enforce, 
But  weep  o'er  joy  and  love's  warm  source 

Forever  frozen ; 
And  tender  Lydia  lost, 
Of  all  the  town  the  toast, 

Who  then,   when  thou   art  gone,   will   fire  al1 
bosoms  most ! 


ODE  V. — PYRRHA'S  INCONSTANCY. 

"Qnis  multd  gracilfs  to  pner  In  rosA,"  etc. 

PYRRHA,  who  now,  mayhap, 

Pours  on  thy  perfumed  lap 
With  rosy  wreath,  fair  youth,  his  fond  addresses ! 

Within  thy  charming  grot, 

For  whom,  in  gay  love-knot, 
Playfully  dost  thou  bind  thy  yellow  tresses  ? 

So  simple  in  thy  neatness ! 

Alas !  that  so  much  sweetness 
Should  prelude  prove  to  disillusion  painful ! 

He  shall  bewail  too  late 

His  sadly  altered  fate, 
Chilled  by  thy  mien,  repellant  and  disdainful 

Who  now,  to  fondness  prone, 
Deeming  thee  all  his  own, 
Revels  in  golden  dreams  of  favors  boundless; 
So  bright  thy  beauty  glows, 


280 


POEMS   OF   FRANCIS   MAHONY. 


Still  fascinating  those 

Who've  yet  to  learn  all  trust  in  thee  is  ground- 
less. 

I  the  false  light  forswear, 

A  shipwrecked  mariner, 
Who  hangs  the  painted  story  of  his  suffering 

Aloft  o'er  Neptune's  shrine  ; 

There  shall  I  hang  up  mine, 
And  of  my  dripping  robes  the  votive  offering! 


ODE  VI. 

14  8eriberis  Vario,"  etc. 

AGRIPPA  !  seek  a  loftier  bard  ;  nor  ask 

Horace  to  twine  in  songs 
The  double  wreath,  due  to  a  victor's  casque 
From  land  and  ocean  :  such  Homeric  task 

To  Varius  belongs. 

Our  lowly  lyre  no  fitting  music  hath, 

And  in  despair  dismisses 
The  epic  splendors  of  "  Achilles'  wrath," 
Or  the  "  dread  line  of  Pelops,"  or  the  "  path 

Of  billow-borne  Ulysses." 

The  record  of  the  deeds  at  Actium  wrought 
So  far  transcends  our  talent — 

Vain   were    the   wish !    wild   the   presumptuous 
thought ! 

To  sing  how  Caesar,  how  Agrippa,  fought — 
Both  foremost  'mid  the  gallant ! 

The  God  of  War  in  adamantine  mail ; 

Merion,  gaunt  and  grim  ; 
Pallas  in  aid  ;  while  Troy's  battalions  quail, 
Scared  by  the  lance  of  Diorned  .  .  .  must  fail 

To  figure  in  our  hymn. 

Ours  is  the  banquet-song's  light-hearted  strain, 

Roses  our  only  laurel, 
The  progress  of  a  love-suit  our  campaign, 
Our  only  scars  the  gashes  that  remain 

When  romping  lovers  quarrel. 


ODE  VII. — To  MUNATIUS  PLANCCS. 

"  Laudabunt  alii  claram  Rbodon."1 

RHODES,  Ephesus,  or  Mitylene, 

Or  Thessaly's  fair  valley, 
Or  Corinth,  placed  two  gulfs  atween, 
Delphi,  or  Thebes,  suggest  the  scene 

Where  some  would  choose  to  dally; 
Others  in  praise  of  Athens  launch, 

And  poets  lyric 

Grace,  with  Minerva's  olive  branch 
Their  panegyric. 

To  Juno's  city  some  would  roam — 

Argos — of  steeds  productive ; 
In  rich  Mycenae  make  their  home, 
Or  find  Larissa  pleasantsome, 
Or  Sparta  deem  seductive  ; 
Me  Tibur's  grove  charms  more  than  all 

The  brook's  bright  bosom, 
And  o'er  loud  Anio's  waterfall 
Fruit-trees  in  blossom. 

Plancus!  do  blasts  forever  sweep 
Athwart  the  welkin  rancored  ? 
Friend  !  do  the  clouds  forever  we«p  ? — 
Then  cheer  thee,  and  thy  sorrows  deep 

Drown  in  a  flowing1  tankard  : 
Whether  "  the  camp  !  the  field  !  the  sword  1 

Be  still  thy  motto, 

Or  Tibur  to  thy  choice  afford 

A  sheltered  grotto. 

When  Teucer  from  his  father's  frown 

For  exile  'parted, 

Wreathing  his  brow  with  poplar  crown^ 
In  wine  he  bade  his  comrades  drown 

Their  woes  light-hearted ; 
And  thus  he  cried,  Whate'er  betide, 

Hope  shall  not  leave  me: 
The  home  a  father  hath  denied 
Let  Fortune  give  me! 

Who  doubts  or  dreads  if  Teucer  load  ? 

Hath  not  Apollo 
A  new-found  Salamis  decreed, 
Old  Fatherland  shall  supersede? 

Then  fearless  follow. 
Ye  who  could  bear  ten  years  your  shai* 

Of  toil  and  slaughter, 
Drink !  for  our  sail  to-morrow's  gale 

O 

Wafts  o'er  the  water. 


I'M  KM  S    UK    FRANCIS    MA1IOXY. 


281 


ODE  VIII. 

"Lydla,  die  peroinnes,"  etc. 

ENCHANTING  Lydia!  prithee, 

By  all  the  gods  that  see  tliee, 
]  'ray  tell  me  this    Must  Sybaris 

Perish,  enamored  with  thee  ? 

Lo !  wrapped  as  in  a  trance,  he 

Whose  hardy  youth  could  fancy 
Each  manly  teat,  dreads  dust  and  heat, 

All  through  thy  necromancy  I 

Why  rides  he  never,  tell  us, 

Accoutred  like  his  fellows, 
For  curb  and  whip,  and  horsemanship, 

And  martial  bearing  zealous? 

Why  hangs  he  back,  deraurrent 

To  breast  the  Tiber's  current, 
From  wrestlers'  oil,  as  from  the  coil 

Of  poisonous  snake,  abhorrent? 

No  more  with  iron  rigor 

Rude  armor-marks  disfigure 
His  pliant  limbs,  but  languor  dims 

His  eye  and  wastes  his  vigor. 

Gone  is  the  youth's  ambition 

To  give  the  lance  emission, 
Or  hurl  adroit  the  circling  quoit 

IE  gallant  competition. 

And  his  embowered  retreat  is 

Like  where  the  Son  of  Thetis 
Lurked  undivulged,  while  he  indulged 

A  mother's  soft  entreaties, 

Robed  as  a  Grecian  girl, 

Lest  soldier-like  apparel 
Might  raise  a  flame,  and  his  kindling  frame 

Through  the  ranks  of  slaughter  whirl. 


ODE  IX. 

14  Viilea  lit  nlli'i  stct  ntve  cnnitldom 
Socrate,"  •  u-. 

SEE  how  the  winter  blanches 

Soracte's  giant  brow ! 
Hear  how  the  forest-branches 

Groat,  for  the  weight  of  snow  ! 
While  the  fixed  ice  impanels 
Rivers  within  their  channels. 


Out  with  the  frost!  expel  her! 

Pile  up  the  fuel-block. 
And  from  thy  hoary  cellar 

Produce  a  Sabine  crock : 
O  Thaliarck  I  remember 
It  count  a  fourth  December. 

Give  to  the  gods  the  guidance 
Of  earth's  arrangements.     List ! 

The  blasts  at  their  high  biddance 
From  the  vexed  deep  desist, 

Nor  'mid  the  cypress  riot ; 

And  the  old  elms  are  quiet. 

Enjoy,  without  foreboding, 
Life  as  the  moments  run  ; 

Away  with  Care  corroding, 
Youth  of  my  soul!  nor  shun 

Love,  for  whose  smile  thou'rt  suited  ; 

And  'mid  the  dancers  foot  it. 

While  youth's  hour  lasts,  beguile  it ; 

Follow  the  field,  the  camp, 
Each  manly  sport,  till  twilight 

Brings  on  the  vesper-lamp ; 
Then  let  thy  loved  one  lisp  her 
Fond  feelings  in  a  whisper. 

Or  in  a  nook  hide  furtive, 
Till  by  her  laugh  betrayed, 

And  drawn,  with  struggle  sportive^ 
Forth  from  her  ambuscade ; 

Bracelet  or  ring  th'  offender 

In  forfeit  sweet  surrender ! 


ODB  X. — HVMN  TO  MERCI-RT. 

"  Mercurt  fecundo  Nepo*  Atlantis."  et«. 

PERSUASIVE  Hermes!  Afric's  son  ! 
Who— scarce  had  human  lift-  begun- 
Amid  our  rude  forefathers  shone 

With  arts  instructive, 
And  man  to  new  refinement  won 

With  grace  seductive. 

Hi  raid  of  JOVE,  and  of  his  court, 
The  lyre's  inventor  and  support, 
Genius!  that  can  at  will  resort 
To  glorious  cunning; 


282 


POEMS   OF   FRANCIS   MAHOXY. 


Both  gods  and  men  in  furtive  sport 
And  wit  outrunning! 

You,  when  a  child  the  woods  amid, 
Apollo's  kine  drew  off  and  hid  ; 
And  when  the  god  with  menace  bid 

The  spoil  deliver, 
forced  him  to  smile — for,  while  he  chid, 

You  stole  his  quiver ! 

The  night  old  Priam  sorrowing  went, 
With  gold  through  many  a  Grecian  tent, 
And  many  a  foeman's  watchfire,  bent 

To  ransom  Hector, 
In  YOU  he  found  a  provident 

Guide  and  protector. 

Where  bloom  Elysium's  groves  beyond 
Death's  portals  and  the  Stygian  pond, 
You  guide  the  ghosts  with  golden  wand, 

Whose  special  charm  is 
That  Jove  and  Pluto  both  are  fond 

Alike  of  Hermes ! 


ODE  XI. — AD  LEUCONOEN. 

"Tu  ne  quaesieris,"  etc. 

LOVK,  mine  !  seek  not  to  grope 
Through  the  dark  windings  of  Chaldean  witchery, 

To  learn  your  horoscope, 

Or  mine,  from  vile  adepts  in  fraud  aud  treachery, 
My  Leuconoe !  shun 
Those  sons  of  Babylon. 

Far  better  'twere  to  wait, 
Calmly  resigned,  the  destined  hour's  maturity, 

Whether  our  life's  brief  date 
This  winter  close,  or,  through  a  long  futurity, 
For  us  the  sea  still  roar 
Oo  von  Tvrrenean  shore. 

Let  Wisdom  fill  the  cup ; — 
Vain  hopes  of  lengthened  days  and  years  felici- 
tous 

Folly  may  treasure  up ; 
Ours  be  the  day  that  passeth — unsolicitous 
Of  what  the  next  may  bring. 
Time  flieth  as  we  sing! 


ODE  XII. — A  PKAYER  FOR  AUGUSTUS. 

"  Quem  virum  ant  beroa.'- 
Am — "  Sublime  was  the  warning." 

NAME  Clio,  the  man !    or  the  god — for  whose 

sake 
The  lyre,  or  the  clarion,  loud  echoes  shall  wake 

On  thy  favorite  hill,  or  in  Helicon's  grove  ? 
Whence  forests  have  followed  the  wizard  of  Thrace, 
When  rivers  enraptured  suspended  their  race, 
When  the  ears  were  vouchsafed  to  the  obdurate 

oak, 
And  the  blasts  of  mount  Haemus  bowed  down  to 

the  yoke 
Of  the  magical  minestrel,  grandson  of  JOVE. 

First  to  Him  raise  the  song!  whose  parental  con- 
trol 
Men  and  gods  feel  alike ;    whom  the  waves,  as 

they  roll — 
Whom  the  earth,  and  the  stars,  and  the  seasons 

obey, 

Unapproached  in  his  godhead ;  majestic  alone, 
Though    Pallas  may  stand  on  the  steps  of  his 

throne, 

Though  huntress  Diana  may  challenge  a  shrine, 
And  worship  be  due  to  the  god  of  the  vine, 
And  to  archer  Apollo,  bright  giver  of  day. 

Shall    we    next   sing   Alcides?  or  Leda's  twin- 
lights — 

Him    the  Horseman,  or  him  whom  the  Cestus 

delights  ? 
Both  shining  aloft,  by  the  seaman  adored  ; 

(For    he  kens  that  their  rising  the  clouds  can 
dispel, 

Dash  the  foam  from  the  rock,  and  the  hurricane 
quell.) — 

Of  Romulus  next  shall  the  claim  be  allowed  ? 

Of  Numa  the  peaceful  ?  of  Tarquin  the  proud  ? 
Of  Cato,  whose  fall  hath  ennobled  his  sword  I 

Shall  Scaurus,  shall  Regulus  fruitlessly  crave 
Honour  due  ?  shall  the  Consul,  who  prodigal  gn\  e 

His  life-blood  on  Cannae's  disastrous  plain  ? 
Camillus?  or  he  whom  a  king  could  not  tempt  ? 
Stern  Poverty's  children,  unfashioned,  unkempt. 
The  fame  of  Marcellus  grows  yet  in  the  shade, 
But  the  meteor  of  Julius  beams  over  his  head, 

Like  the  moon  that  outshines  all  the  stars  in 
her  train ! 


POKMS   OF   KKA.NVis    M.\il«)NV. 


Great  Deity,  guardian  of  men  !  unto  whom 
We  commend,  in  Augustus,  the  fortunes  of  Rome, 
REIGN  FOR  EVER!  but  guard  his  subordinate 

throne. 

Be  it  Iiis — of  the  Parthian  each  inroad  to  check  ; 
Of  the  Indian,  in  triumph,  to  trample  the  neck ; 
To  rule  all  the  nations  of  earth  ; — be  it  JOVE'S 
To  exterminate    guilt  from  the  god's  hallowed 

groves, 

Be  the  bolt  and  the  chariot  of  thunder  THINE 
own  ! 


ODK  XIII. — THE  POET'S  JEALOUSY. 

"Qunm  tu,  Lydia,  Telephi 
Cervicem  roseara,"  etc. 

LYDIA,  when  you  tauntingly 
Talk  of  Telephus,  praising  him 

For  his  beauty,  vauntingly 

Far  beyond  me  raising  him, 
Sis  rosy  neck,  and  arms  of  alabaster, 
My  rage  I  scarce  can  master ! 

Pale  and  faint  with  dizziness, 

All  my  features  presently 
Paint  my  soul's  uneasiness; 

Tears,  big  tears,  incessantly 
-Stea.  down  my  cheeks,  and  tell  in  what  fierce 

fashion 
My  bosom  burns  with  passion. 

'Sdeath  !  to  trace  the  evidence 

Of  your  gay  deceitfulness, 
Mid  the  cup's  improvidence, 

'Mid  the  feast's  forgctfulness, 
To   trace,   where  lips  and   ivory  shoulders  pay 

for  it, 
The  kiss  of  your  young  favorite ! 

Deem  not  vainly  credulous, 

Such  wild  transports  durable, 
Or  that  fond  and  sedulous 

Love  is  thus  procurable  : 

Though  Venus  drench  the  kiss  with  her  quint- 
essence, 
Its  nectar  Time  soon  lessens. 

But  where  meet  (thrice  fortunate !) 

Kindred  hearts  and  suitable, 
Strife  comes  ne'er  importunate, 

Love  remains  immutable ; 

On  to  the  close  they  glide,  'mid  scenes  Elysian, 
Through  life's  delightful  vision  ! 


ODE  XIV. — To  THE  VESSEL  OK  THE  STATE. 
AN  ALLKGORY. 


AD    KKXPUBLICAM. 


WHAT  fresh  perdition  urges, 
Galley  !  thy  darksome  track, 

Once  more  upon  the  surges? 
Hie  to  the  haven  bark  ! 

Doth  not  the  lightning  show  thce 

Thou  hast  got  none  to  row  thee  1 

Is  not  thy  mainmast  shattered  ? 

Hath  not  the  boisterous  south 
Thy  yards  and  rigging  scattered? 

In  dishabille  uncouth, 
How  canst  thou  hope  to  weather 
The  storms  that  round  thee  gather  ? 

Rent  are  the  sails  that  decked  thee  ; 

Deaf  are  thy  gods  become, 
Though  summoned  to  protect  thee, 

Though  sued  to  save  thee  from 
Ihe  fate  thou  most  abhorrest, 
Proud  daughter  of  the  forest ! 

Thy  vanity  would  vaunt  us, 
Yon  richly  pictured  poop 

Pine-timbers  from  the  Pontus; 
Fear  lest,  in  one  fell  swoop, 

Paint,  pride,  and  pine-trees  hollow, 

The  scoffing  whirlpool  swallow  ! 

I've  watched  thee,  sad  and  pensive, 
Source  of  my  recent  caiv<  ! 

Oh,  wisely  apprehensive, 
Venture  not  unawares 

Where  Greece  spreads  out  her  seas, 

Begemmed  with  Cyclades! 


ODE  XV. — THE  SEA-GOD'S  WARNING  TO  PARIC. 

"  Pastor  cum  traheret,"  etc. 

As  the  Shepherd  of  Troy,  wafting  over  the  deer> 
Sad  Perfidy's  freightage,  bore  Helen  along, 

Old  Nercus  uprose,  hushed  the  breezes  to  sleep, 
And  the  secrets  of  doom  thus  revealed  in  hit 
song. 

A'n !    homeward   thou   bringest,    with   omen  of 

dre.-id, 


284 


POEMS   OF  FRANCIS  MAHONY. 


One    whom   Greece   will    reclaim ! — for   her 

millions  have  sworn 

Not  to  rest  till  they  tear  the  false  bride  from 
thy  bed, 

Or  till  Priam's  old  throne  their  revenge  over- 
turn. 

See   the  struggle !    how  foam  covers  horsemen 

and  steeds ! 
See  thy  Ilion  consigned  to  the  bloodiest  of 

sieges ! 
Mark,    arrayed    in    her   helmet,    Minerva,    who 

speeds 

To  prepare  for  the  battle  her  car  and  her 
aegis! 

Too  fondly  thou  deemest  that  Venus  will  vouch 
For  a  life  which  thou  spendest  in  trimming 
thy  curls, 

Or,  in  tuning,  reclined  on  an  indolent  couch, 
An  effeminate  lyre  to  an  audience  of  girls. 

Though  awhile  in  voluptuous  pastime  employed, 
Far  away  from  the  contest,  the  truant  of  lust 

Vlay  baffle  the  bowman,  and  Ajax  avoid, 
Thy  adulterous  ringlets  are  doomed   to  the 
dust  I 

Seo'st  thou  him  of  Ithica,  scourge  of  thy  race  ? 

Gallant  Teucer  of  Salatnis  ?  Nestor  the  wise  ? 
Row,  urging  his  car  on  thy  cowardly  trace, 

Swift  Sthenelus  poises  his  lance  as  he  flies? 

Swift  Sthenelus,  Diomed's  brave  charioteer, 
Accomplished    in    combat    like   Merion   the 
Cretan, 

Fierce,  towering  aloft  see  his  master  appear, 
Of  a  breed  that  in  battle  has  never  been  beaten. 

A^hom  thou,  like  a  fawn,  when  a  wolf  in  the 

valley 

The  delicate  pasture  compels  him  to  leave, 
Wilt   fly,   faint    and    breathless — though    flight 

may  not  tally 

With    all   thy  beloved   heard   thee  boast  to 
achieve. 

Achilles,  retired  in  his  angry  pavilion, 

Shall  cause  a  short  respite  to  Troy  and  her 
games ; 

Yet  a  few  winters  more,  and  the  turrets  of  Ilion 
Must  sink  'mid  the  roar  oe  retributive  flames  ! 


ODE  XVI. — THE  SATIRIST'S  RECANTATION. 


PALINODIA  Al>  TYNDARIDKH. 


BLESSED  with  a  charming  mother,  yet, 
Thou  still  more  fascinating  daughter ! 

Prythee  rny  vile  lampoons  forget — 

Give  to  the  flames  the  libel — let 
The  satire  sink  in  Adria's  water ! 

Not  Cybele's  most  solemn  rites, 

Cymbals  of  brass  and  spells  of  magic  ; 

Apollo's  priest,  'mid  Delphic  flights ; 

Or  Bacchanal,  'mid  fierce  delights, 
Presents  a  scene  more  tragic 

Than  Anger,  when  it  rules  the  soul. 

Nor  fire  nor  sword  can  then  surmount  her 
Nor  the  vexed  elements  control, 
Though  Jove  himself,  from  pole  to  pole, 

Thundering  rush  down  to  the  encounter. 

Prometheus — forced  to  graft,  of  old, 

Upon  our  stock  a  foreign  scion, 
Mixed  up — if  we  be  truly  told — 
With  some  brute  particles,  our  mould — 

Anger  he  gathered  from  the  lion. 

Anger  destroyed  Thyestes'  race, 

O'erwhelmecl  his  house  in  ruin  thorough,. 
And  many  a  lofty  city's  trace 
Caused  a  proud  foeman  to  efface, 

Ploughing  the  site  with  hostile  furrow. 

Oh,  be  appeased  !  'twas  rage,  in  sooth, 

First  woke  my  song's  satiric  tenor ; 
In  wild  and  unreflecting  youth, 
Anger  inspired  the  deed  uncouth  ; 
But,  pardon  that  foul  misdemeanor. 

Lady  !  I  swear — my  recreant  lays 

Henceforth  to  rectify  and  alter — 
To  change  my  tones  from  blame  to  praise, 
Should  your  rekindling  friendship  raise 
The  spirits  of  a  sad  defaulter ! 


POEMS   OF   FRANCIS   MAHONY. 


283 


ODE  XVII. — Ax  INVITATION  TO  HORACE'S 
VILLA 


AD   TT.NDARIIIKM. 


OFT  for  the  hill  where  ranges 

My  Sabine  flock, 
Swift-footed  Faun  exchange! 

Arcadia's  rock, 

And,  tempering  summer's  ray,  forbids 
Untoward  rain  to  harm  my  kids. 

And  there  in  happy  vagrance, 

Roams  the  she-goat. 
Lured  by  marital  fragrance, 
Through  dells  remote ; 
Of  each  wild  herb  and  shrub  partakes, 
Nor  fears  the  coil  of  lurking  snakes. 

No  prowling  wolves  alarm  her ; 

Safe  from  their  gripe 
While  Faun,  immortal  charmer ! 

Attunes  his  pipe, 

\nd  down  the  vale  and  o'er  the  hills 
Cstica's  every  echo  fills. 

The  Gods,  their  bard  caressing, 

With  kindness  treat : 
They've  filled  my  house  with  blcssing- 

My  country-seat, 
Where  Plenty  voids  her  loaded  horn, 

Vair  Tyndaris,  pray  come  adorn  ! 

• 

From  Sirius  in  the  zenith, 
From  summer's  glare, 
Come,  where  the  valley  screeucth, 

Come,  warble  there 
<5ongs  of  the  hero,  for  whose  love 
Penelope  aud  Circe  strove. 

Nor  shall  the  cup  be  wanting, 

So  harmless  then, 
To  grace  that  hour  enchanting 

In  shady  glen. 

Nor  shall  the  jnice  our  calm  disturb  ! 
Nor  aught  our  sweet  emotions  curb ! 

Fear  not,  my  fair  one!  Cyrus 

Shall  not  intrude, 
Nor  worry  thee  desirous 

Of  solitude, 

Nor  rend  thy  innocent  robe,  nor  tear 
The  garland  from  thy  flowing  hair. 


ODE  XVIII. 

"  Nullam,  Vare,  MCI*  vtte  priiu  MverU  •rU>r«ra,"  «ir. 

SINCE  at  Tivoli,  Varus,  you've  fixed  upon  planting 

Round  your  villa  enchanting, 
Of  all  trees,  0  my  friend !  let  the  Vine  be  the 

first. 
On  no  other  condition  will  Jove  lend  assistance 

To  keep  at  a  distance 
Chagrin,  and  the  cares  that  accompany  thirst. 

No   one   talks   after   wine   about   "battles"   or 

"  famine ;" 
But,  if  you  examine, 

The  praises  of  love  and  good  living  are  rife. 
Though  once  the  Centaurs,  'raid  potations  toe 

ample, 

Left  a  tragic  example 
Of  a  banquet  dishonored  by  bloodshed  and  strife, 

Far  removed  be  such  doings  from  us !     Let  the 
Thracians, 

Amid  their  libations, 

Confound  all  the  limits  of  right  and  of  wrong; 
I  never  will  join  in  their  orgies  unholy — 

I  never  will  sully 
The  rites  that  to  ivy-crowned  Bacchus  belong. 

Let  Cybele  silence  her  priesthood,  and  calm  her 

Brass  cymbals  and  clamor ; 
Away  with  such  outbursts,  uproarious  and  vain  ! 
Displays  often  followed  by  Insolence  mulish, 

And  Confidence  foolish, 

To  be  seen  through  and  through,  like  this  glas: 
that  I  drain. 


ODE  XIX. — DK  GLVCERA. 

"  Mtlcr  Bteva  Cupldlnutn,"  etc. 

LOVK'S  unrelenting  Quci-n. 
With  Bacchus — Theban  maid!  thy  wayward 

child 

Whene'er  I  try  to  wean, 
My  heart,  from  vain  amours  and  follies  wild, 

Is  sure  to  interwin-. 

Kindling  within  my  breast  some  passion  unfor- 
•eett. 


23; 


POEMS   OF   FRANCIS   MAIIONY. 


Glycera's  dazzling  glance, 
That  with  voluptuous  light  my  vision  dims — 

The  graces  that  enhance 
The  Parian  marble  of  her  snow-white  limbs, 

Have  left  my  heart  no  chance 
Against  her  winning  wiles  and  playful  petulance. 

Say  not  that  Venus  dwells 
In  distant  Cyprus,  for  she  fills  my  breast, 

And  from  that  shrine  expels 
All  other  themes :  my  lyre,  by  love  possessed, 

No  more  with  war-notes  swells, 
Nor  sings  of  Parthian  shaft,  nor  scythian  slaugh- 
ter tells. 

Come  hither,  slaves  !  and  pile 
An  altar  of  green  turf,  and  incense  burn  ; 

Strew  magic  vervain,  while 
I  pour  libations  from  a  golden  urn  : 

These  rites  may  reconcile 

The  goddess  of  fierce  love,  who  yet  may  deign 
to  smile. 


ODE  XX. — "  POT-LUCK  "  WITH  HORACE. 


AD   M^BCEXATEM. 


SINCE  thou,  Maecenas,  nothing  loath, 

Under  the  bard's  roof-tree, 
Canst  drink  rough  wine  of  Sabine  growth, 

Here  stands  a  jar  for  thee  ! — 
The  Grecian  delf  I  sealed  myself, 

That  year  the  theatre  broke  forth, 

In  tribute  to  thy  sterling  worth, 

When  Rome's  glad  shout  the  welkin  rent, 

Along  the  Tiber  ran. 
And  rose  again,  by  Echo  sent, 

Back  from  Mount  Vatican ; — 
When  with  delight,  0  Roman  Knight ! 

Etruria  heard  her  oldest  flood 

Do  homage  to  her  noblest  blood. 

Wines  of  Falernian  vintage,  friend, 

Thy  princely  cellar  stock; 
Bethink  thee,  should'st  thou  condescend 

To  share  a  poet's  crock, 
Its  modest  shape,  Cajeta's  grape 

Hath  never  tinged,  nor  Formia's  hill 

Deigned  with  a  purple  flood  to  fill. 


ODE  XXI. — To  THE  RISING  GENERATION  or 
ROME. 


AJ>   PUBEM    BOMANA-M. 


WORSHIP  Diana,  young  daughters  of  Italy  ! 

Youths!  sing  Apollo — both  children  of  Jove : 
Honor  Latona,  their  mother,  who  mightily 

Triumphed  of  old  in  the  Thunderer's  love. 

Maids !  sing  the  Huntress,  whose  haunts  are  the 

highlands, 

Who  treads,  in  a  buskin  of  silvery  sheen, 
Each  forest-crowned  summit  through  Greece  and 

her  highlands, 
From  dark  Erymanthus  to  Cragus  the  green. 

From  Tempo's  fair  valley,  by  Phoebus  frequented, 
To  Delos  his  birthplace — the  light  quiver  hung 
From  his  shoulders — the  lyre  that  Jais  brother  in- 
vented— 

Be  each  shrine  by  our  .youth  and  each  attri- 
bute sung. 

May  your  prayers  to  the  regions  of  light  find  ad- 
mittance 

On  Caesar's  behalf; — and  the  Deity  urge 
To    drive   from    our  land    to  the  Persians  and 

Britons, 
Of  Famine  the  curse  !  of  Bellona  the  scourge  ! 


ODE  XXII. 

AD  ABISTHJM  FTT80UM. 

ARISTIUS  !  if  thou  canst  secure 

A  conscience  calm,  with  morals  pure, 

Look  upwards  for  defence!  abjure 

All  meaner  craft — 
The  bow  and  quiver  of  the  Moor, 

And  poisoned  shaft. 

What  though  thy  perilous  path  lie  traced 
O'er  burning  Afric's  boundless  waste.  .  .  . 
Of  rugged  Caucasus  the  guest, 

Or  doom'd  to  travel 
Where  fabulous  rivers  of  the  East 
Their  course  unravel !.  .  .  . 

Under  nay  Sabine  woodland  shade, 
Musing  upon  my  Grecian  maid, 
Unconsciously  of  late  I  strayed 
Through  glen  and  meadow, 


POEMS  OF  FRANCIS  MAHONY. 


When,  lo!  a  ravenous  wolf,  afraid, 
Fled  from  my  shadow. 

No  monster  of  such  magnitude 
Lurks  iu  the  depth  of  Daunia's  wood, 
Or  roams  through  Lybia  unsubdued 

The  land  to  curse — 
Land  of  a  fearful  lion-brood 

The  withered  nurse. 

Waft  me  away  to  deserts  wild, 
Where  vegetation  never  smiled, 
Where  sunshine  never  ouce  beguiled 

The  dreary  day, 
But  winters  upon  winters  piled 

For  aye  delay. 

Place  me  beneath  the  torrid  zone, 
Where  man  to  dwell  was  never  known, 
I'd  cherish  still  one  thought  alone, 

Maid  of  my  choice  ! 
The  smile  of  thy  sweet  lip — the  tone 

Of  thy  sweet  voice ! 


ODE  XXIIL — A  REMONSTRANCE  TO  CHLOK  THE 
BASHFUL. 

"  Vitas  binnuleo,"  etc. 

WHY  wilt  thou,  Chloe,  fly  me  thus? 

The  yearling  kid 
Is  not  more  shy  and  timorous, 

Our  woods  amid, 

Seeking  her  dam  o'er  glen  and  hill, 
AVhile  all  her  frame  vain  terrors  thrill. 

Should  a  green  lizard  chance  to  stir 

Beneath  the  bush — 
Should  Zephyr  through  the  mountain-fif 

Disporting  gush — 
With  sudden  fright  behold  her  start, 
With  trembling  kuees  and  throbbing  heart. 

And  canst  thou  think  me,  maiden  fair  ! 

A  tiger  grim? 
A  Lybian  lion,  bent  to  tear 

Thee  limb  by  limb? 

Still  canst  thou  haunt  thy  mother's  shade, 
Ki|»e  for  a  husband,  blooming  maid  ? 


ODE  XXIV. — To  VIRGIL. — A  CONSOLATORY 
ADDRESS. 

AD   VIEOIUUM.      DCTLBT  (JtTWCTIIJl   MOETXM. 

WHY  check  the  full  outburst  of  sorrow  ?     Why 

blush 

To  weep  for  the  friend  we  adored! 
Raise  the  voice  of  lament !  let  the  swollen  tear 

gush ! 

Bemoan  thee,  Melpomene,  loudly  !  nor  hush 
The  sound  of  thy  lute's  liquid  chord ! 

For  low  lies  Quinctilius,  tranced  in  that  sleep 

That  issue  hath  none,  nor  sequel. 
Let  Candor,  with  all  her  white  sisterhood,  weep — 
Truth,  Meekness,  and  Justice,  his  memory  keep — 

For  when  shall  they  find  his  equal  ? 

Though  the  wise  and  the  good  may  bewail  him, 

yet  none 

O'er  his  clay  sheds  the  tear  more  truly 
Than  you,  beloved  Virgil!      You  deemed  him 

your  own : 
You  mourn  his   companionship. — 'Twas   but   a 

loan, 
Which  the  gods  have  withdrawn  unduly. 

Yet  not  though  Eurydice's  lover  had  left 

Thee  a  legacy,  friend,  of  his  song ! 
Couldst  thou  warm  the  cold  image  of  life-bliKxi 

bereft, 
Or  force  death,  who  robbed  thee,  to  render  the 

theft, 
Or  bring  back  his  shade  from  the  throng, 

Which  Mercury  guides  with  imperative  wand. 

To  the  banks  of  the  fatal  ferry.— 
Tis  hard  to  endure ; — but  'tis  wrong  to  despotic  : 
For  patience  may  deaden  the  blow,  though  be- 
yond 

Thy  power,  my  friend,  to  parry. 


ODE  XXVI. — FRIENDSHIP  AND  POKTRT  THE 
BEST  ANTIDOTES  TO  SORROW. 

MUSIS  AM1CUS.— AXKO  AB  TT.  C.  MDCCXXX. 

Ant—14  Fill  UM  bumper /nir." 

SADNESS — I  who  live 
Devoted  to  the  Muwi, 


288 


POEMS  OF  FRANCIS   MAHONY. 


To  the  wild  wind  give, 

To  waft  where'er  it  chooses ; 
Deiguing  not  to  care 

What  savage  chief  be  chosen 
To  reign  beneath  "  the  Bear," 

O'er  the  fields  forever  frozen. 

Let  Tiridates  rue 

The  march  of  Roman  legions, 
While  I  my  path  pursue 

Through  poesy's  calm  regions — 
Bidding  the  Muse,  who  drinks 

From  the  fountains  unpolluted, 
To  weave  with  flowery  links 

A  wreath,  to  Friendship  suited, 

For  gentle  Lamia's  brow. — 

0  Muse  melodious  !  sweetly 
Echo  his  praise;  for  thou 

Alone  canst  praise  him  fitly. 
For  him  thy  Lesbian  shell 

With  strings  refurnish  newly, 
And  let  thy  sisters  swell 

The  jocund  chorus  duly. 

Sadness — I  who  live  devoted,  etc. 


ODE  XX\7I1. — A  BANQUET-SCENE. 
SENTIMENT. 


TOAST  AND 


AD   8ODALES. 


To  make  a  weapon  of  joy's  cup,  my  friends, 

Is  a  vile  Thracian  custom  ; 
Shame  on  such  practices ! — they  mar  the  ends 
Of  calm  and  kindly  Bacchus.     Bloodshed  tends 

To  sadden  and  disgust  him. 

Here,  'mid  the  bowls,  what  business   hath  the 
sword  ? 

Come,  sheathe  yon  Persian  dagger ; 
Let  the  bright  lamp  shine  on  a  quiet  board ; 
Recline  in  peace — these  hours  we  can't  afford 

For  brawling,  sound,  and  swagger. 

Say,  shall  your  chairman  fill  his  cup,  and  drain 

Of  brimming  bowls  another? 
Then,  first,  a  TOAST  his  mandate  shall  obtain; 
He'll  know  the  nymph  whose  witcheries  enchain 

The  fair  Mrgilla's  brother 


What !  silent  thus  ?     Dost  fear  to  name  aloud 

The  girl  of  thy  aft'ection  ? 
Youth!  let  thy  choice  be  candidly  avowed; 
Thou  hast  a  delicate  taste,  and  art  allowed 

Some  talent  for  selection. 
Yet,  if  the  loud  confession  thou  wilt  shun, 

To  my  safe  ear  discover 

Thy  cherished  secret.  . . .  Ah,  thou  art  undone ! 
What!  she?     How  little  such  a  heartless  one 

Deserves  so  fond  a  lover  ! 

What  fiend,  what  Thracian  witch,  deaf  to   re- 
morse, 

Hath  brewed  thy  dire  love-potion  ! 
Scarce  could  the  hero  of  the  winged  horse 

O 

Effect  thy  rescue,  or — to  free  thee — force 
That  dragon  of  the  ocean  ! 


ODE  XXIX. — THE  SAGE  TURNED  SOLDIER. 


AD   ICCItTM. 


AIB — "  One  bumper  at  purling." 

THK  trophies  of  war,  and  the  plunder, 

Have  fired  a  philosopher's  breast — 
So,  Icdus,  you  march  ('mid  the  wonder 

Of  all)  for  Arabia  the  blessed. 
Full  sure,  when  'tis  told  to  the  Persian, 

That  you  have  abandoned  your  home, 
He'll  feel  the  full  force  of  coercion, 

And  strike  to  the  banners  of  Rome  ! 

What  chief  shall  you  vanquish  and  fettei  ? 

What  captive  shall  call  you  her  lord  ? 
How  soon  may  the  maiden  forget  her 

Betrothed,  hewn  down  by  your  sword  ? 
What  stripling  has  fancy  appointed, 

From  all  that  their  palaces  hold, 
To  serve  you  with  ringlets  anointed, 

And  hand  you  the  goblet  of  gold  ? 

His  arts  to  your  pastime  contribute, 

His  foreign  accomplishments  show, 
And,  taught  by  his  parent,  exhibit 

His  dexterous  use  of  the  bow. — 
Who  doubts  that  the  Tiber,  in  cholei, 

May,  bursting  all  barriers  and  burs, 
Flow  back  to  its  source,  when  a  scholai 

Deserts  to  the  standard  of  Mars? 


1'OKMS   <'F   I- K  AVIS    MMloNY. 


289 


you,  tlie  reserved  and  the  pr.idrnt, 

Whom  Socrates  hoped  to  engage, 
Can  merge  in  the  soldier  the  student, 

And  mar  thus  an  embryo  s-ttftt — 
Bid  the  visions  of  science  to  vanish, 

And  barter  yon  erudite  hoard 
Of  volumes  from  Greece  for  a  Spanish 

Cuirass,  and  the  pen  for  a  sword  I 


ODE  XXX. — THE  DEDICATION  OP  GLYCERA'S 
CHAPKL. 

AD    VKNKUKM. 

AIR—"  The  Boyne  water* 

O  VKNUS!  Queen  of  Cyprus  isle, 

Of  Paphos  and  of  Gnidus, 
Hie  from  thy  favorite  haunts  awhile, 

And  make  abode  amid  us ; 
Glycera's  altar  for  thee  smokes, 

With  frankincense  sweet-smelling — 
Thee,  while  the  charming  maid  invokes, 

Hie  to  her  lovely  dwelling! 

Let  yor.  bright  Boy,  whose  hand  hath  grasped 

Love  s  blazing  torch,  precede  thee, 
While  gliding  on,  with  zone  unclasped, 

The  sister  Graces  lead  thee : 
Nor  be  thy  Nymph-attendants  missed  : 

Nor  can  it  harm  thy  court,  if 
Hebe  the  youthful  swell  thy  list, 

With  Mercury  the  sportive. 


ODE  XXXI. — THE  DEDICATION  OF  APOLLO'S 
TEMPLE. 

AD   APOLLI.NEil.-  ANNO    Alt    IT.  0.  DCOXTVL 

AIR — "  Lesbia  hath  a  beaming  eye." 

WHEN  the  bard  in  worship,  low 

Bends  before  his  liege  Apollo, 
While  the  red  libations  flow 

From  the  goblet's  golden  hollow, 
Can  ye  guess  his  orison  ? 

Can  it  be  for  "  grain  "  he  asketh — 
Mellow  grain,  that  in  the  sun 

O'«r  Sardinia's  bosom  baskotb  f 


No,  no!     The  fattest  herd  of  kinc 

That  o'er  Calabrian  pasture  ranges — 
The  wealth  of  India's  richest  mine — 

The  ivory  of  the  distant  Ganges? 
No — these  be  not  the  poet's  dream — 

Nor  acres  broad  to  main  at  large  in, 
Where  lazy  Liris,  silent  stream, 

Slow  undermine!  the  meadow's  margin. 

The  landlord  of  a  wide  domain 

May  gather  his  Campanian  vintage, 
The  venturous  trader  count  his  gain — 

I  covet  not  his  rich  percentage  ; 
When  for  the  merchandise  he  sold 

He  gets  the  balance  he  relied  on, 
Pleased  let  him  toast,  in  cups  of  gold, 

"  Free  intercourse  with  Tyre  and  Sidon  : ' 

Each  year  upon  the  watery  waste, 

Let  him  provoke  the  fierce  Atlantic 
Four  separate  times —  ...  I  have  no  taste 

For  speculation  so  gigantic. 
The  gods  are  kind,  the  gain  superb  ; 

But,  haply,  I  can  feast  in  quiet 
On  salad  of  some  homely  herb, 

On  frugal  fruit  and  olive  diet. 

On,  let  Latona's  son  but  please 

To  guarantee  me  health's  enjoyment! 
The  goods  he  gave — the  faculties 

Of  which  he  claims  the  full  employment; 
Let  me  live  on  to  good  old  age. 

No  deed  of  shame  my  pillow  haunting, 
Calm  to  the  last,  the  closing  stage 

Of  life : — nor  let  the  lyre  be  wanting. 


ODE  XXXII. — AN  OCCASIONAL  PRELUDE  o- 
THK  POET  ro  HIS  SONGS. 


"  Dear  harp  ofir.y  country." 

THEV  have  called  for  a   lay  that  for  ages  abi 

ding, 

Bids  Echo  its  music  through  years  to  prolong ; 
Then  wake,  Latin  lyre !     Since  ray  country 

pride  in 
Thy  wild  native  harmony,  wake  to  my  song. 


290 


POEMS   OF   FRANCIS.  MAHONY. 


Twas  Alcjcus,  a  minstrel  of  Greece,  who  first 

married 
The  tones  of  the  voice  to  the  thrill  of  the 

chord  ; 
O*er  the  waves  of  the  sea  the  loved  symbol  he 

carried, 

Nor  relinquished  the  lyre  though  he  wielded 
the  sword. 

Gay  Bacchus,  the  Muses,  with  Cupid  he  chanted 
— The  boy  who  accompanies  Venus  the  fair — 

And  he  told  o'er  again  how  for  Lyca  he  panted, 
With  her  bonny  black  eyes  and  her  dark 
flowing  hair. 

'Tis  the  pride  of  Apollo — he  glories  to  rank  it, 
Amid  his  bright  attributes,  foremost  of  all : 

Tis  the  solace  of  life  !  Even  Jove  to  his  bauquet 
Invites  thee ! — 0  lyre  !  ever  wake  to  my  call. 


ODE  XXX IV. — THE  POET'S  CONVERSION. 


AD   8EIFSUM. 


I,  WHOM  the  Gods  had  found  a  client, 

Rarely  with  pious  rites  compliant, 

At  Unbelief  disposed  to  nibble, 

And  pleased  with  every  sophist  quibble — 

I,  who  had  deemed  great  Jove  a  phantom, 

Now  own  my  errors,  and  RECANT  'em! 

Have  I  not  lived  of  late  to  witness, 
Athwart  a  sky  of  passing  brightness, 
The  God,  upon  his  car  of  thunder, 
Cleave  the  calm  elements  asunder? 
And,  through  the  firmament  careering, 
Level  his  bolts  with  aim  unerring? 

Then  trembled  Earth  with  sudden  shiver; 
Then  quaked  with  fear  each  mount  and  river; 
Stunned  at  the  blow,  Hell  reeled  a  minute, 
With  all  the  darksome  caves  within  it; 
And  Atlas  seemed  as  he  would  totter 
Beneath  his  load  of  land  and  water ! 

Yes  !  of  a  God  I  hail  the  guidance  ; 
The  proud  are  humble  at  his  biddance ; 
Fortune,  his  handmaid,  now  uplifting 
Monarchs,  and  now  the  sceptre  shifting, 
With  equal  proof  HIS  power  evinces, 
Whether  she  raise  or  ruin  Princes. 


ODE  XXXV. — AN  ADDIIESS  TO  FORTUNE. 


AD   FORTUNAM. 


FORTUNE,  whose  pillared  temple  crowns 

Cape  Autium's  jutting  cliff, 
Whose  smiles  confer  success,  whose  frowna 

Can  change  our  triumphs  brief 
To  funerals — for  life  both  lie  at 
The  mercy  of  thy  sovereign  fiat. 

THEE,  Goddess !  in  his  fervent  prayers, 

Fondly  the  frugal  farmer  courts; 
The  mariner,  before  he  dares 

Unmoor  his  bark,  to  THEE  resorts — 
That  thy  kind  favor  may  continue, 
To  bless  his  voyage  to  Bithynia. 

Rude  Dacia's  clans,  wild  Scythia's  hordes — 
Abroad — at  home — all  worship  THEE! 

And  mothers  of  barbarian  Lords, 
And  purpled  tyrants,  bend  the  knee 

Before  thy  shrine,  0  Maid  !  who  seemest 

To  rule  mankind  with  power  supremest. 

Lest  THOU  their  statue's  pillared  pride 
Dash  to  the  dust  with  scornful  foot — 

Lest  Tumult,  bent  on  regicide, 
Their  ancient  dynasty  uproot ; 

When  maddened   crowds,  with   Fiends   to   lead 
'em, 

Wreck  empires  in  the  name  of  freedom  ! 

THEE  stern  Necessity  leads  on, 

Loaded  with  attributes  of  awe  ! 
And  grasping,  grim  automaton, 

Bronze  wedges  in  his  iron  claw, 
Prepared  with  sledge  to  drive  the  bolt  in,. 
And  seal  it  fast  with  lead  that's  molten. 

Thee  Hope  adores.     In  snow-white  vest, 

Fidelity  (though  seldom  found) 
Clings  to  her  liege,  and  loves  him  best, 

When  dangers  threat  and  ills  surround  ; 
Prizing  him  poor,  despoiled,  imprisoned, 
More  than  with  gold  and  gems  bedizened. 

Not  so  the  fickle  crowd  !     Not  so 

The  purchased  Beauty,  sure  to  fly 
Where  all  our  boon  companions  go, 

Soon  as  the  cask  of  joy  runs  dry: 
Round  us  the  Spring  and  Summer  brought  en>-~ 
They  leave  us  at  the  close  of  Autumn  ! 


POEMS   OF    M;.\NCIS    M AIIOVV. 


21)1 


THE    1'KAYKR. 

Goddess!  defend,  from  dole  ami  harm, 
Caesar,  who  speeds  to  Britain's  camp  ! 

And  waft,  of  Rome's  glad  youth,  the  swarm 
Safe  to  where  first  Apollo's  lamp 

Shines  in  the  East — the  bravu  whose  fate  is 

To  war  upon  thy  banks,  Euphrates! 

Oh  I  let  our  country's  tears  expunge 

From  history's  page  those  years  abhorred, 

When  Roman  hands  could  reckless  plunge, 
Deep  in  a  brother's  heart,  the  sword ; 

When  Guilt  stalked  forth,  with  aspect  hideous, 

With  every  crime  and  deed  perfidious; 

When  Sacrilege  and  Frenzy  urged 
To  violate  each  hallowed  fane. — 

Oh  !  that  our  falchions  were  reforged, 
And  purified  from  sin  and  shame ; — 

Then — turned  against  th'  Assyrian  foernan — 

Baptized  in  exploits  truly  Roman  ! 


OUE  XXX VI  — A   WELCOME  TO  NUMIDA. 

AD   PLOTTDM    MUM1UAJC. 

Burn  frankincense  !  blow  fife 
A  merry  note  ! — and  quick  devote 
A  victim  to  the  knife, 

To  thank  the  guardian  powers 
Who  led  from  Spain — home  once  again 
This  gallant  friend  of  ours. 

Dear  to  us  all ;  yet  one 
Can  fairly  boast — his  friendship  most : 
Oh,  him  he  doats  upon  ! 

The  gentle  Larnia,  whom, 
Long  used  to  share — each  schoolday  care, 
He  loved  in  boyhood's  bloom. 

One  day  on  both  conferred 
The  garb  of  men — this  day,  again 
Let  a  "  white  chalk"  record. 

Then  send  the  wine-jar  round, 
And  blithely  keep — the  "Salian"  step 
With  many  a  mirthful  bound. 


(  hn:   XXXVII.  —  TIIK   I)I.KKAT  OK  Cu-;oi'.\TUA. 


A   JOYITI.    I'.VU.A!) 


Now,  comrades,  drink 
Full  bumpers,  undiluted! 

Now,  dancers,  link 
Firm  hands,  and  freely  foot  it! 

Now  let  the  priests, 
Mindful  of  Numa's  ritual, 

Spread  victim-feasts, 
And  keep  the  rites  habitual  ! 

Till  now,  't  was  wrong 
T'  unlock  th'  ancestral  cellar, 

Where  dormant  long 
Bacchus  remained  a  dweller; 

While  Egypt's  queen 
Vowed  to  erase  (fond  woman  !) 

Rome's  walls,  and  e'en 
The  very  name  of  Roman  ! 

Girt  with  a  band 
Of  craven-hearted  minions, 

Her  march  she  planned 
Through  Caesar's  broad  dominions! 

With  visions  sweet 
Of  coming  conquest  flattered  ; 

When,  lo  !  her  fleet 
Agrippa  fired  and  scattered  ! 

While  Caesar  left 
Nor  time  nor  space  to  rally  ; 

Of  all  bereft 
—  All,  save  a  single  galley  — 

Fain  to  escape 
When  fate  and  friends  forsook  her, 

Of  Egypt's  grape 
She  quaffed  the  maddening  liquor  : 

And  turned  her  back 
On  Italy's  fair  region  ;  — 

When  soars  the  hawk 
So  flies  the  timid  pigeon  ; 

So  flics  the  ha  iv, 
Pursued  by  Scythia's  hunter, 

O'er  fallows  bare, 
Athwart  the  snows  of  winter. 

The  die  was  cast, 
And  chains  she  knew  t'  await  her  ;  — 


292 


POEMS   OF  FRANCIS   MAIIONY. 


Queen  to  the  last, 
'She  spurned  the  focman's  fetter; 

Nor  shelter  sought 
In  hidden  harbors  meanly; — 

Nor  feared  the  thought 
Of  death — but  met  it  queenly  ! 

Untaught  to  bend, 
Calm  'mid  a  tottering  palace — 

'Mid  scenes  that  rend 
Weak  woman's  bosom,  callous — 

Her  arm  could  grasp 
The  writhing  snake  ;  nor  waver, 

While  of  the  as*p 
It  drank  the  venomed  slaver! 

Grim  Death  unawed 
She  hailed  with  secret  rapture, 

Glad  to  defraud 
Rome's  galleys  of  a  capture ! 

And,  haughty  dame, 
Scorning  to  live,  the  agent 

Of  regal  shame, 
To  grace  a  Roman  pageant ! 


ODE   XXXVIII. — LAST  ODE  OF  BOOK  THE 
FIRST. 

AD   MINISTKtJM.      DIRECTIONS   FOE   SUTPEB. 

SLAVE  !  for  my  feast,  in  humble  grot 
Let  Persia's  pomps  be  all  forgot ; 
With  twining  garlands  worry  not 

Thy  weary  fingers, 
Nor  heed  in  what  secluded  spot 

The  last  rose  lingers. 

Let  but  a  modest  myrtle-wreath, 

In  graceful  guise,  our  temples  sheathe — 

Nor  thou  nor  I  aught  else  herewith 

Can  want,  I'm  thinking, 
Cupbearer  thou  ; — and  I,  beneath 

The  wine-tree  drinking. 


LIB.  II. 


ODE  I. — To  POLLIO  ON  ins  MKIHTA 
TED   HISTORY. 


JJ>  O.    ASINIUM   POLLIONEM. 


THE  story  of  our  civil  wars, 

Through  all  the  changes  that  befell  us, 
To  chronicle  thy  pen  prepares, 

Dating  the  record  from  Metellus  ; — 
Of  parties  and  of  chiefs  thy  page 

Will  paint  the  leagues,  the  plans,  the  forces ; 
Follow  them  through  each  varied  stage, 

And  trace  the  warfare  to  its  sources. 

And  thou  wilt  tell  of  swords  still  wet 

With  unatoned-for  blood  : — historian, 
Bethink  thee  of  thy  risk  ! . . .  ere  yet 

Of  Clio  thou  awake  the  clarion. 
Think  of  the  tact  which  Rome  requires 

In  one  who  would  such  deeds  unfold  he/ 
Know  that  thy  tread  is  upon  fires 

Which  still  beneath  the  ashes  smoulder. 

Of  Tragedy  the  weeping  Muse 

Awhile  in  thee  may  mourn  a  truant. 
Whom  varnished  fiction  vainly  woos, 

Of  stern  realities  pursuant : 
But  finish  thy  laborious  task, 

Our  annals  write  with  care  and  candor ; 
Then  don  the  buskin  and  the  mask, 

And  tread  through  scenes  of  tragic  grandeur 

Star  of  the  stage  !  to  thee  the  Law 

Looks  for  her  mildest,  best  expounder — 
Thee  the  rapt  senate  hears  with  awe, 

Wielding  the  bolts  of  patriot  thunder — 
Thee  Glory  found  beneath  the  tent, 

When  from  a  desert  wild  and  horrid, 
Dalmatia  back  in  triumph  sent 

Her  conqueror,  with  laurelled  forehead ! 

But,  hark !  methinks  the  martial  horn 

Gives  prelude  to  thy  coming  story ; 
In  fancy's  ear  shrill  trumpets  warn 

Of  battle-fields,  hard  fought  and  gory  : 
Fancy  hath  conjured  up  the  scene, 

And  phantom  warriors  crowd  beside  her — 
The  squadron  dight  in  dazzling  sheen — 

The  startled  steed — th'  affrighted  rider  ! 

Hark  to  the  shouts  that  echo  loud 

From  mio-htv  chieftains,  shadowed  giirnly  ! 


I'OKMS    <>F   FKAVIS    MAIIONV. 


293 


While  blood  and  dust  each  hero  shroud, 
Costume  of  slaughter — not  unseemly: 

Vainly  ye  struggle,  vanquished  brave! 
Doomed  to  see  fortune  still  desert  ye, 

Till  all  the  world  lies  prostrate,  save 
Unconquered  Gate's  savage  virtue ! 

Juno,  who  loveth  Afric  most, 

And  each  dread  tutelary  godhead, 
Who  guards  her  black  barbaric  coast, 

Lybia  with  Roman  gore  have  flooded  : 
While  warring  thus  the  sons  of  those 

Whose  prowess  could  of  old  subject  her, 
Glutting  the  grudge  of  ancient  foes, 

Fell — but  to  glad  Jognrtha'a  spectre! 

Where  be  the  distant  land  but  drank 

Our  Latium's  noblest  blood  in  torrents  ? 
Sad  sepulchres,  where'er  it  sank, 

Bear  witness  to  each  foul  occurrence. 
Rude  barbarous  tribes  have  learned  to  scoff, 

Sure  to  exult  at  our  undoing; — 
Persia  hath  heard  with  joy,  far  off, 

The  sound  of  Rome's  gigantic  ruin  ! 

Point  out  the  gulf  on  ocean's  verge — 

The  stream  remote,  along  whose  channels 
ilath  not  been  heard  the  mournful  dir^e 

That  rose  throughout  our  murderous  annals- 
Show  me  the  sea — without  its  tide 

Of  blood  upon  the  suit'ace  blushing — 
Show  me  the  shore — with  blood  undyed 

From  Roman  veins  profusely  gushing. 

But,  Muse!  a  truce  to  themes  like  these — 

Let  us  strike  up  some  jocund  carol ; 
Nor  pipe  with  old  Simonides 

Dull  solemn  strains,  morosely  moral  : 
Teach  me  a  new,  a  livelier  stave — 

And  that  we  may  the  better  chant  it, 
Hie  with  me  to  the  mystic  cave, 

<Jrut,lo  of  song!  by  Bacchus  haunted. 


LtB.  II. 


ODK  II. — THOUGHTS  ON  BULLION  AND 

THK   CCI;I:I:NCV. 


All   CRI8ITM    BALLUSTICK. 


MY  Sal  I  ust,  say,  in  days  of  dearth, 
Win!  is  the  laxy  in^ot  woith, 
Deep  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth 
Allowed  to  settle, 


-s  a  temperate  use  send  forth 
The  shining  met  a!  '. 

Blessings  on  him  whose  bounteous  hoard 
A  brother's  ruined  house  restored — 
Spreading  anew  the  orphan's  board, 

With  can-  paternal  : 
Murena's  fame  aloft  hath  soared 

On  wings  eternal ! 

Canst  thou  command  thy  lust  for  gold  f 
Then  art  thou  richer,  friend,  fourfold, 
Than  if  thy  nod  the  marts  controlled 

Where  chiefest  trade  is — 
The  Carthages  both  "  new  "  and  "old," 

The  Nile  and  Cadiz. 

Mark  yon  hydropic  sufferer,  still 
Indulging  in  the  draughts  that  fill 
His  bloated  frame, — insatiate,  till 

D»ath  end  the  cickiy; 
Unless  the  latent  fount  of  ill 

Be  dried  up  quickly. 

Heed  not  the  vulgar  tale  that  I 

— "He  counts  calm  hours  and  happy  A 

Who  from  the  throne  of  Cyrus  sways 

The  Persian  sceptre :" 
Wisdom  corrects  the  ill-used  phrase—- 
And— stern  preceptor — 

Happy  alone  proclaimeth  them, 
Who  with  uudazzled  eye  contemn 
The  pile  of  gold,  the  glittering  gem, 

The  bribe  unholy — 
Palm,  laurel-wreath,  and  diadem. 

Be  theirs — theirs  solelv  ! 


LIB.  II.     OUK   III. —  A    HIIMII.Y  ox   DE.VTII 

AU   Q.  I'LLLH'M. 

THKK,  whether  Pain  assail 

Or  Pleasure  pamjier, 
Deliius — whiehe'er  prevail  — 

Keep  thou  ihy  temper  ; 
I'hwed  to  boisterous  j.pys,  that  t:c'er 
(.'an  save  thee  from  the  sepulch 

Death  Mnit.-s  the  slave  I 

Whose  soul  ropineth. 
And  him  who  on  the  green, 

Calm  sage,  iv.lineth, 


294 


POEMS   OF    FRANCIS   MAIIONY. 


Keeping — from  grief's  intrusion  far — 
Blithe  holiday  with  festal  jar. 

Where  giant  fir,  sun-proof, 

With  poplar  blendeth, 
And  high  o'er  head  a  roof 

Of  boughs  extendeth ; 
While  onward  runs  the  crooked  rill, 
Brisk  fugitive,  with  murmur  shrill. 

Bring  wine,  here,  on  the  grass ! 

Bring  perfumes  hither ! 
Bring  roses — which,  alas! 

Too  quickly  wither — 
Ere  of  our  days  the  spring-tide  ebb, 
While  the  dark  sisters  weave  our  web. 

Soon — should  the  fatal  shear 

Cut  life's  frail  fibre — 
Broad  lands,  sweet  Villa  near 

The  yellow  Tiber, 

With  all  thy  chattels  rich  and  rare, 
Must  travel  to  a  thankless  heir. 

Be  thou  the  nobly  born, 

Spoiled  child  of  Fortune- 
Be  thou  the  wretch  forlorn, 

Whom  wants  importune — 
By  sufferance  thou  art  here  at  most, 
Till  death  shall  claim  his  holocaust. 

All  to  the  same  dark  bourne 

Plod  on  together — 
Lots  from  the  same  dread  urn 

Leap  forth — and,  whether 
Our's  be  the  first  or  last,  Hell's  wave 
Yawns  for  the  exiles  of  the  grave. 


LIB.  II.    ODE  IV. — CLASSICAL  LOVE  MATCHES. 

• 

"Ne  sit  ancillse  tibi  amor  pndori,"  etc. 

"When  the  heart  of  a  tnan  is  oppressed  with  care, 
The  mist  is  dispelled  if  a  woman  appear; 
Like  the  notes  of  a  fiddle,  she  sweetly,  sweetly, 
Eaises  his  spirits  and  ohnrms  his  ear." 

CAPTAIN  MAcnEATn. 

O  DEEM  not  thy  love  for  a  captive  maid 
Doth,  Phoceus,  the  heart  of  a  Roman  degrade! 
Like  the  noble  Achilles,  'tis  simply,  simply, 
With  a  "Briseis"  thou  sharcst  thy  bed. 


Ajax  of  Telamon  did  the  same, 
Felt  in  his  bosom  a  Phrygian  flame! 
Taught  to  contemn  none,  King  Agamemnon 
Fond  of  a  Trojan  slave  became. 

Such  was  the  rule  with  the  Greeks  of  old, 
When  they  had  conquered  the  foe's  stronghold 
When  gallant  Hector — Troy's  protector — 
Falling,  the  knell  of  Ilion  tolled. 

Why  deem  her  origin  vile  and  base  ? 
Canst  thou  her  pedigree  fairly  tracej 
Yellow-haired  Phyllis,  slave  tho'  she  be,  still  is 
The  last,  perhaps,  of  a  royal  race. 

Birth  to  demeanor  will  sure  respond — 
Phyllis  is  faithful,  Phyllis  is  fbnj  : 
Gold  cannot  buy  her — then  why  a^ny  her 
A  rank  the  basely  born  beyond  ? 

Phyllis  hath  limbs  divinely  wrought, 
Features  and  figure  without  a  fault . . . 
Do  not  feel  jealous,  friend,  when  a  fellow's 
Fortieth  year  forbids  the  thought! 


LIB.  II.     ODE  VI. — THE  ATTRACTIONS  OF 

TIHUK  AND  TARENTUM. 

"Septiuii,  Gades,"  etc. 

SEPTIMIUS,  pledged  with  me  to  roam 
Far  as  the  fierce  IBERIAN'S  home, 
Where  men  abide  not  yet  o'ercorae 

By  Roman  legions, 
And  MAURITANIAN  billows  foam — 

Barbaric  regions  ! 

TIBUR  ! — sweet  colony  of  Greece  ! — 
There  let  my  devious  wanderings  cease  ; — 
There  would  I  wait  old  age  in  peace, 

There  calmly  dwelling, 
A  truce  to  war!  — a  long  release 

O 

From  "colonelling!  " 

Whence  to  go  forth  should  Fate  ordain. 
Galesus,  gentle  flood!  thy  plain 
Speckled  with  sheep — might  yet  remain 

For  heaven  to  grant  us  ; 
Land  that  once  knew  the  halcyon  reign 

Of  Kino-  Phalantus. 


1'oKMS 


FRANCIS   MALIGN  Y. 


295 


Spot  of  all  earth  most  dear  to  me! 
Teeming  with  sweets!  the  Attic  1 
O'er  Mouut  Hymettus  ranging  free, 

Finds  not  such  .honey — 
Nor  basks  the  Capuan  olive-tree 

In  soil  more  sunny. 

There  lingering  Spring  is  longest  found  : 
E'en  Winter's  breath  is  mild  ; — and  round 
Delicious  Aulon  grapes  abound, 

In  mellow  cluster ! 
Such  as  Falernum's  richest  ground 

Can  larely  muster. 

Romantic  towers  !  thrice  happy  scene  ! 
There  might  our  days  glide  on  serene ; 
Till  thon  bedew  with  tears,  I  ween, 

Of  love  sincerest, 
The  dust  of  him  who  om;e  had  been 

Thy  friend,  the  Lyrist ! 


LIB.  II. 


ODE  VII.  —  A  FELLOW-SOLDIER  WEL- 
COMED FKOM  EXILE. 

"Os»fc  tnucuin,"  etc. 


FRIEND  of  my  soul  !  with  whom  arrayed 

I  stood  in  the  ranks  of  peril, 
When  Brutus  at  Philippi  made 

That  effort  wild  and  sterile  .  . 
Who  hath  reopened  Rome  to  thee, 

Her  temples  and  her  forum  ; 
Beckoning  the  child  of  Italy 

Back  to  the  clime  that  bore  h'm  ? 

Thou,  0  my  earliest  comrade  !  say, 

Pompey,  was  I  thy  teacher 
To  baulk  old  Time,  and  drown  the  and 

Deep  in  a  flowing  pitcher? 
Think  of  the  hours  we  thus  consumed, 

While  Syria's  richest  odors, 
Lavish  of  fragrancy,  perfumed 

The  locks  of  two  marauders. 

r 
With  thee  I  shared  Philippics  rout, 

Though  I,  methinks,  ran  faster; 
Leaving  behind  —  'twas  wrong,  no  doubt  — 

My  SHIELD  in  the  disaster: 
KYn  Fortitude  that  day  broke  down  ; 

And  the  rude  lot-man  taught  her 


To  hide  her  brow's  diminished  frown 

Low  amid  lu-aps  of  .slaughter- 
But  Mercury,  who  kindly  watched 

Me  'mid  that  struggle  deadhy 
Stooped  from  a  cloud,  and  quickly  snatched 

His  client  from  the  medley. 
While  thee,  alas !   the  ebbing  flood 

Of  war  relentless  swallowed, 
Replunging  tht-e  'mid  seas  of  blood  ; 

And  years  of  tempest  followed. 

Then  slay  to  Jove  the  victim  calf, 

Due  to  the  God  ;  and  weary, 
Under  my  bower  of  laurels  quaff 

A  wine-cup  blithe  and  merry. 
Here,  while  thy  war-worn  limbs  repose. 

'Mid  peaceful  scenes  sojourning, 
Spare  not  the  wine. .  .'twas  kept. .  .it  flow* 

To  welcome  thy  returning. 

Come,  with  oblivious  bowls  dispel 

Grief,  care,  and  disappointment! 
Freely  from  yon  capacious  shell 

Shed,  shed  the  balmy  ointment! 
Who  for  the  genial  banquet  weaves 

Gay  garlands,  gathered  newly  ; 
Fresh  with  the  srarden's  greenest  leaves. 

Or  twined  with  myrtle  duly? 

Whom  sball  the  dice's  cast  "WINE-KINO  " 
Elect,  by  Venus  guided  ? 

Quick,  let  my  roof  with  wild  mirth  ring- 
Blame  not  my  joy,  nor  chide  it ! 

Madly  each  bacchanalian  feat 
I  mean  to-day  to  rival, 

For,  oh  !  'tis  sweet  thus  .  .  .  i  iifs  TO  ORECT 
So  DKAR  A  FRIEND'S  ARRIVAL! 


Liu.  II.     Oi.:,   VIII.— Tn K 


or 


IX    BABWKB. 


BAKINE!  if,  for  caeh  untruth, 
Some  blemish  left  a  mark  uncouth, 
With  lo-s  of  beauty  and  of  youth, 

Or  Heaven  should  alter 
The  whiiene>s  of  a  single  t.-nth — 

O  fair  defaulter! 


29C 


POEMS   OF   FRANCIS   MAIIONY. 


Then  might  I  trust  thy  words.     But  them 
1  >ost  triumph  o'er  each  broken  vow ; 
Falsehood  would  seem  to  give  thy  brow 

Increased  effulgence  : 
Men  still  admire — and  gods  allow 

Thee  fresh  indulgence. 

O 

Swear  by  thy  mother's  funeral  urn — 
Swear  by  the  stars  that  nightly  burr 
(Seeming  in  silent  awe  to  mouru 

O'er  such,  deception) — 
Swear  by  each  Deity  in  turn, 

From  Jove  to  Neptune  ; 

Venus  and  all  her  Nymphs  would  j«t 
With  smiles  thy  perjury  abet — 
Cupid  would  laugh — Go  on  '   an'l  1*1 


Fresh  courage  nerve  thee  : 
Still  on  his  bloodstained  wheel  he'll  whet 
His  darts  to  serve  thee  ! 


Fast  as  they  grow,  our  youths  enchain, 
Fresh  followers  in  beauty's  train  : 
While  they  who  loved  thee  first  would 

Charming  deceiver, 
Within  thy  threshold  stiil  remain, 

And  love,  forever  ! 

Their  sons  from  thee  all  mothers  hide  ; 
All  thought  of  thee  stern  fathers  chide  ; 
Thy  shadow  haunts  the  new-made  bride- 

And  fears  dishearten  her, 
Lest  thou  inveigle  from  lier  side 

Her  life's  young  partner. 


THE  POEMS  OF  DENIS  F.  McOAKTHY. 


THE  VOYAGE  OF  ST.  BRENT) AX. 


NOTWITHSTANDING  the  manypointsof  interest,  topographical 
as  well  as  historical,  which  the  old  '•  Legend  of  St.  Brendan" 
possesses,  it  ts  somewhat  difllcult  to  find  any  satisfactory 
account  of  it  even  in  works  expressly  devoted  to  the  early 
legendary  lore  of  Christian  Ireland.  Dr.  Lanigan,  in  his  Eccle- 
siastical History,  has  a  passing  allusion  to  it,  but  it  is  a  con- 
UMupmous  one;  although,  from  all  that  appears,  he  does  not 
Been)  to  have  possessed  a  fuller  acquaintance  with  its  details 
than  might  be  Cleaned  from  Colgan's  incidental  description  of 
the  Stint's  visit  to  Arran,  previous  to  his  setting  out  on  his 
great  expedition. 

Colgin,  in  the  passage  referred  to,  promised  to  give  a  ""'ill 
account  of  this  famous  voyage  when  treating  of  St.  Brendan's 
Festivalon  the  10th  May.  This  promise  I  believe  he  fulfilled, 
but  unfortunately  the  portion  of  his  great  work,  "Acta  Sanc- 
torum Eternise,"  which  contains  this,  in  common  with  much 
other  interesting  matter,  has  never  been  published.  The  rare 
and  valualle.  folio,  which  is  so  well  known,  includes  only  the 
lives  of  tluse  Irish  saints  whose  festivals  occur  before  the 
end  of  Manh.  In  the  public  libraries  both  of  England  and 
Ireland  MS. copies  of  the  Latin  legend  may  be  met  with,  but 
not  so  frequ^itly  as  in  those  on  the  Continent:  the  Bi!/!io- 
theque  impcfcile  at  Paris  alone  containing,  probably,  a  greater 
number  than  ill  the  libraries  of  the  three  kingdoms  put  to- 
gether. In  the  old  library  close  to  St.  Patrick's  Cathedral, 
Dublin,  foumhd  by  the  Primate  Marsh,  there  is  a  MS.  com- 
monly, but  incorrectly,  called  the  "Codex  Kilkeniensis,"1 
which,  along  wih  the  lives  of  many  other  early  Irish  suiuis, 
contains  a  life  »f  St.  Brendan,  which  is,  however,  unfortu- 
nately, imperfect,  The  same  library  possesses  a  copy  of  '.!:e 
"Nova  Legcnda  Vngliie,"  compiled  by  Joannes  Capgravius, 
and  published  in  luti.  This  also  contains  a  life  of  St.  Brendan, 
but  carelessly  audinaceunitely  abridged,  after  the  manner  of 
this  writer.  The  "Legcnda  Aurea"  of  Jacobus  de  Voragine, 
that  famous  repertory  of  legends  so  popular  in  the  thirteenth 
and  succeeding  ceUuries,  makes  no  mention  of  the  Irish 
'Ulysses.  Of  this  wok.  it  is  stated  by  Brunei,  in  his  "Manuel 
d'i  Libraire,"  that,  pevious  to  the  year  1500,  no  less  than 

',ty-four  editions  md  appeared,  and  that  up  to  that  period 
it  had  been  translatedthirty  times  into  foreign  languages. - 
The  "  Golden  Legend*'  of  Caxton,  printed  by  Wynkin  de 
VVorde  at  Westminstei  in  1483,  which  might  be  thought  a 
mere  translation  of  the  '\,egenda  Aurea"  of  Jacobus  de  Vora- 
cine  just  referred  to,  contains,  however,  many  additional 

;,ils,  the  most  intere«jng  of  which,  perhaps,  is  the  one 
devoted  to  St.  Brendan.  *he  fine  copy  of  this  rare  and  vulua 

1  Dr.  Reeve*  considers  that  "  (yiex  Armaehanns"  Is  mure  lik.- 
Its  correct  designation.  Sea  UU  tjjtion  of  ••  Adainnan'v  Life  tit 
.umliu,"  Preface,  p.  jtxvl.,  note  I.  \ 

•-'  A  very  excellent  edition  of  till  rare  book  has  been  recently  pub 
lis'.ied  by  Dr.  Tli.  Urnexe,  UfcfMtAtO  the  King  of  Saxony  il 
IrOO.)    It  contains  many  additioiml  Vend*  not  to  br  found  in  n 
mil  ^ork.    There  tl  aUo  a  French  t\n»Utlon  by  M    G.  H.    in   .. 
BO>><  ««ed  »j  Charles  (JoMelin.     t'HtJai^x 


ble  book  in  the  Grcnville  Collection  at  the  British  MnEeun. 
had  the  pleasure  of  examining  a  few  years  ago,  and  of  making 
a  transcript  therefrom  of  the  "Lyfe  of  Saint  Brandon."  which 
I  subsequently  published  In  the  "Dublin  University  Maga- 
zine," vol.  xxxix.  p.  5oU,  where  it  is  to  be  found  in  all  it- 
original  quaint  ness. 

Until  very  lately,  no  Irish  version  of  the  Legend,  which  on 
many  accounts  ought  to  be  the  most  valuable,  was  available. 
A  transcript  of  a  copy,  however,  has  been  recently  procured 
for  the  library  of  the  Royal  Irish  Academy,  Dublin ;  but  aa  it 
remains  unedited  and  untranslated.  UP  advantages  to  the  gen- 
eral student  are  but  slight.  The  Legend,  which  lias  thus  been 
somewhat  neglected  in  the  country  where  it  originated,  has, 
however,  attracted  the  notice  of  a  distinguished  French  archae- 
ologist, M.  Achille  Jubinal,  who  has  published  the  Latin 
original,  as  well  as  two  early  Romance  versions  of  it,  under 
the  following  title  :— "  La  Legende  Latine  de  S.  Brandaiuoi* 
avec  tine  traduction  en  prose  et  en  podsie  Romanes."  Paris, 
1836. 

The  Legend  which  concerns  St.  Brendan,  says  M.  Achille 
Jubinal,  in  his  Preface  to  the  above  scarce  e;;:1  inter 
little  tract,  "  is,  without  doubt,  if  we  may  judge  by  the  multi- 
tude of  narratives  founded  upon  it  which  still  exist,  one  ol 
those  that  were  most  widely  diffused  in  the  Middle  Ages. 
This  kind  of  monkish  Odyssey  Is  to  be  found,  in  fact,  in  most 
of  the  old  European  dialects;  and,  thanks  to  the  marvels  of 
which  it  Is  the  subject,  it  must  have  obtained  an  Immense 
popularity  with  our  ancestors,  and  with  the  inhabitants  of  the 
British  Isles  generally— a  people  that  have  at  all  time*  been 
the  playmates  of  ti.  •  teftn.*1 

In  the  Bibliothdque  Imp6riale  at  Paris  there  are  to  be  found 
no  less  than  eleven  MSS.  of  the  original  Latin  legend,  the 
dates  of  which  vary  from  the  eleventh  to  the  fourteenth  cen- 
tury. In  the  old  French  and  Romance  dialects  copies  both  in 
prose  and  verse  are  abundant  in  the  various  public  libraries  of 
France,  while  versions  in  the  Irish.  Dutch,  German,  Italian. 
Spanish,  and  Portuguese  lamjuau'---  are  found  scattered  through 
the  public  and  private  libraries  of  colleges  and  convents  all 
over  the  Continent. 

The  Spaniards  and  Portuguese,  down  nearly  to  the  middle 
of  the  eighteenth  -in  to  have  considered  the 

legend  a  true  narrative,  and  on  several  occasions  fitted  oat 
flotillas  for  the  purpose  of  ascertaining  the  exact  locality  of 
tin-  ishads  supposed  to  have  )•  d  by  St.  Brendan. 

The  first  expedition,  says  M.  Achille  Jubinal.  which  had 
this  object  in  view  was  that  of  Fernando  de  Troya  and  Fer- 
nando Alvarez  In  1536.  It  was  not  followed,  as  may  well  be 
imagined,  by  any  successful  result ;  but  this  did  not  discount/.- 
the  partisans  of  the  singular  illusion  which  had  drawn  these 
two  men  to  seek  for  the  unknown  island,  since,  somewhat 
later.  Dr.  Herman  Perez  de  Grado  fitted  out  a  little  annameol 
destined  for  the  same  discovery.  This  new  attempt  wa*  not 
iii"i.-  fortunate  than  the  preceding.  In  fine, a  third cxpc<i. 
confided  to  the  renowned  mariners  Fray  Lorenzo  Pinrdo  and 
Gaspard  Perez  de  Acosta,  departed  from  the  por. 


298 


POEMS  OF  DENIS  F.  McCARTm . 


which  had  witnessed  the  disappointment  of  the  previous  un- 
dertakings, hut  did  not  obtain  any  greater  success.  It  is 
probable,  after  this,  that  the  zeal  of  the  Spaniards  chilled  con- 
siderably; for  during  a  century  there  was  no  further  attempt 
to  discover  the  position  of  this  island.  But  in  1731,  Don  Juan 
de  Mur,  Governor  of  the  Canaries,  confided  a  ship  to  Gaspard 
Dominguez,  which  departed  from  the  port  of  Santa  Cruz,  and 
returned  after  many  months,  without  having  discovered  any- 
thing. From  that  time  no  further  expedition  has  been  at- 
tempted. It  was,  however,  a  popular  belief  in  Spain  for  a 
long  time,  that  the  Isle  of  St.  Brendan,  which  was  called  \>y 
them  San  Borondon,  had  served  as  an  asylum  for  King  Rod- 
erick against  the  Moors,  and  that  this  monarch  dwelt  there  in 
an  impenetrable  fortress  ;  and  finally,  that  it  was  divided  into 
seven  opulent  cities ;  that  it  had  an  archbishop,  six  bishops, 
seaports,  large  rivers,  and  that,  as  might  be  supposed,  the  in- 
habitants were  good  Christians,  loaded  with  riches  and  all  the 
other  gifts  of  fortune. 

The  Portuguese  were  not  behind  the  Spaniards  in  the  vivid- 
cess  of  their  imagination.  They  were  for  a  long  period  firmly 
persuaded  that  the  Isle  of  St.  Brendan  was  the  asylum  of  King 
Don  Sebastian  ;  and  when  they  beheld  the  Indies  for  the  first 
time,  they  were  convinced  they  had  at  length  discovered  the 
long  sought  for  Island  of  St.  Brendan.1 

The  well-known  story  of  Madoc,  which  seems  like  a  lay  ver- 
«ion  of  the  Legend  of  St.  Brendan,  is  familiar  to  all  from  the 
fine  poem  of  Southey,  of  which  that  prince  is  thrc  hero.  A 
€till  earlier  Welsh  tradition  is  mentioned  by  Southey,  in  his 
notes  to  the  same  poem,  of  the  "  Gwerdonnau  Llion."  or  Green 
Islands  of  the  Ocean,  in  search  of  which  the  enchanter  Merlin 
mailed  in  his  house  of  glass,  and  from  which  expedith  n  he 
never  returned. 

The  optical  causes  which  produce  the  fata  Morgana,  in  the 
Straits  of  Messina  may  have  something  to  do  with  these  vari- 
ous apparitions,  as  familiar  now  to  the  Tonga  Islanders  of  the 
South  Pacific,  as  of  old  time  to  the  more  sympathizing  and 
credulous  inhabitants  of  Spain,  of  Portugal,  and  of  Ireland.* 

To  return  to  the  voyage  of  St.  Brendan,  the  main  incidento 
of  which  appear  to  be  neither  impossible  nor  improbable. 
These  have  been  carefully  abridged  by  the  late  Rev.  Caesar 
Otway  in  one  of  his  very  pleasing  "Sketch-books  of  Irish 
Scenery."  The  passage  may  serve  as  a  sufficient  explanation 
•of  tne  use  I  have  made  of  the  Legend  in  the  composition  of  | 
the  following  poem  :— 

"We  are  informed  that  Brendan,  hearing  of  the  previous 
voyage  of  his  cousin,  Barinthus,  in  the  western  ocean,  and 
obtaining  an  account  from  him  of  the  happy  isles  he  had  landed 
on  in  the  far  west,  determined,  under  the  strong  desire  of 
winning  heathen  souls  to  Christ,  to  undertake  a  voyage  of  dis- 
covery himself.  And,  aware  that  all  along  the  western  coast 
of  Ireland  there  were  many  traditions  respecting  the  existence 
of  a  western  land,  he  proceeded  to  the  Islands  of  Arran,  and 
there  remained  for  some  time,  holding  communication  with 
the  venerable  St.  Enda,  and  obtaining  from  him  much  infor- 
mation on  what  his  mind  was  bent.  There  can  be  little  doubt 
that  he  proceeded  northward  along  the  coast  of  Mayo,  and 
made  inquiry,  among  its  bays  and  islands,  of  the  remnants  of 
the  Tuatha  Danaan  people,  that  once  were  so  expert  in  naval 
affairs,  and  who  acquired  from  the  Milesians,  or  Scots,  that 
overcame  them,  the  character  of  being  magicians,  for  their 
superior  knowledge.  At  Inniskea,  then,  and  Innisgloria, 
Brendan  set  up  his  cross ;  and,  in  after-times,  in  his  honor 
were  erected  those  curious  remains  that  still  exist.  Having 
prosecuted  his  inquiries  with  all  diligence,  Brendan  returned 
to  his  native  Kerry;  and  from  a  bay  sheltered  by  the  lofty 
mountain  that  is  now  known  by  his  name,  he  set  sail  for  the 
Atlantic  land;  and,  directing  his  course  toward  the  south- 
west, in  order  to  meet  the  summer  solstice,  or  what  we  would 
cull  tne  tropic,  after  a  long  and  rough  voyage,  his  little  bark 
being  well  provisioned,  he  came  to  summer  seas,  where  he  was 
carried  along,  without  the  aid  of  sail  or  oar,  for  many  a  long 
day.  This,  it  is  to  be  presumed,  was  the  great  gulf-stream, 


and  which  brought  his  vessel  to  shore  somewhere  about  the 
Virginian  capes,  or  where  the  American  coast  tends  eastward, 
and  forms  the  New  England  States.  Here  landing,  he  and  his 
companions  marched  steadily  into  the  interior  for  fifteen  days, 
and  then  came  to  a  large  river,  flowing  from  east  to  west :  this, 
evidently,  was  the  river  Ohio.  And  this  the  holy  adventurer 
was  about  to  cross,  when  he  was  accosted  by  a  person  of  noble 
presence— but  whether  a  real  or  visionary  man  does  not  ap- 
pear— who  told  him  he  had  gone  far  enough ;  that  further  dis- 
coveries were  reserved  for  other  men,  who  would,  in  due  time, 
come  and  Christianize  all  that  pleasant  land.  The  above,  when 
tested  by  common  sense,  clearly  shows  that  Brendan  landed 
on  a  continent,  and  went  a  good  way  into  the  interior,  met  a 
great  river  running  in  a  different  direction  from  those  he 
heretofore  crossed  ;  and  here,  from  the  difficulty  of  transit,  or 
want  of  provisions,  or  deterred  by  increasing  difficulties,  he 
turned  back,  and,  no  doubt,  in  a  dream  he  saw  some  such 
vision  which  embodied  his  own  previous  thought  and  satis 
fled  him  that  it  was  expedient  for  him  to  return  home.  It  is 
said  he  remained  seven  years  away,  and  returned  to  set  up  a 
college  of  three  thousand  monks,  at  Clonfert,  and  he  then 
died  in  the  odor  of  sanctity."— Csesar  Otway's  Sketches  in 
Errls  and  Tyrawley,  note,  pp.  98,  99. 

According  to  Colgan,  St.  Brendan  set  out  on  his  voyage  in 
545.  Dr.  Lanigan,  however  (Ecclesiastical  Hist.,  vol.  ii.  p.  35), 
considers  that  it  must  have  commenced  some  years  earlier,  is 
it  is  naturil  to  suppose  that  Brendan  was,  at  the  t.'me  of  un- 
dertaking such  a  perilous  work,  in  the  vigor  of  his  age,  and 
not  sixty  years  old,  as  he  was  in  the  year  545. 

I  may  a'ld,  in  conclusion,  that  the  "  Paradisns  Avhm" 
mentioned  in  Capgrave's  version,  and  so  picturesquely  elabo- 
rated by  Caxton  in  "  The  Golden  Legende,"  seemed  tome  a 
tempting  opportunity  of  describing  the  more  remarkable 
spec? mens  of  American  Ornithology.  This  I  have  attempted 
in  t^ic  fifth  part  of  the  poem. 


1  Preface  to  "  La  Legende  Latine  de  S.  Brandaine,"  pp.  17,  18. 
1  See  the  carious  account  of  the  Island  of  Bolotoo  in  the  notes  to 
ttomhey'i  "  Tale  of  Paraguay." 


PART  I. 

THE  VOCATION. 

i. 
0  J.TA  !*  mother  of  my  heart  and  iiin-d — 

My  nourisher — my  fosterer — mT  friend, 
Wbe  taught  me  first,  to  God's  gieat  will  re- 
signed, 
I>','('cry  his  shining  altar-steps  GO  bend. 


1  The  following  curious  account  of  St.  la  is  to  be  foun  J  in 
Colgan's  "  A  eta  Sanctorum:" 

"  St.  Ita  \TSS  of  the  princely  family  of  th<  Desii,  or  Nandesi, 
in  the  now  comfy  of  Waterford.  By  the  livine  command  she 
established  the  convent  of  Cluain-Credhnl,  in  that  portion  of 
Hy-Conaill  whim  constitutes  the  presets  barony  of  Connello, 
in" the  county  01'  Limerick.  When  Brenlan  was  a  mere  infant, 
he  was  placed  unctei  her  care,  and  rtnained  witii  her  five 
years,  after  which  period  he  was  led  twny  by  Bishop  Ercus, 
in  order  to  receive  from  him  the  moresolid  instruction  neces- 
sary for  his  advancing  years.  Bren.an  retained  always  the 
greatest  respect  and  afifeeuon  for  hisfoster-mother ;  and  he  is 
represented,  after  his  seven  years'voyage,  amusing  St  Ita 
with  an  account  of  his  ad.vautnres  i>  the  ocean.  He,  however, 
was  not  the  only  person  rta.-ed  b  the  bcnevol  ont  abbess  of 
Cluain-Credhuil;  her  own  repb&v.  Pulcherius,  had  also  this 
enviable  advantage.  The  mann<"  of  his  birth,  as  described 
in  Colgan,  is  so  curious,  thai  itis  worth  transcribing.  His 
lather's  name  was  Beoanus ;  hewas  a  skilful  artificer,  and  of 
an  honorable  family  in  Connagat;  hnt,  being  compelled  to 
fly  into  exile,  he  came  into  ttuneigMu.  rr\co(?  of  St.  Ita.  She, 
hearing  of  his  professional  sSll,  aru\  b-vlng  anxio-js  to  make 
some  addition  to  the  buildin*  of  hti  c  invent,  requested  Him 


POKMS  DF   DKMS  F.   .M.CAUTIIV. 


290 


Who  poured  his  word  upon  my  soul  like  balm, 
And  on  mine  eyes  what  pious  fancy  paints, 

And  on  mine  ear  the  sweetly  swelling  psalm, 
And  all  the  sacred  knowledge  of  the  saints. 

n. 
Who  but  to  thee,  my  mother,  should  bo  told, 

Of  all  the  wonders  I  have  seen  afar? — 
Islands  more  green,  and  suns  of  brighter  gold 
Thau  this  dear   land,  or   yonder  bla/ing 

star; 

Of  hills  that  bear  the  fruit-trees  on  their  tops, 

And  seas  that  dimple  with  eteru.il  smiles  ; 

Of  airs  from   heaven  that   fan    the   golden 

crops, 

O'er   the    great   ocean,  'mid    the   blessed 
isles  ! 

in. 
Thou  know-est,  O  my  mother !  how  to  thee, 

The  blessed  Ercus  led  me  when  a  boy, 
And  how  within  thine  arms  and  at  thy  knee 
I  learned  the  lore  that  death  cannot  de- 
stroy ; 

And  how  I  parted  hence  with  bitter  tears, 
And  felt  when  turning  from  thy  friendly 

door, 

In  the  reality  of  ripening  years, 
My  paradise  of  childhood  was  no  more. 

IV. 

I  wept — but  not  with  sin  such  tear-drops  flow ; 
I  sighed — for  earthly  tilings  with  heaven 
entwine ; 

to  undertake  the  work.  lie  consented,  on  the  conditions  cf 
receiving  Nessa,  the  sister  of  the  saint,  as  his  wife,  and  also 
some  land  on  which  to  settle.  St.  Ita  acquiesced  in  the  pro- 
position, and  gave  him  her  sister  Nessa  to  wife ;  and  he,  with 
great  assiduity,  applied  himself  to  erect  the  buildings  in  the 
monastery  of  the  saint.  It  happened,  after  a  time,  that  in 
battle,  whither  he  had  followed  a  certain  chieftain.  Bcoanus 
was  killed;  and  his  head,  being  cut  off,  was  carried  away  a 
great  distance.  St.  Ita  was,  of  course,  very  much  grieved  at 
this  occurrence,  particularly  as  she  had  promised  her  brother- 
in-law  that  he  would  have  a  son,  which  promise  was  unful- 
filled, as  his  wife  had  been  sterile  up  to  this  time.  St.  Iin 
went  to  the  field  of  battle,  and  found  the  mutilated  body  of 
Beoanus,  but,  of  course,  without  the  head.  She  however, 
prayed  that  it  might  be  shown  to  her,  and  the  head,  through 
the  divine  power.  Hew  through  the  air,  and  stopped  where  the 
Ixit'.y  lay  before  her;  and  the  Lord,  at  the  entreaty  of  his 
handmaid,  made  the  head  adhere  to  the  body  as  perfectly  no 
if  it  had  never  been  cut  off,  except  that  a  slight  mark  of  the 
wound  remained  :  and  the  space  of  one  hour  having  ]>.•!--'••! 
he  rose  alive,  saluting  the  servant  of  the  Lord,  and  returning 
thnnks  to  God.  After  the  return  of  Beoanus,  his  wife  con- 
ci-ivcd,  and  she  brought  forth  a  son,  as  St.  Ita  had  promisee!. 
Thi-  ;<nn  was  Pnlcherius,  and  he  remained  with  the  *:iint 
intil  he  reached  his  twentieth  year."— Colgan's  Ada  Sancto- 
rum. r>  'is. 


Tears  make  the  harvest  of  the  heart  to  grow, 
And  love,  though  human,  is  almost  divin-- 

The  heart  that   loves  not  knows  not  how  to 

pray; 
That  eye  can  never  smile  that  ne\  er  weeps; 

'Tis  through  our  si<4hs   Hope's  kindling  sun- 

O  1  O 

beams  play, 
And  through  our  tears  the  bow  of  Promise 

peeps. 

V. 

I  grew  to  manhood  by  the  western  wave, 

Among  the  mighty  mountains  on  the  shore ; 
My  bed  the  rock  within  some  natural  cave, 

My  food,  whate'er  the  seas  or  seasons  bore ; 
My  occupation,  morn  and  noon  and  night : 

The  only  dream  my  hasty  slumbers  gave, 
Wu-s  Time's  unheeding,  unreturning  flight, 

And  the  great  world  that  lies  beyond  the 


irrave. 


VI. 


And  thus,  where'er  I  went,  all  things  to  me 
Assumed  the  one  deep  color  of  my  mind ; 
Great   Nature's  prayer  rose  from  the  mur- 
muring sea, 

And  sinful  man  sighed  in  the  wintry  wind. 
The  thick-veiled  clouds  by  shedding  many  a 

tear, 

Like  penitents,  grew  purified  and  bright, 
And,  bravely  struggling  through  earth's  at- 
mosphere, 
Passed  to  the  regions  of  eternal  light. 

O  O 

VII. 

I  loved  to  watch  the  clouds,  now  dark  and 

dun, 

In  long  procession  and  funereal  Tine, 
Pass  with  slow  pace  across  the  glorious  snn, 
Like    hooded    monks    before   a   dazzling 

shrine. 
And  now  with  gentler  beauty  as  they  rolled 

Along  the  a/.ure  vault  in  gladsome  May, 
(learning  pure  white,  and  edged  with  broi- 

dered  gold, 
Like  snowy  vestments  on  the  Virgin's  day. 

VIII. 

And  then  I  saw  the  mighty  sea  expand 
Like  Time's  unmeasured   and  nnlat homed 
wa 

One  with  its  tide-marks  on  the  ridgy  .\-ind, 
The  other  with  its  line  nf  weedy  gra\<-; 


300 


POKMS  OF  DENIS  F.  McCARTIIY. 


And   as  beyond   the  outstretched  wave  of 

Time 
The   eye  of  Faith  a  brighter  land  may 

meet, 

So  did  I  dream  of  some  more  sunny  clime 
Beyond  the  waste  of  waters  at  my  feet : 

IX. 

Some  clime  where  man,  unknowing  and  un- 
known, 
For  God's  refreshing  Word  still  gasps  and 

faints ; 
Or  happier  rather  some  Elysian  zone, 

Made  for  the  habitation  of  His  saints ; 
Where   Nature's   love   the   sweat   of  labor 

spares, 

Nor  turns  to  usury  the  wealth  it  lends, 
Where   the   rich   soil    spontaneous    harvest 

bears, 

And  the  tall  tree  with  milk-filled  clusters 
bends. 

x. 

The  thought  grew  stronger  with  my  growing 

days, 
Even  like  to  manhood's  strengthening  mind 

and  limb, 
And  often  now  amid  the  purple  haze 

That  evening  breathed  upon  the  horizon's 

rim — 
Methought,  as  there  I  sought  my  wished-for 

home, 

1  could  descry  amid  the  waters  green, 
Full    many  a   diamond  shrine   and   golden 

dome, 
And  crystal  palaces  of  dazzling  sheen. 

XI. 

And  then  I  longed  with  impotent  desire, 
Even    for   the  bow  whereby  the   Python 
bled, 

T  iiat  I  might  send  one  dart  of  living  fire 
Into  that  land,  before  the  vision  fled; 

And  thus  at  length  fix  thy  enchanted  shore, 
Ily-Brnsftil1 — Eden  of  the  western  wave  ! 

1  Hy-Brasail,  or  the  Enchanted  Island,  which  was  supposed 
to  be  visible  from  the  western  coast  of  Ireland  every  seven 
years.  The  ballad  of  Gerald  Griffin,  and  the  frequent  allusion 
to  this  subject  in  works  recently  published,  render  it  unneces- 
sary to  give  any  more  particular  description  of  it  in  this 
place.  Among  the  several  modes  of  disenchanting  this  island, 
and  others  subject  to  similar  eccentric  disappearances,  re- 
sorted to  by  our  ancestors,  that  of  fire  seems  to  have  been  the 
one  most  frequently  attempted,  and  the  only  one  which  was 


That  thou  again  wouldst  fade  away  no  more. 
Buried  and  lost  within  thy  azure  grave. 

XII. 

But  angels  came  and  whispered  as  I  dreamt, 

"This  is  no  phantom  of  a  frenzied  brain — 

God  shows  this  land  from  time  to  time  to 

tempt 

Some  daring  mariner  across  the  main : 
By  thee  the  mighty  venture  must  be  made, 
By  thee  shall  myriad  souls  to  Christ  be 

won! 

Arise,  depart,  and  trust  to  God  for  aid  !" 
I  woke,  and  kneeling  cried,  "  His  will  be 
done !" 


PART  II. 
ARA   OF  THE  SAINTS.' 

i. 
HEARING  how  blessed  Enda8  lived  apart, 

Amid  the  sacred  caves  of  Ara-mhor, 
And  how  beneath  his  eye,  spread  like  a  chart, 

Lay  all  the  isles  of  that  remotest  shore ; 
And  how  he  had  collected  in  his  mind 

All  that  was  known  to  man  of  the  Old  Sea,* 
I  left  the  Hill  of  Miracles5  behind, 

And   sailed  from  out  the  shallow  sandy 


attended  with  any  success ;  as  not  only  was  the  island  of  In- 
nisbofin,  off  the  coast  of  Conncmara,  fixed  in  its  present  posi- 
tion by  means  of  a  few  sparks  of  lighted  turf  falling  upon  it, 
but  the  still  more  celebrated  Hy-BrasoU  itself  seems  to  havs 
met  with  the  same  disaster,  if  we  are  to  credit  a  very  matter- 
of-fact  and  circumstantial  account,  which  may  be  seen  in 
Ilardiinan's  "Irish  Minstrelsy."  vol.  i.  p.  3(i9.  Shooting  a 
fiery  arrow  was  one  of  the  means  resorted  to  for  bringing  the 
disenchanting  element  into  connection  with  Hy-Brasail;  it 
was  certainly  the  most  elegant  method,  if  not  the  most  suc- 
cessful. 

2  "From  the  number  of  holy  men  and  women  formerly  inhab- 
iting Arran,  it  received  the  name  of  Ara-na-naomh,  or  '  Ara  of 
the  Saints.'  " — Colgau,  Acta  Sanctorum,  p.  710,  n.  18. 

3  "  St.  Enda,  or  Encleus,  was  the  first  abbot  of  Arran  ;  it  was 
in  the  year  540,  according  to  Colgan,  that  Brendan  paid  him 
the  visit  described  in  the  text."—  Ibid.,  p.  714. 

*  "The  Atlantic  was  anciently  called  Shan-arragh,  or  the 
Old  Sea."— Sketches  in  Erris  and  Tyrawley,  p.  51. 

6  It  is  not  mentioned  from  what  place  Brendan  proceeded  on 
this  visit  to  Arran.  It  is  extremely  probable  that  it  was  from 
Ardfert,  five  miles  northwest  of  Traiee,  where  he  had  before 
this  period  established  a  monastery,  and  where  a  portion  of 
his  church  (one  of  the  most  beautiful  ruins  in  Kerry)  still  re- 
mains to  this  day.  According  to  Sir  James  Ware  (vol.  i.  p. 
518),  Ardfert  signifies  "  a  wonderful  place  on  an  eminence," 
or,  as  some  interpret  it,  "  The  Hill  of  Miracies." 

8  Traiee  was  anciently  written  Traleigh,  i.  e.  "  the  strand  of 
the  river  Leigh,"  which  is  a  small  stream  that  empties  itself 
at  the  bottom  of  Traiee  Bay. 


1'oF.MS  OF   DKNIS   F.   M,  ( 'AKTII  V. 


801 


ii. 

Betwixt  the  Samphire  Isles'  swam  my  light 

skiff, 
And  like  an   arrow  tlew   through   Fenor 

Sound,* 
Swept  by  the  pleasant  strand,'  and  the  tall 

cliff 
Whereon    the    pale    rose    amethysts    are 

found,4 
Hounded     Moyferta's     rocky      point,*    and 

crossed 

The  mouth  of  stream-streaked  Erin's  might- 
iest tide, 
Whose  troubled  waves  break  o'er  the  City 

lost, 

Chafed  by  the  marble  turrets  that  they 
hide.* 

in. 

Beneath  Ibriekan's  hills,  moory  and  tame,T 
And   Inniscaorach's   caves,   so   wild   and 

dark," 

I  sailed  along.    The  white-faced  otter  came,* 

And  gazed  in  wonder  on  my  floating  bark. 

The  soaring  gannet10  perched  upon  my  mast, 

And  the  proud  bird  that  flies  but  o'er  the 

sea,11 
Wheeled   o'er  my  head:    and  the  girrinna 

passed 
Upon  the  branch  of  some  life-giving  tree." 


1  Islands  in  the  Bay  t,'  ".Yalee. 

•  Between  Fenit  Islj.-id  and  the  mainland. 

•  "  The  strand  of  PaJ/yheigh  is,  in  fine  weather,  a  very  pleas- 
ant ride."— Smith's  Kerry,  p.  208. 

•  The  Amethyst  Cliffs,  near  Kerry  Head.    Very  fine  ame- 
thysts have  been  found  among  these  cliffs.    Smith  describes 
their  colors  as  being  of  various  degrees  and  shades  of  purple : 
some  approach  to  a  violet,  and  others  to  a  pale  rose-color. — 
p.  405. 

•Kerry  Head,  or  Cape  Lane,  terminates  the  southern  ex- 
tremity of  tho  barony  Moyferta,  now  called  Moyarta,  In  the 
county  of  Clare. 

•  "It  is  said  that  the  mouth  of  the  Shannon  is  the  site  of 
a  lest  city,  and  that  its  towers,  and  spires,  and  turrets,  acting 
as  breakers  against  the  tlde-W,er,  occasion  the  roughness  of 
this  part  of  the  estuary." — Hail''.  Ireland,  vol.  iii.  p.  438.    For 
ft  story  founded  on  thin  legtn-j,  tee  Part  IV.  of  the  "  Voyage 
of  St.  Brendan,"  p.  IflO. 

7  The  barony  of  Ibrickar,  Jn  the  county  of  Clare. 
1  Kiiniskerry  Island,  half  a  mile  from  the  shore.    There  are 
•ome  curious  natural  caves  here. 

•  The  white-faced  otter,  called  by  the  Irish  Dobhar-ehu,  is 
occasionally  seen  off  the  western  coast  of  Connaught.    Martin, 
in  hi*  "  Description  of  the  Western  Isles,"  says  that  "  seamen 
n-cribe  jjrcat  virtue  to  its  skin;  for  they  say  that  It  is  fortu- 
nate in  battle,  and  that  victory  is  always  on  its  side."— p.  159. 

'•  "  Here  the  gannet  soars  high  into  the  sky.  to  espy  his  prey 
in  the  sea  under  him,"  Ac.— O'Flaherty's  West  Connaught. 
9.  IS. 


IV. 

Leaving  tin:  awful  cliffs  of  (  V»n-omr6e, 

I  sought  the  rocky  eastern  isle,  that  bears 
The  name  of  blessed  Coemhan,"  who  doth 

show 
Pity    unto     the     storm-tossed     seaman's 

prayers : 

Then   crossing   Bealach-na-fearbac's   treach- 
erous sound,14 

I  reached  the  middle  isle,  whose  citadel 
Looks  like  a  monarch  from  its  throne  around  ; 
And  there  I  rested  by  St.  Kt-nnerg's  'veil." 

v. 

Again  I  sailed,  and  crossed  the  stormy  sound 

That  lies  beneath  Binn-Aite's  rocky  height,1* 

And  there,  upon  the  shore,  the  Saint  I  found 

Waiting  my  coming  through   the  tan'y 

night. 

He  led  me  to  his  home  beside  the  wave, 
Where,  with  his  monks,  the  pious  father 

dwelled, 

And  to  my  listening  ear  he  freely  gave 
The  sacred  knowledge  that  his  bosom  held. 


VI. 

When  I  proclaimed  the  project  that  I  nursed, 
How  'twas  for   this   that  I  his   blessing 

sought, 
An  irrepressible  cry  of  joy  outburst 

From  his  pure  lips,  that  blessed  me  for 
the  thought. 


11  "  Birds  found  in  the  high  cliffs  and  rocks  of  Arran,  which 
never  fly  but  over  the  sea."— Ibid.,  p.  18. 

IJ  "  Here  is  the  bird  engendered  by  the  sea,  out  of  timber 
long  lying  in  the  sea.  Some  call  them  clakes  and  soland  geen, 
some  puffins,  and  others  barnacles,  because  they  referable 
them.  We  call  them  ffirrinn."— Ibid.,  p.  13.  The  Irish  name 
is  cadan  girinna. 

i*  "  Saint  Coemhan  (Kevin)  was  brother  to  the  celebrated 
Saint  Kevin,  of  Qlendaloiigh.  The  third  island  of  Arrai..  Ii. 
nisoirthir,  or  the  Eastern  Me,  was  also  called  Ara-Cocmhau, 
in  his  honor.  Hanliman  says  that  he  is  the  most  famous 
of  the  saints  of  Arran,  and  that  he  is  believed  to  have  often 
abated  storms,  after  having  been  piously  invoked." — Ibid., 
note,  p.  87. 

14  "  Between  the  middle  and  eastern  isle  is  ntalach-na-ftar 
doc,  or  the  '  Foal  Sound.'  ""—Ibid.,  nott,  p.  W. 

'•  This  is  a  beautiful  spring  in  the  middle  isle,  dedicated  to 
Saint  Kcnnerg,  who,  according  to  tradition,  was  daughter  to 
a  king  of  Leinster.  "Her  well,"  says  O'Flaherty,  "Is  there 
in  a  rock,  and  never  becomes  drie."— p.  8(1.  The  citadel  al 
ludod  to  is  Dun-ConchabMr.  It  rivals  Dun-.fnyut,  •ituated 
In  the  great  Island,  both  in  masonry  and  extent.—  Ibid.,  p.  77 

'•  "Bealach-na-haito  (now  called  Gregory's  Sound)  takes  It* 
name  from  IHnn-AUf,  an  elevated  part  of  the  great  Islaml." 
'tote,  p.  98. 


302 


POEMS  OF  DENIS  F.  McCAllTlIY 


He  said  that  he,  too,  had  in  visions  strayed 

Over  the  untracked  ocean's  billowy  foam  ; 

Bid  me  have  hope  that  God  would  give  me 


aid, 

And  bring 
home. 


me    safe   back  to  my  native  i 


VII. 


Oft,  as  we  paced  that  marble-covered  land,1 
Would  blessed  Enda  tell  me  wondrous 

tales — 

How,  for  the  children  of  his  love,  the  hand 
Of  the  Omnipotent  Father  never  fails — 
How  his  own  sister,  standing  by  the  side 
Of  the  great  sea,  which  bore  no  human 

bark, 
Spread  her  light  cloak  upon  the  conscious 

tide, 
And  sailed  thereon  securely  as  an  ark." 

VIII. 

And   how   the   winds   become   the   willing 

slaves 

Of  those  who  labor  in  the  work  of  God  ; 
And  how  Scothinus  walked  upon  the  waves, 
Which  seemed  to  him  the  meadow's  ver- 
dant sod.1 


1  The  surface  of  Arran  is  covered  over  with  large  flat  slabs 
of  stone.  Hardiman  says  that  the  "  Marble  Islands"  would 
not  be  a  bad  name  for  the  Arran  Isles  generally. 

9  "This  sister  was  St.  Fanchea,  who,  going  with  three  fe- 
male companions  to  visit  her  brother  Enda,  who  was  then  in 
Rome,  came  to  the  seaside ;  and  not  finding  a  vessel  to  carry 
them  over,  spread  her  cloak  upon  the  sea,  and  passed  over 
upon  it  to  the  desired  port  of  Britain.  During  the  voyage, 
the  hem  of  the  cloak  sank  a  little  beneath  the  waves,  in  con- 
sequence of  one  of  her  companions  having  brought  a  brazen 
vessel  with  her  from  the  convent,  contrary  to  the  expressed 
command  of  the  saint.  Upon  her  throwing  it  from  her  into 
the  sea,  the  sinking  hem  rose  up  on  a  level  with  the  rest  of 
the  cioak." — Colgan's  Acta  Sanctorum,  p.  2. 

1  "  St.  Scothinus,  by  fasting  and  other  penitential  observ- 
ances, had  so  purified  his  body,  that  he  had  the  privilege  of 
walking  upon  the  sea  with  dry  feet,  and  going  upon  it  whither 
he  pleased,  without  using  any  ship  or  vessel  whatsoever.  In 
his  Life  it  is  mentioned  that,  upon  one  occasion,  while  he  was 
thus  walking  over  to  Britain,  a  ship  approached  him,  in  which 
was  the  Bishop  St.  Barra,who  beholding  the  man  of  God  Sco- 
thinus, and  recognizing  him,  inquired  wherefore  he  walked 
upon  the  sea  ?  Scothinus  replied,  that  it  was  a  flowery  field 
on  which  he  walked,  and  immediately  extending  his  hand  to 
the  water,  he  plucked  from  the  middle  of  the  ocean  a  handful 
of  rosy  flowers,  which,  as  a  proof  of  his  assertion,  he  flung  in- 
to the  bosom  of  the  blessed  bishop.  The  bishop,  on  the 
other  hand,  to  prove  that  he  was  justified  in  making  such  an 
inquiry,  drew  a  fish  from  the  sea  and  threw  it  to  St.  Scothinus, 
and  each,  magnifying  God  for  his  miracles,  went  on  his  sepa- 
rate way."— Colgan's  Acta  Sanctorum,  p.  10,  chap.  v.  vi. 

4  "  This  island  (Ara-mhor)  was  inhabited  by  infidels  out  of 
Corcomroe,  the  next  adjacent  country  in  the  county  of  Clare, 
when  St.  Enna  (Enda)  got  it  by  the  donation  of  Eugus.  King 


How  he  himself  came  hither  with  his  flock, 
To  teach  the  infidels  from  Corcomroe  ;* 

Upon  the  floating  breast  of  the  hard  rock, 
Which  lay  upon  the  glistening  sands  be- 
low.' 


But  not  alone  of  miracles  and  joys 

Would  Enda  speak — he  told  me  of   his 

dream ; 

When  blessed  Kieran  went  to  Clon-mac-nois, 
To    found  the    sacred    churches   by   the 

stream — 

How  he  had  wept  to  see  the  angels  flee 
Away  from  Arran,  as  a  place  accui-st ; 
And  men  tear  up  the  island-shading  tree, 
Out  of  the  soil  from  which  it  sprung  at 
first.8 

x. 

At  length  I  tore  me  from  the  good  man's 

sight, 

And  o'er  Loch  Lurgan's  mouth  took  my 
lone  way, 


of  Munster,  anno  Christi  circiter  480."— O'Flaherty's  Wt-Jt 
ConnaugM,  p.  79.  These  "  infidels"  were  headed  by  a  chief, 
Corbanus,  about  whom  the  following  curious  story  is  told  by 
Colgan.  Being  in  possession  of  Arran  previous  to  the  arrival 
of  St.  Endan,  he  surrendered  it  to  him  with  very  bad  grace, 
and  was  not  perfectly  convinced  of  his  right  to  the  island  un- 
til after  the  occurrence  of  the  following  miracle.  For,  wish- 
ing to  test  how  far  St.  Enda  was  protected  by  the  celestial 
powers,  he  prepared  a  large  barrel,  which  he  filled  with  corn- 
seed,  and  leaving  it  on  the  shore  of  the  mainland,  he  said  to- 
himself,  'If  Enda  be  a  favorite  of  heaven,  this  corn,  which  he 
so  much  requires,  will  be  carried  over  to  him  in  a  miraculous 
manner.'  Wonderful  to  relate,  the  event  occurred  precisely 
as  he  anticipated ;  for  the  angel  of  God,  taking  the  barrel* 
drew  it  through  the  sea,  and  the  track  of  the  barrel  still  re- 
mains in  perpetual  serenity  amid  the  turbulence  of  the  sur- 
rounding water."—  Ibid.,  chap.  xvi.  p.  770. 

4  "  When  St.  Enda  obtained  the  grant  of  Arran  from  his 
brother-in-law,  Engus  MacNatfraich,  for  the  purpose  of  erect- 
ing a  monastery  thereon,  he  proceeded  with  his  disciples  to- 
the  sea-shore,  in  order  to  pass  over  to  Arran.  There  being 
no  vessel  at  that  place,  and  the  saint  not  wishing  to  lose  time, 
he  ordered  eight  of  his  monks  to  raise  a  great  stone,  which 
lay  upon  the  shore,  and  to  place  it  in  the  water,  and  a  favora- 
ble breeze  springing  up,  they  were  wafted  over  the  sea  on 
this  stone,  in  perfect  safety,  to  Arran." — Ibid.,  chap.  xiv. 
p.  707. 

•  "  When  St.  Kieran,  with  many  pious  followers,  was  about 
leaving  Arran,  to  found  the  monastery  of  Clonmacnoise,  up- 
on the  Shannon,  St.  Enda  had  many  visions,  in  one  of  which 
he  saw  all  the  angels  who  had  hitherto  been  the  guardians  of 
that  island  departing  from  it  in  a  great  crowd.  In  another, 
he  saw  a  mighty  tree  growing  in  the  midst  of  Arran,  with  its 
branches  extending  all  round  to  the  sea,  and  many  men  came 
and  dug  up  the  tree  by  the  roots,  and  it  was  borne  with  them 
through  the  air,  and  replanted  by  the  banks  of  the  river  Shan- 
non, where  it  grew  to  a  still  larger  size."— Ibid.,  chap,  xxviii. 
p.  710.  According  to  Ussher,  St.  Kieran  left  Arran  in  the 
year  '>'.!£. 


1'OK.MS  <)K   DKXIS   I-'.   .M,  CA1JTHY. 


Which,  in  the-  sunny  morning's  golden  light, 

Shone  like  the  burning  hike  of  Lassara-,1 
Now  'neath  hea\cn's  frown — and  now,  be- 

ne.ith  its  smile — 

Borne  on  tlie  tide,  or  driven   before  tin- 
gale  ; 

And  as  I  passed  MacPara's  sacred  Isle, 
Thrice    bowed   my  ir.ast,  and    thrice   let 
down  my  sail.* 

XI. 

Westward  of  Arran,  as  I  sailed  away, 

I  saw  the  fairest  sight  eye  can  behold, — 
Hocks    which,  illumined   by  the   morning's 

ray, 

Seemed  like  a  glorious  city  built  of  gold. 
Men  moved  along  each  sunny  shining  street, 
Fires  seemed  to  blaze,  and  curling  smoke 

to  rise, 

When  lo !  the  city  vanished,  and  a  fleet, 
With  snowy  sails,  rose  on  my  ravished 
eyes.1 


Thus  having  sought  for  knowledge  and  for 

strength, 

Foi  the  unheard-of  voyage  that  I  planned, 
I  left  these  myriad  isles,  and  turned  at  length 
Southward  my  bai'k,  and  sought  my  na- 
tive land. 

There  I  made  all  things  ready,  day  by  day, 
The  wicker  boat,  with  ox-skins  covered 

o'er — * 
Chose  the  good  monks  companions  of  my 

way, . 

And   waited    for   the    wind  to   leave  the 
shore. 


1  "  There  is  some  uncommonly  fine  pasture-land  about 
Moylough,  and  near  it  is  a  lake  called  Lough  Lassane.  or  the' 
Illuminated  lake.  This  was  celebrated  as  a  place  of  religious 
'•rite,  even  in  the  time  of  Paganism  ;  and  its  waters  are  eaid, 
e.'ory  seventy  years,  to  possess  this  luminous  quality  in  ex- 
cess; and  then  the  people  bring  their  children  and  entile  to 
be  washed  in  its  phosphoric  waters,  and  they  are  considered  to 
have  no  chance  of  dying  that  year."— Ciesar  Otway's  Tour 
in  Connavght,  p.  103.  Lough  Lurgan  was  the  ancient  imiue 
Of  Oalway  Bay. 

'  This  is  the  island  formerly  called  Crunch,  Mhic  Dars,  liter- 
ally, the  stack,  or  rick  (from  its  appearance  in  the  ocean)  of 
MacDara,  who  is  the  patron  saint  of  Moyru*  parish.  "  The 
th:it  pass  between  Mason-head  and  this  island."  says 
CVFlaherty,  "have  a  custome  to  bow  down  their  suils  three 
limes',  in  reverence  to  the  saint."— DfscripHon  ofll-Iar  Con- 
na'<f/ht,  p.  99. 

•  Thusi!  are  the  Skird  Rocks,  which  are  thus  beautifully  de- 
scribed by  O'Flaherty:  "There  is,  wr-tw«rd  of  Arriui.  in 
»ight  of  the  next  continent  of  Balynahynsy  barony,  SUerde.  a 


PA  HI  111. 

TIIK   VOYAGE. 
i. 

AT  length  tiie  day  so  long  expected  came, 
When  from  the  opening  arms  of  that  wild 

bay, 
Heneath    the   hill    that    bears   my    Inn: 

name,* 
Over   the  waves  we   took  our  untracked 

way  : 

Sweetly  the  morning  lay  on  tarn  and  ril!, 
(lladly  the   waves    played    in    its    golden 

light, 
And  the  proud  top  of  the  majestic  hill 

Shone  in  the  a/.ure  air — serene  and  bright.* 

O 

II. 

Over  the  sea  we  new  that  sunny  morn, 
Not    without    natural    tears    and    human 

sighs; 
For  who  can  leave  the  land  where  he  wa> 

born, 
And  where,  perchance,  a  buried   mother 

lies — 
Where   all   the   friends   of    riper   manhood 

dwell, 
And  where  the  playmates  of  his  childhood 

sleep — 

Who  can  depart  and  breathe  a  cold  farewell, 
Nor  let  his  eyes  their  honest  tribute  weep  ? 

in. 

Our  little  bark,  kissing  the  dimpled  smiles 
On  ocean's  ch"ek,  flew  like  a  wanton  bird; 


wild  island  of  hnge  rocks,  the  receptacle  of  a  deal  of  seals 
thereon  yearly  slaughtered.  These  rocks  sometimes  appear 
to  be  a  great  city  far  oil',  full  of  houses,  castles,  towers,  and 
chimneys :  sometimes  full  of  blazing  flames,  smoak,  and  peo- 
ple running  to  and  fro.  Another  day  yon  would  see  nothing 
but  a  number  of  ships,  with  their  sails  and  riggings  :  then  M> 
many  great  stakes,  or  reeks  of  corn  and  turf;  and  this  not 
only  on  a  fair,  sun-"hiniiig  day,  whereby  it  might  be  thought 
the  reflection  of  the  sunbeams,  or  the  vapors  arising  about 
it.  had  been  the  cause,  but  also  on  dark  and  cloudy  days  hap- 
pening. There  is  another  like  number  of  rocks  called  Car- 
rlgmeacan,  on  the  same  coast,  whereon  the  like  apparition!* 
are  seen.  Bnt  the  enchanted  island  of  O'Bra/ll  is  not  .-. 
visible,  as  those  rocks  are,  nor  these  rocks  ha\c  ulway»  • 
apparitionc."— //-Air  Connauyfit,  p.  «!9. 

4  The  vessel  in  which  Brendan  took  his  wonderful  roymga 
was  made  of  wattles,  over  which  were  ox-skins  stretched,  aid 
made  water-proof  with  pitch  and  tallow.  Boats  of  a  similar 
n  >M- t  ruction  are  used  to  this  day  among  the  islands  of  West 
Coiinaiighi. 

•  Brandon  Hill. 

•  Smith,  In  his  "History  of  Kerry,"  says:  "It  Is  a  certain 
t«kcn  of  tine  weather  when  its  top  Is  visible."— p.  194. 


B04 


POEMS  OF  DEXIS  F.  McCAllTHY. 


And  tlien  the  land,  with  all  its  hundred  isles,  \  When  the  round  moon  rests,  like  the  sacred 


Faded  away,  and  yet  we  spoke  no  word. 
Each  silent  tongue  held  converse  with  the 

past, 

Each  moistened  eye  looked  round  the  cir- 
cling wave, 

And,  save  the  spot  where  stood  our  trem- 
bling mast, 

Saw  all   things    hid    within    one   mighty 
grave. 


We  were  alone,  on  the  wide  watery  waste — 

Naught  broke  its  bright  monotony  of  blue, 

Save  where   the   breeze   the  flying  billows 

chased, 
Or  where  the  clouds  their  purple  shadows 

threw. 

We  were  alone — the  pilgrims  of  the  sea — 
One    boundless    azure    desert    round    us 

spread ; 
No   hope,  no   trust,  no    strength  except  in 

THEE, 
Father,  who  once  the  pilgrim-people  led. 

v. 
And  wl.en  the  bright-faced  sun  resigned  his 

o  o 

throne 
Unto   the   Ethiop  queen,  who   rules  the 

night,— 

Who,  with  her  pearly  crown  and  starry  zone, 
Fills  the  dark  dome  of  heaven  with  silvery 

light,— 

As  on  we  sailed,  beneath  her  milder  sway, 
And   felt    within    our    hearts   her   holier 

power, 
We  ceased  from  toil,  and  humbly  knelt  to 

pray, 

And  hailed  with  vesper  hymns  the  tran- 
quil hour ! 

VI. 

For  then,  indeed,  the  vaulted   heavens  ap- 
peared 
A    fitting   shrine   to   hear   their   Maker's 

praise, — 

Such  as  no  human  architect  has  reared, 
Where  gems,  and  gold,  and  precious  mar- 
bles blaze. 


Host, 
Upon  the  azure  altar  of  the  skies  ? 


VII. 

We   breathed   aloud   the    Christian's   filial 

prayer, 
Which   makes   us   brothers   even  with   the 

Lord ; 
"  Our  Father,"  cried  we,  in   the  midnight 

air, 
"  In  heaven  and  earth  be  Thy  great  name 

adored  ; 
May  Thy  bright  kingdom,  where  the  angels 

are, 
Replace  this  fleeting  world,  so  dark  and 

dim." 
And  then,  with  eyes  fixed  on  some  glorious 

star, 
We    sang    the    Virgin -Mother's    vesper 

hvmn  : 


VIII.   ' 

"  Hail,  brightest  star!   that  o'er  life's  tron 

i  O 

bled  sea 
Shines  pity  down   from  heaven's  elysian 

blue ! 

Mother  and  maid,  we  fondly  look  to  thee, 
Fair   gate  of  bliss,  where  heaven  beams 

brightly  through. 
Star   of  the  morning !    guide  our   youthful 

days, 
Shine  on  our  infant  steps  in  life's  long 

race  ; 
Star    of   the    evening !    with    thy   tranquil 

rays, 
Gladden  the  aged  eyes  that  seek  thy  face. 

IX. 

"Hail,  sacred  maid!    thou  brighter,  better 

Eve, 
Take  from  our  eyes  the  blinding  scales  cl 

sin  ; 

Within  our  hearts  no  selfish  poison  leave, 
For    thou   the   heavenly    antidote    canst 

win. 

O  sacred  Mother !  'tis  to  thee  we  run — 
Poor  children  from  this  world's  oppres- 
sive strife ; 


What  earthly  temple  such  a  roof  can  boast?  'Ask  all  we  need  from  thy  immortal  Son, 
What  flickering  lamp  with  the  rich  star- 1      Who  drank  of  death,  that  we  might  taste 
light  vies,  !  of  life. 


POKMS  OF  DENIS  F.  McCAHTIIY. 


30o 


x. 
"Hail,  spotless    Virgin!     mildest,  meekest 

maid — 
Hail !  purest  Pearl  that  Time's  great  sea 

hath  borne — 
May  our  white  souks,  in  purity  arrayed, 

Shine  as  if  they  thy  vestal-robes  had  worn  ; 
Make  our  hearts  pure,  as  thou  thyself  art 

pure — 
Make   safe   the   rugged   pathway  of  our 

lives, 

And  make  us  pass  to  joys  that  will  endure 
When  the  dark  term  of  mortal  life  ar- 
rives."1 

XI. 

'Twas  thus  in  hymns,  and  prayers,  and  holy 

psalms, 
Day  tracking  day,  and  night  succeeding 

night, 
Now  driven  by  tempests,  now  delayed  by 

calms, 

Along  the  sea  we  winged  our  varied  flight. 
Oh !  how  we  longed  and  pined  for  sight  of 

land' 
Oh  !  how  we  sighed  for  the  green  pleasant 

fields ! 
^Compared  with  the  cold  waves,  the  barest 

strand — 

The   bleakest    rock — a   crop    of  comfort 
yields. 

XII. 

Sometimes,  indeed,  when  the  exhausted  gale, 
In  search  of  rest,  beneath  the  waves  would 

flee, 
Like    some    poor  wretch,   who,   when    his 

strength  doth  fail, 
Sinks  in   the   smooth   and   unsupporting 

sea; 

Then  would  the  Brothers  draw  from  mem- 
ory's store 

Some  chapter  of  life's  misery  or  bliss — 

Some  trial  that  some  saintly  spirit  bore — 

Or  else  some  tale  of  passion  such  as  this : 


PART  IV. 

THE  BURIED  CITY. 

i. 
BESIDE   that  giant  stream  that  foams  and 

swells 

Betwixt  Ily-Conaill  and  Moyarta's  shore, 
And   guards   the  isle  where   good  Senanus 

dwells,1 

A  gentle  maiden  dwelt,  in  days  of  yore. 
She  long  has   passed  out  of  Time's  aching 

womb, 

And  breathes  Eternity's  favonian  air ; 
Yet  fond  Tradition  lingers  o'er  her  tomb, 
And  paints  her  glorious  features  as  they 
were : — 

u. 

Her  smile  was   Eden's   pure   and   stainless 

light, 
Which  never  cloud    nor   earthly   vapor 

mars; 
Her  lustrous   eyes  were   like   the   noon  of 

night — 
Black,  but  yet  brightened  by  a  thousand 

stars; 

Her  tender  form,  moulded  in  modest  grace, 
Shrank  from  the  gazer's  eye,  and  moved 

apart ; 

Heaven  shone  reflected  in  her  angel  face, 
And  God  reposed  within  her  virgin  heart. 

HI. 

She  dwelt  in  green  Moyarta's  pleasant  land, 
Beneath  the  graceful  hills  of  Clonderlaw, 
Sweet    sunny   hills,  whose    triple   sumrniu 

stand 

One  vast  tiara  over  stream  and  shaw. 
Almost  in  solitude  the  maiden  grew, 

And  reached  her  early  budding  womnn' 

prime ; 

And  all  so  noiselessly  the  swift  time  fle\v, 
She   knew  not  of  the  name  or  flight  of 
Time. 


1  The  three  preceding  stanzas  arc  a  paraphrase  of  the  beau- 
tiful hymr.  of  the  Catholic  Church,  "  Ave,  Marls  Stella." 

1  "The  month  of  the  Shannon  Is  grand,  almost  beyond  con- 
ception. Its  inhabitants  point  to  a  part  of  the  river,  within 
the  headlands,  over  which  the  tides  rush  with  extraordinary 
rapidity  and  violence.  They  say  it  Is  the  site  of  a  lost  city, 
long  buried  beneath  the  waves;  and  that  it*  tower*,  and 
•l»ires,  and  turrets,  acting  as  breakers  against  the  tide-water, 


occasion  the  roughness  of  this  part  of  the  estuary.  The  whole 
city  becomes  visible  on  every  seventh  year,  anil  lias  beea 
often  seen  by  the  fluhcrnien  Bailing  over  it ;  but  the  M-ht  tx>dea 
ill-luck,  for  within  a  month  after  the  Ill-rated  Bailor  I*  n  corpse. 
The  time  of  its  appearance  Is  also  rendered  further  dtsoatroai 
by  the  loss  of  some  boat  or  vessel,  of  whim,  or  Its  crew,  no 
vestige  is  ever  to  be  found."— Hall's  Irtlantt,  vol.  111.  p.  43U. 
•  Inniscattcry  Island, 


306 


POEMS  OF  DENIS  F.  McCARTIIY. 


IV. 

And  thus  within  her  modest  mountain  nest, 

This  gentle  maiden  nestled  like  a  dove, 
Offering   to  God   from    her   pure,  innocent 
breast 

The  sweet  and  silent  incense  of  her  love. 
No  selfish  feeling  nor  presumptuous  pride 

In  her  calm  bosom  waged  unnatural  strife. 
Saint  of  her  home  and  hearth,  she  sanctified 

The  thousand  trivial,  common  cares  of  life. 


Upon  the  opposite  shore  there  dwelt  a  youth, 
Whose  nature's  woof  was  woven  of  good 

and  ill — 
Whose   stream  of  life  flowed  to  the  sea  of 

truth, 
But  in  a  devious  course,  round  many  a 

hill- 
Now  lingering  through  a  valley  of  delight, 
Where  sweet  flowers  bloomed,  and  sum- 
mer song-birds  sung, 
Now  hurled    along   the   dark   tempestuous 

night, 

With   gloomy,  treeless   mountains   over- 
hung. 

VI. 

He  sought  the  soul   of  Beauty  throughout 

space, — 
Knowledge  he  tracked  through   many  a 

vanished  age : 
For  one  he   scanned  fair  Nature's   radiant 

face, 
And  for  the  other,  Learning's  shrivelled 

page. 

If  Beauty  sent  some  fair  apostle  down, 
Or  Knowledge  some  great  teacher  of  her 

lore, 

•Bearing  the  wreath  of  rapture  and  the  crown, 
He  knelt  to  love,  to  learn,  and  to  adore. 

VII. 

Full  many  a  time  he  spread  his  little  sail, — 
How  rough  the  river,  or  how  dark  the 

skies, — 

Gave  his  light  currach  to  the  angry  gale, 
And  crossed  the  stream  to  gaze  on  Ethna's 

eyes. 
As  yet   'twas   worship,   more   than   human 

love — 
That  hopeless  adoration  that  we  pay 


Unto  some  glorious  planet  throned  above, 
Though  severed  from  its  crystal  sphere  for 
aye. 

VIII. 

But  warmer  love  an  easy  conquest  won, 
The  more  he  came  to  green   Moyarta's 

bowers ; 

Even  as  the  earth,  by  gazing  on  the  sun, 
In   summer-time   puts   forth   her   myriad 

flowers. 

The   yearnings  of  his   heart — vague,  unde- 
fined— 

Wakened  and  solaced  by  ideal  gleams, 
Took  everlasting  shape,  and  intertwined 
Around  this  incarnation  of  his  dreams. 

IX. 

Some  strange  fatality  restrained  his  tongue — 
He  spoke  not  of  the  love  that  filled  his 

breast : 
The  thread  of  hope,  on  which  his  whole  life 

hung, 

Was  far  too  weak  to  bear  so  strong  a  test. 
He  trusted  to  the  future — time  or  chance — 
His  constant  homage,  and  assiduous  care ; 
Preferred  to  dream   and   lengthen  out  his 

trance, 

Rather  than  wake  to  knowledge  and  de- 
spair. 


And   thus  she   knew  not,  when   the  youth 

would  look 

Upon  some  pictured  chronicle  of  eld, 
In  every  blazoned  letter  of  the  book 

One  fairest  face  was  all  that  he  beheld : 
And   where   the    limner,  with    consummate 

art, 
Drew   flowing    lines   and   quaint   devices 

rare, 
The  wildered   youth,  by  looking  from  the 

lie-art, 

Saw  naught  but  lustrous  eyes  and  waving 
hair. 

XI. 

He  soon  was  startled  from  his  dreams,  for  now 
'Twas  said,  obedient  to  a  heavenly  call, 

His  life  of  life  would  take  the  vestal  vow, 
In  one  short    month,  within  a  convent's 
wall. 


POKMS  OF  DENIS  F.  McOAKTUf. 


"307 


Down  in  the  tltvp,  full  many  a  fathom  down, 
A  great  and  glorious  city  buried  lies. 

xv. 

Not  like  those  villages  with  rude-built  w;ills, 
That    raised    their    humble    roofs   round 

every  coast, 
But  holding  marble  basilics  and  halls, 

Such  as  imperial  Rome  it»eli  might  boast. 
There  were  the  palace  and  the  poor  man's 

home, 
And    upstart    glitter    and    old-fashioned 

gloom, 
The    spacious    porch,   the    nicely  rounded 

dome, 
The  hero's  column,  and  the  martyr's  tomb. 

XVI. 

There  was  the  cromleach,  with  its  circling 

stones ; 

There  the  green  rath,  and  the  round  nar- 
row tower ; 
'Chere  was  the  prison  whence  the  captive's 

groans 
Had  many  a  time  moaned  in  the  midnight 

hour. 

Beneath  the  graceful  arch  the  river  flowed, 
Around  the  walls   the   sparkling   waters 

ran, 

The  golden  chariot  rolled  along  the  road, — 
All,  all  was  there  except  the  face  of  man* 

XVII. 

The  wondering  youth  had  neither  thought 

nor  word, 

He  felt  alone  the  power  and  will  to  die ; 
His  little  bark  seemed  like  an  outstretched 

bird, 

Floating  along  that  city's  azure  sky. 
It  was  not  that  lie  was  not  bold  and  brave, 
And   yet   he   would   have   perished  with 

affright, 

Had  not  the  breeze,  rippling  the  lucid  wave, 
Concealed  the  buried  city  from  his  sight. 

XVIII. 

He  reached  the  shore :  the  rumor  wa«  too 

trur  — 
Kthna,  his  Ethna,  would  1" 


He  heard  the  tidings  with  a  sickening  fear, 
But   quickly   had    the    sudden    faintness 

flown, 
And  vowed,  though  heaven  or  hell  should 

interfere, 
Ethna — his  Ethna — should  be  his  alone ! 

XI L 

He  sought  his  boat,  and  snatched  the  feath- 
ery oar — 
It  was  the   first   and  brightest  morn   of 

May; 
The   white-winged  clouds  that   sought   the 

northern  shore, 
Seemed  but  love's  guides,  to  point  him  out 

the  way. 

The  great  old  river  heaved  its  mighty  heart, 
And,  with  a  solemn  sigh,  went  calmly  on, 
As  if  of  all  his  griefs  it  felt  a  part, 

But  knew  they  should  be  borne,  and  so 
had  none. 


Slowly  his  boat  the  languid  breeze  obeyed, 
Although  the  stream  that  that  light  bur- 

^  c? 

den  bore 

Was  like  the  level  path  the  angels  made, 
Through  the  rough  sea,  to  Arran's  blessed 

shore; ' 
.And   from   the   rosy  clouds   the   light  airs 

fanned, 
And   from    the   rich  reflection  that  they 

gave, 
Like   good   Scothinus,  had  he   reached   his 

hand,* 

He  might   have  plucked  a  garland  from 
the  wave. 

XIV. 

And  now  the  noon  in  purple  splendor  blazed, 
The   gorgeous    clouds  in  slow  procession 

filed— 
The  youth  leaned  o'er  with  listless  eyes,  and 

gazed 
Down  through   the  waves   on  which  the 

blue  heavens  smiled : 
What  sudden  fear  his  gasping  breath  doth 

drown  ? 

What   hidden    wonder  fires   his   startled 
eyes? 


«  Hcc  note  2,  p.  296. 


>.-.-  ii 


303 


POEMS  OF  DENIS  F.  McCARTHY. 


In  one  brief  month  ;    for  which  the   maid 

withdrew, 
To  seek  for   strength  before  His  blessed 

throne. 
Was  it  the  tire  that  on  his  bosom  preyed, 

Or  the  temptation  of  the  Fiend  abhorred, 
That   made   him  vow  to  snatch  the  white- 
veiled  maid 
Even  from  the  very  altar  of  her  Lord  ! 

XIX. 

The  first  of  June,  that  festival  of  flowers, 
Came,  like  a  goddess,  o'er  the  meadows 

green ! 
And    all    the    children   of   the    spring-tide 

showers 
Rose  from  their  grassy  beds  to  hail  their 

Queen. 

A  song  of  joy,  a  prean  of  delight, 
Rose   from   the   myriad   life   in   the   tall 

grass, 
When  the  young  Dawn,  fresh  from  the  sleep 

of  night, 

Glanced  at  her  blushing  face  in  Ocean's 
glass. 

xx. 

Ethna  awoke — a  second,  brighter  dawn — 
Her  mother's  fondling  voice  breathed  in 

her  ear : 

Quick  from  her  couch  she  started,  as  a  fawn 
Bounds  from  the  heather  when  her  dam 

is  near. 

Each  clasped  the  other  in  a  long  embrace — 
Each  knew  the  other's  heart  did  beat  and 

bleed — 
Each  kissed  the  warm  tears  from  the  other's 

face, 
And  gave  the  consolation  she  did  need. 

XXI. 

Oh  !  bitterest  sacrifice  the  heai't  can  make — 

That  of  a  mother  of  her  darling  child — 
That  of  a  child,  who,  for  the  Saviour's  sake, 

Leaves  the  fond  face  that  o'er  her  cradle 

smiled  ! 

They  who  may  think  that  God  doth  never 
need 

So  great,  so  sad  a  sacrifice  as  this, 
While  they  take  glory  in  their  easier  creed, 

Will  feel  and  own  the  sacrifice  it  is. 


XXII. 

All  is  prepared — the  sisters  in  the  choir — 

The  mitred  abbot  on  his  crimson  throne — 
The  waxen  tapers  with  their  pallid  fire 

Poured   o'er  the    sacred    cup    and   altar- 
stone — 

The   upturned   eyes,  glistening  with   pious 
tears — 

The  censer's  fragrant  vapor  floating  o'er. 
Now  all  is  hushed,  for,  lo  !  the  maid  appears, 

Entering  with  solemn  step  the  sacred  door. 

XXIII. 

She  moved  as  moves  the  moon,  radiant  and 

pale, 

Through  the  calm  night,  wrapped  in  a  sil- 
very cloud ; 
The  jewels  of  her  dress  shone  through  her 

veil, 

As  shine  the  stars  through  their  thin  va- 
porous shroud ; 

The  brighter  jewels  of  her  eyes  were  hid 
Beneath  their  smooth  white  caskets  arch- 
ing o'er, 

Which,  by  the  trembling  of  each  ivory  lid, 
Seemed   conscious   of  the  treasures  that 
they  bore. 

XXIT. 

She  reached  the  narrow  porch  and  the  tall 

door, 
Her   trembling    foot    upon   the   sill    was 

placed — 
Her   snowy  veil   swept   the  smooth-sanded 

floor — 
Her  cold   hands  chilled  the  bosom  they 

embraced. 
Who  is  this  youth,  whose  forehead,  like  a 

book, 
Bears   many  a   deep-traced   character   of 

pain  ? 
Who  looks  for  pardon  as  the  damned  may 

look — 

That  ever  pray,  and  know  they  pray  in 
vain. 

XXV. 

'Tis  he,  the  wretched  youth — the  Demon's 

prey. 
One    sudden   bound,    and    he    is    at    her 

side — 


I'OK.MS  OF   DKNIS  F.   M.  CAUT1I V. 


you 


One  piercing  shriek,  and  she  has  swooned 

away, 
Dim   are   her  eyes,  and  cold  her  heart's 

warm  tide. 

Horror  and  terror  seized  the  startled  crowd  ; 
Their  sinewy  hands  are  nerveless  with  af- 
fright ; 

When,  as  the  wind  bcareth  a  summer  cloud, 
The  youth  bears  off  the  maiden  from  their 
sight. 

XXVI. 

Close  to  the  place  the  stream  rushed  roaring 

by, 

His  little   boat   lay   moored  beneath  the 

bank, 
Hid  from  the  shore,  and   from   the  ga/er's 

eye, 

By  waving  reeds  and  water-willows  dank. 
Hither,  with  flying  feet  and  glowing  brow, 
lie  fled  as  quick  as  fancies  in  a  dream — 
Placed  the  insensate  maiden  in  the  prow — 
Pushed  from    the   shore,  and  gained  the 
open  stream. 

XXVII. 

Scare,  nad  he  left  the  river's  foamy  edge, 
When   sudden   darkness   fell  on  hill  and 
plain ; 

The  angry  Sun,  shocked  at  the  sacrilege, 
Fled  from  the  heavens  with  all  his  golden 

O 

train ; 
The    stream    rushed    quicker,   like    a   man 

afeared  ; 
Down  swept  the  storm  and  clove  its  breast 

of  green, 

And  though  the  calm  and  brightness  reap- 
peared, 

The  youth  and  maiden  never  more  were 
seen. 

XXVIII. 

Whether  the  current  in  its  strong  arms  bore 
Their  bark   to    green   Hy-BrasaiPs  fairy 

halls, 
Oi  whether,  as  is  told  along  that  shore, 

They  sunk  within  the  buried  city's  walls ; 
Whether  through  some  Elysian  clime  they 

stray, 

Or   o'er  their  whitened   bones  the  river 
rolls : — 


Whate'er  their  fate,  my  brothers,  let  us  pray 
To  God  for  peace  and  pardon  to  their  souls. 


XXIX. 

Such  was  the  brother's  tale  of  earthly  love — 
He  ceased,  and  sadly  bowed  his  reverend 

head : 

For  us,  we  wept,  and  raised  our  eyes  above, 

And  sang  the  De  Profundis  for  the  dead. 

A  freshening  breeze  played  on  our  moistened 

cheeks, 

The  far  horizon  oped  its  walls  of  light, 
And  lo !    with  purple   hills   and   sunbright 

peaks 

A  glorious  isle  gleamed  on  our  gladdened 
sight. 


PART  V. 

THE  PARADISE   OF  BIRDS. 

i. 

IT  was  the  fairest  and  the  sweetest  scene — 
The  freshest,  sunniest,  smiling  land  '.hat 

e'er 
Held  o'er  the  waves  its  arms  of  sheltering 

green 

Unto  the  sea  and  stormed-vexed  mariner : 
No  barren  waste  its  gentle  bosom  scarred, 
Nor  suns  that  burn,  nor  breezes  winged 

with  ice, 
Nor  jagged    rocks — Nature's   gray  ruins — 

marred 
The  perfect  features  of  that  Paradise. 

ii. 

The  verdant  turf  spreads  from  the  crystal 

marge 
Of  the  clear  stream,  up  the  soft-swelling 

hill, 

Rose-bearing  shrubs  and  stately  cedars  lar<#', 

All  o'er  the  land  the  pleasant  prospect  till. 

Unnumbered  birds  their  glorious  colors  fling 

Among   the    boughs    that   rustic   in   the 

breeze, 

As  if  the  meadow-flowers  had  taken  wing 
And  settled  on  the  green  o'erarching  treea. 


310 


POEMS  OF  DENIS  F.  McCARTHY. 


in. 

Oh  !  Ita,  Ita !  'tis  a  grievous  wrong, 

That  man  commits  who,  uninspired,  pre- 
sumes 

To  sing  the  heavenly  sweetness  of  their  song, 
To   paint   the    glorious   tinting   of   their 

plumes — 

Plumes  bright  as  jewels  that  from  diadems 
Fling  over  golden  thrones  their  diamond 

rays — 
Bright,  even  as  bright  as  those  three  mystic 

gems 
The   angels  bore  thee  in  thy  childhood's 

O  *• 

days.1 

IV. 

There  dwells  the  bird  that  to  the  farther  west 
Bears  the  sweet  message  of  the  coming 

spring ;' 
June's    blushing    roses    paint   his    prophet 

breast, 
And  summer  skies  gleam  from  his  azure 

wing. 

While  winter  prowls  around  the  neighbor- 
ing seas, 

The  happy  bird  dwells  in  his  cedar  nest, 

Then  flies  away,  and  leaves  his  favorite  trees 

Unto  his  brother  of  the  graceful  crest.' 

v. 
Birds  that  with   us  are  clothed  in  modest 

brown, 

There  wear  a  splendor  words  cannot  ex- 
press. 


The  sweet- voiced  thrush  beareth  a  golden 

crown,4 
And  even   the  sparrow  boasts  a  scarlet 

dress.* 

There  partial  Nature  fondles  and  illumes 
The   plainest    offspring   that   her   bosom 

bears  ; 

The  golden  robin  flies  on  fiery  plumes," 
And  the  small  wren  a  purple  ruby  wears.* 

VI. 

Birds,  too,  that  even  in  our  sunniest  hours, 
Ne'er  to   this   cloudy  land   one   moment 

stray, 
Whose  brilliant  plumes,  fleeting  and  fair  as 

flowers, 

Come  with  the  flowers,  and  with  the  flow- 
ers decay.* 
The   Indian  bird,  with   hundred  eyes,  that 

throws 

From  his  blue  neck  the  azure  of  the  skies, 
And  his  pale  brother  of  the  northern  taows, 
Bearing  white  plumes  mirrored  with  bril- 
liant eyes." 

VII. 

Oft,  in  the  sunny  mornings,  have  I  seen 

Bright-yellow  birds,  of  a  rich  lemon  hue, 
Meeting  in  crowds  upon  the  branches  given, 
And    sweetly   singing    all    the    morning 

through  ; 10 

And  others,  with  their  heads  grayish  and  dark, 
Pressing  their  cinnamon  cheeks  to  the  eld 
trees, 


1  "  Upon  a  certain  occasion,  when  St.  Ita  was  sleeping,  she 
eaw  an  angel  approach  her,  and  present  her  with  three  pre- 
cious stones,  at  which  she  wondered  exceedingly,  until  in- 
formed by  the  angel  that  the  three  precious  stones  were  types 
of  the  blessed  Trinity,  by  whom  she  would  be  always  visited 
and  protected."— Life  of  St.  Ita,  in  Colgan,  p.  66. 

9  The  -Blue  Bird  (Le  rouge  gorge  bleu  de  Buffon).  "  The 
pleasing  manners  and  sociable  disposition  of  this  little  bird 
entitle  him  to  particular  notice.  As  one  of  the  first  messen- 
gers of  the  spring,  bringing  the  charming  tidings  to  our  very 
doors,  he  bears  his  own  recommendation  along  with  him,  and 
meets  with  a  hearty  welcome  from  everybody." — Wilson,  and 
Bonaparte's  American  Ornithology,  vol.  i.  pp.  56,  57.  His  fa- 
YOrite  haunts  are  the  cedar-trees  of  the  Bermudas. 

1  The  Cedar  Bird.  "  This  bird  wears  a  crest  on  the  head, 
which,  when  erected,  gives  it  a  gay  and  elegant  appearance." 
—Ibid.,  vol.  i.  p.  109. 

«  The  Golden-crowned  Thrush.  "  Sciurus  Aurocapillw."— 
Ibid.,  vol.  i.  p.  238. 

•  The  Scarlet  Tanagar. — "  Seen  among  the  green  leaves  with 
the  light  falling  strongly  on  his  plumage,  he  really  appears 
beautiful."— Ibid.,  vol.  i.  p.  194.    "Mr.  Edwards  calls  it  the 
Scarlet  Sparrow."— Ibid.,  p.  196. 

•  The  Baltimore  Oriole. — "  It  has  a  variety  of  names,  among 


which  are  '  the  golden  robin,'  and  '  the  fire-bird ; '  the  latter 
from  the  bright  orange  of  its  plumes,  shining  through  the 
green  leaves  like  a  flash  of  fire."— Ibid.,  vol.  i.  p.  16. 

7  The  Ruby-crowned  Wren. — "  This  little  bird  visits  us 
early  in  the  spring,  from  the  south,  and  is  generally  found 
among  the  maple  blossoms  about  the  beginning  of  April."— 
Ibid.,  vol.  i.  p.  831. 

•  Peacock?.— " Their  brilliant   plumes,  which   surpass   in 
beauty  the  fairest  flowers,  wither  like  them,  and  fall  with 
each  succeeding  ye&r."—Buff'on. 

•  The  White    Peacock  of  Sweden.— "  Although  the  plu- 
mage of  the  white  peacock  is  altogether  of  this  color,  the  long 
plumes  of  the  train  do  yet  retain,  at  their  extremities,  some 
vestiges  of  the  brilliant  mirrors  peculiar  to  the  species.1'—  Cn- 
vier.    These  are  the  only  birds  not  strictly  American  that  I 
have  introduced  into  this  description. 

10  The  Yellow  Bird,  or  Goldfinch :  its  color  is  of  a  rich  lemon 
ehade.  "On  their  first  arrival  in  Pennsylvania,  in  February, 
and  until  early  in  April,  they  frequently  assemble  in  great 
numbers  on  the  same  tree,  and  bask  and  dress  themselves  hi 
the  morning  sun,  singing  in  concert  for  half  an  hour  together  ; 
the  confused  mingling  of  their  notes  forming  a  kind  of  har- 
mony not  at  all  unpleasant."—  Wilson  and  Bonaparte,  vol.  i. 
p.  12. 


POKMS  OF  DKNIS  F.  McCAKTIIV. 


311 


And  striking  on  the  hard,  rough,  shrivelled 

bark, 
Like  conscience  on  a  bosom  ill  at  ease.1 

vm. 

And    diamond-birds    chirping   their   single 
notes, 

Now  'mid  the  trumpet-flower's  deep  blos- 
soms seen, 
Xow  floating  brightly  on  with  fiery  throats, 

Small-winged  emeralds  of  golden  green  ;* 
And  other  larger  birds  with  orange  cheeks, 

A  many-color-painted  chattering  crowd, 
Prattling  forever  with  their  curved  beaks, 

And  through  the  silent  woods  screaming 

w  O 

aloud.* 

IX. 

Color  and  form  may  be  conveyed  in  words, 
But  words  are  weak  to  tell  the  heavenly 

strains 

That  from  the  throats  of  these  celestial  birds 
Rang   through   the   woods   and   o'er  the 

echoing  plains : 
There  was  the  meadow-lark,  with  voice  as 

sweet, 
But   robed    in    richer    raiment   than   our 

own  ;4 

And  as  the  moon  smiled  on  his  green  retreat, 
The  painted  nightingale  sang  out  alone.* 

1  The  Gold-winged  Woodpecker.— "His  back  and  wings 
arc  of  a  dark  amber-color ;  upper  part  of  the  head  an  iron  gray ; 
checks,  and  part  surrounding  the  eyes,  of  a  fine  cinnamon- 
color.  The  sagacity  of  this  bird  in  discovering,  under  a  sound 
bark,  a  hollow  limb  or  trunk  of  a  tree,  is  truly  surprising. " — 
\Vitft<m  and  Itonaparte,  vol.  i.  p.  45. 

*  Humming-birds.— "The  Jewels  of  Ornithology" — "  Leapt 
of  the  winged  vagrants  of  the  sky."    Wilson  describes  thit> 
interesting  bird  in  the  following  manner  :— "  The  Humming- 
bird is  extremely  fond  of  tubular  flowers,  and  I  have  often 
stopped  with  pleasure  to  observe  his  manoeuvres  among  the 
blossoms  of   the  trumpet-flower.      When  arrived    before  a 
thicket  of  those  that  are  full-blown,  he  poises  or  suspends 
himself  on  wing  for  the  space  of  two  or  three  seconds  so  stead- 
ily, that  his  wings  become  invisible,  or  only  like  a  mist,  and 
you  can   plainly  distinguish    the   pupil  of  his   eye  looking 
round  with  great  quickness  and  circumspection.    The  glossy 
golden  green  of  his  back,  and  the  fur  of  his  throat  daxxling 
in  the  sun.  form  altogether  a  most  interesting  appearance." — 
Zbid.,  p.  17:i.    His  only  note  is  a  single  chirp,  not  louder  than 
that  of  a  small  cricket  or  grasshopper. 

1  The  Carolina  Parrot.—"  Out  of  108  kinds  of  parrots  enu- 
merated by  Europeans,  this  is  the  only  species  which  may 
be  considered  a  native  of  the  territory  of  the  United  States." 
—Ibid.,  vol.  1.  p.  887. 

4  "The  Meadow-lark,  though  inferior  in  song  to  his  Euro- 
pean namesake,  is  superior  to  him  in  the  richness  of  his  plu- 
mage."— IMd.,  vol.  i.  p.  818. 

•  "The  Cardinal  Grosbeak,  or  Red-bird,  sometimes  called 
the  Virginia  Niirhtingale."— 7Wd.,  vol.  1.  p.  191. 


Words  cannot  echo  music's  winged  note, 
One   bird   alone    exhausts    their  utmost 

power ; 
'Tis  that   strange  bird  whose  many-voice'd 

throat 
Mocks  all  his   brethren  of  the  woodland 

bower — 
To   whom,  indeed,  the   gift   of  tongues   is 

given, 
The   musical    rich    tongues  that   fill  tlir 

grove, 
Now  like  the  lark  dropping  his  notes  from 

heaven, 

Now  cooing   the   soft  earth-notes  of  the 
dove.6 

XI. 

Oft  have  I  seen  him,  scorning  all  control, 

Winging   his    arrowy   flight    rapid    ami 

strong, 
As  if  in  search  of  his  evanished  soul, 

Lost  in  the  gushing  ecstasy  of  song  ; T 
And  as  I  wandered  on,  and  upward  gazed, 

Half  lost  in  admiration,  half  in  fear, 
I  left  the  brothers  wondering  and  amazed, 

Thinking  that  all  the  choir  of  heaven  was 
near. 

xn. 

Was  it  a  revelation  or  a  dream  ? — 
That  these   bright   birds  as  angels  once 

o  o 

did  dwell 

In  heaven  with  starry  Lucifer  supreme, 
Half  sinned  with  him,  and  with  him  part- 
ly fell ; 


•  The  Mocking-bird  (Turdus  Poiyglottu*).—"Hl»  volte  it 
full,  strong,  and  musical,  and  capable  of  almost  every  undu- 
lation, from  the  clear,  mellow  tones  of  the  woo<l-thrn-li  '•> 
the  savage  scream  of  the  eagle." — /M</.,  vol.  i.  p.  i»;s.  "So 
perfect  are.  his  imitations,  that  he  many  times  decei\c*  the 
sportsman,  and  sends  him  in  search  of  birds  that  are  not 
within  miles  of  him.  but  whose  notes  lie  exactly  imitates. 
Kven  birds  themselves  ai>  often  imposed  on  by  this  admira- 
ble mimic,  and  are  decoyed  I>T  thu  funciftil  mils  of  their  • 
or  dive  with  precipitation  into  :>.<  depth*  of  thicket*,  at  the 
scream  of  what  they  suppose  to  be  the  c|wirrow-hawk."— Ibid^ 
vol.  i.  p.  Kill. 

'  His  expanded  wlncrfl  and  tail  glistening  with  white,  and 
the  buoyant  gayety  of  his  action,  arrest  the  eye.  and  hio  sontf 
most  Irresistibly  docs  the  ear,  as  he  sweep*  round  v  i;h  en- 
thusiastic  ecstasy.  He  mounts  and  descends  as  hi*  song 
swells  or  dies  away;  and,  as  Mr.  Bart  rain  has  beautifully  ex- 
pressed It,  "He  bounds  aloft  with  the  celerity  of  an  am 
if  to  recover  or  recall  his  very  soul,  expired  in  the  last  eleva- 
ted strain."— 7WU.,  vol.  I.  p.  16U. 


312 


POEMS  OF  DENIS  F.  McCARTHY. 


That  in  this  lesser  paradise  they  stray, 
Float  through  its  air,  and  glide  its  sti-eams 

along, 
And  that  the  strains  they  sing  each  happy 

day 
Rise  up  to  God  like  morn  and  even  song.1 


PART  VI. 
THE  PROMISED  LAND. 


As  on  this  world  the  young  man  turns  his 

eyes, 
When  forced  to  try  the  dark  sea  of  the 

grave, 
Thus  did  we  gaze  upon  that  paradise, 

Fading,  as  we  were  borne  across  the  wave. 
And  as  a  brighter  world  dawns  by  degrees 

Upon  Eternity's  serenest  strand, 
Thus     having    passed    through    dark    and 

gloomy  seas, 

At   length   we   reached   the   long-sought 
Promised  Land. 

ii. 

The  wind  had  died  upon  the  ocean's  breast, 
When,  like  a   silvery   vein   through   the 

dark  ore, 
A  smooth,   bright  current,   gliding   to   the 

west, 

Bore  our  light   bark  to   that   enchanted 
shore. 


It  was  a  lovely  plain — spacious  and  fair, 
And  blessed  with  all  delights  that  earth 

can  hold, 
Celestial  odors  filled  the  fragrant  air 

That   breathed    around   that    green   and 
pleasant  wold. 

in. 
There  may  not  rage  of  frost,  nor  snow,  nor 

rain, 
Injure   the   smallest    and    most    delicate 

flower, 
Nor  fall  of  hail  wound  the  fair,  health  fu* 

plain, 
Nor  the   warm   weather,  nor   the  winter's 

shower. 

That  noble  land  is  all  with  blossoms  floweredr 

Shed  by  the  summer  breezes  as  they  pass  -r 

Less  leaves  than  blossoms  on  the  trees  are 

showered, 
And  flowers  grow  thicker  in  the  fields  than 

grass.8 

IV. 

Nor  hills,  nor  mountains,  there  stand  high 

and  steep, 
Nor  stony  cliffs  tower  o'er  the  frightened 

waves, 
Nor   hollow  dells,   where   stagnant   water? 

sleep, 
Nor    hilly    risings,    nor    dark    mountain 

caves ; 

Nothing  deformed  upon  its  bosom  lies, 
Nor   on  its   level  breast   rests  auo-ht  un- 

O 

smooth ; — 


1  "  ?oon  after,  as  God  would,  they  saw  a  fair  island,  full  of 
flowers,  herbs,  and  trees,  whereof  they  thanked  God  of  his 
good  grace ;  and  anon  they  went  on  land,  and  when  they  had 
gone  long  in  this,  they  found  a  full  fayre  well,  and  thereby 
flood  a  fair  tree  full  of  boughs,  and  on  every  bough  sat  a  fayre 
bird,  and  they  sat  so  thick  on  the  tree,  that  uneath  any  leaf  of 
the  tree  might  be  seen.  The  number  of  them  was  so  great, 
and  they  sung  so  merrilie,  that  it  was  an  heavenlike  noise  to 
hear.  Whereupon  S.  Brandon  kneeled  down  on  his  knees 
and  wept  for  joy,  and  made  his  praises  devoutlie  to  our  Lord 
God,  to  know  what  these  birds  meant.  And  then  anon  one 
of  the  birds  flew  from  the  tree  to  S.  Brandon,  and  he,  with 
the  flickering  of  his  wings,  made  a  full  merrie  noise  like  a  fld- 
lle,  thai;  him  seemed  he  never  heard  so  joyful  a  melodic. 
And  then  St.  Brandon  commanded  the  foule  to  tell  him  the 
cause  why  they  sat  so  thick  on  the  tree  and  sang  so  merrilie. 
And  then  the  foule  said,  Sometime  we  were  angels  in  hea- 
ven, but  when  our  master,  Lucifer,  fell  down  into  hell  for  his 
high  pride,  and  we  fell  with  him  for  our  offences,  some  higher 
and  some  lower,  after  the  quality  of  the  trespass.  And  be- 
cause our  trespasse  is  but  little,  therefore  our  Lord  hath  sent 
ns  here,  oat  of  all  paine,  in  full  great  joy  and  mirthe,  after  his 
pleasing,  here  to  serve  him  on  this  tree  in  the  oest  manner 


we  can.  The  Sundaie  is  a  dale  of  rest  from  all  worldly  occu 
pation,  and  therefore,  that  daie  all  we  be  made  as  white  at 
any  snow,  for  to  praise  our  Lorde,  in  the  best  wise  we  may. 
And  then  all  the  birds  began  to  sing  even  song  so  merrilie, 
that  it  was  an  heavenlie  noise  to  hear ;  aud  after  supper  St. 
Brandon  and  his  fellows  went  to  bed  and  slept  well.  And  in 
the  morn  they  arose  by  times,  and  then  these  foulcs  began 
mattyns,  prime,  and  hours,  and  all  such  service  as  Christian 
men  used  to  sing;  and  St.  Brandon  and  his  fellows  abode 
there  seven  weeks,  until  Trinity  Sunday  was  passed."—  The 
" Lyfe  of  St.  Brandon"  in  the  Golden  Legend.  Published  by 
Wynkyn  de  Wordc.  1483.  Fol.  357. 

The  earlier  stanzas  of  this  description  of  Paradise  are  prin- 
cipally founded  upon  the  Anglo-Saxon  version  of  the  Latin 
poem  "De  Phenice,"  ascribed  to  Lactantius.  a  literal  transla- 
tion of  which  is  given  in  Wright's  Essay  on  "  St.  Patrick's 
Purgatory,"  p.  186.  "This  poem,"  says  Mr.  Wright,  "is  as 
old  as  the  earlier  part  of  the  eleventh  century,  and  probablj 
more  ancient." 

"  Nullam  herbam  vidimus  sine  floribus  et  arborem  nnllaro 
sine  fructibus ;  et  lapides  illius  pretiosse  gemmae  guilt."— 
Colgan's  Ada  Sanctorum,  p.  721. 


POEMS  OF  DENIS  F.  McCAKTIIV. 


313 


A  green,  glad  meadow  under  golden  skies, 
IHooming  forever  in  perpetual  youth. 

v. 
That   glorious  land  stands  higher  o'er  the 

sea, 
By  twelve-fold  fathom  measure,  than  we 

deem 

The  highest  hills  beneath  the  heavens  to  be. 
There  the  bower  glitters,  and  the  green 

woods  gleam. 

All  o'er  that  pleasant  plain,  calm  and  serene, 
The  fruits  ne'er  fall,  but,  hung  by  God's 

own  hand, 

Cling  to  the  trees  that  stand  forever  green, 
Obedient  to  their  Maker's  first  command. 

VI. 

•Mimmer  and  winter  are  the  woods  the  same, 
Ilunor  with  bright  fruits  and  leaves  that 

o  o 

never  fade  ; 

Such  will  they  be,  beyond  the  reach  of  flame, 
Till  Heaven,  and  Earth,  and  Time  shall 

have  decayed. 
Here  might  Iduna  in  her  fond  pursuit, 

As  fabled  by  the  northern  sea-born  men, 
Gather  her  golden  and  immortal  fruit, 
That  brings  their  youth  back  to  the  gods 
again.1 

TO. 

Of  old,  when  God,  to  punish  sinful  pride, 
Set  round    the  deluged  world  the  ocean- 
flood, 
When  all  the  earth  lay  'neath  the  vengeful 

tide, 

This  glorious  land  above  the  waters  stood. 
Such  shall  it  be  at  last,  even  as  at  first, 

Until  the  coming  of  the  final  doom, 
When    the    dark    chambers — men's   death- 
homes — shall  burst, 

And  man  shall   rise  to  judgment  from  the 
tomb. 

VIII. 

There,  there  is  never  enmity,  nor  rage, 
Nor  poisoned  calumny,  nor  envy's  breath, 


1  "  ID  the  Scandinavian  mythology,  Bragl  presided  over  elo- 
qnence  and  poetry.  His  wife,  named  Id  mm,  had  the  care  ot 
certain  apples  which  the  gods  tasted  when  they  found  them- 
selves jjrow  old,  and  which  had  the  power  of  instantly  n-tor- 
Ing  '.hem  to  yonth."— Mallet's  Northern  AntitfviH**.  p.  U5. 


Nor  shivering  poverty,  nor  decrepit  a-_r<-, 
Nor  loss  of  vigor,  nor  the  narrow  death, 

Nor  idiot  laughter,  nor  the  tears  men  weep,. 
Nor  painful  exile  from  one's  native  soi-1, 

Nor  sin,  nor  pain,  nor  weariness,  nor  sleep, 
Nor  lust  of  riches,  nor  the  poor  man's  toil 


There,  never  falls  the  rain-cloud  as  with  us, 
Nor  gapes  the  earth  with  the  dry  sum- 
mer's thirst, 

But  liquid  streams,  wondrously  curious, 
Out  of  the  ground  with  fresh,  fair  babblings 

burst. 
Sea-cold   and    bright   the    pleasant   waters 

glide 
Over    the    soil    and   through   the   sha<!\ 

bowers ; 
Flowers  fling  their  colored  radiance  o'er  the 

tide, 

And  the  white  streams  their  crystals  o'er 
the  flowers. 

x. 
Such    was    the   land   for   man's   enjoyment 

made 
When  from  this  troubled  life  his  soul  doth 

wend  : 
Such  was  the  land  through  which  entranced 

we  strayed, 
For  fifteen  days,  nor  reached  its  bound 

nor  end. 

Onward  we  wandered  in  a  blissful  dream, 
Nor  thought  of  food,  nor  needed  earthly 

rest ; 

Until  at  length  we  reached  a  :nighty  stream,. 
Whose  broad,  bright  waves  flowed  from 
the  east  to  west. 

XI. 

We  were  about  to  cross  its  placid  ti 

When  lo!  an  angel  on  our  vision  broke. 
Clothed  in  white,  upon  the  further  side 
He    stood    majestic,    and    thus    sweetly 

spoke : 

"Father,  return  !  thy  mission  now  is  o'er; 
God,  who  did  call  thee   here,  now  bids 

thee  go. 

Return  in  peace  unto  thy  native  shore, 
And   tell   the   mighty  secrets   thou   dost 
know. 


314 


POEMS  OF  DENIS  F.  McOARTUl. 


XII. 

"  In  after  years,  in  God's  own  fitting  time, 
This  pleasant  land  again  shall  reappear ; 
And  other  men  shall  preach  the  truths  sub- 
lime 

To  the  benighted  people  dwelling  here. 
But  ere  that   hour,  this   land    shall  all  be 

made, 

For  mortal  man,  a  fitting,  natural  home, 
Then  shall  the  giant  mountain  fling  its  shade, 
And  the  strong  rock  stem  the  white  tor- 
rent's foam. 

XIII. 

'Seek  thy  own  isle — Christ's  newly-bought 

domain, 
Which   Nature   with   an   emerald    pencil 

paints  ; 

b   ch  as  it  is,  long,  long  shall  it  remain, 
The  school  of  truth,  the   college  of  the 

*  O 

saints, 

TAJ  Accident's  bower,  the  hermit's  calm  re- 
treat, 

'll\e  stranger's  home,  the  hospitable  hearth, 
The  Bluine  to  which   shall  wander  pilgrim 

teefc 

£  rom  all  the  neighboring  nations  of  the 
eanb. 


"  But  in  the  end  upon  that  land  shall  fall 

A  bitter  scourge,  a  lasting  flood  of  tears, 
When  ruthless  tyranny  shall  level  all 

The  pious  trophies  of  its  earlier  years : 
Then  shall  this  land  prove  thy  poor  country's 
friend, 

And  shine,  a  second  Eden,  in  the  west ; 
Then  shall  this  shore  its  friendly  arms  ex- 
tend, 

And  clasp  the  outcast  exile  to  its  breast." 

xv. 
He  ceased,  and  vanished  from  our  dazzled 

sight, 
While  harps  and  sacred  hymns  rang  sweetly 

o'er : 
For   us,  again   we   winged   our  homeward 

flight 

O'er  the  gi-eat  ocean  to  our  native  shore  ; 
And  as  a  proof  of  God's  protecting  hand, 
And   of  the   wondrous   tidings   that   we 

bear, 

The  fragrant  perfume  of  that  heavenly  land 
Clings  to  the  very  garments  that  we  wear.1 


"Nonne  cognoscitis   in  oclore  vestitnentornm  nostrorutL 
quod  in  Paradiso  Domini  iuimus?   — Colgau'syMa 
rum,  p.  722. 


THE  PILJuAK  TOWERS  OF  IRELAND. 


THE  pillar  towers  of  Ireland,  how  wondrous- 
ly  they  stand 

By  the  lakes  and  rushing  rivers  through  the 
valleys  of  our  land  ; 

In  mystic  file,  through  the  isle,  they  lift  their 
heads  sublime, 

These  gray  old  pillar  temples — these  con- 
querors of  time ! 


n. 

Beside  these  gray  old  pillars,  how  perishing 
and  weak 


The  Roman's  arch  of  triumph,  and  the  tem- 
ple of  the  Greek, 

And  the  gold  domes  of  Byzantium,  and  the 
pointed  Gothic  spires, 

All  are  gone,  one  by  one,  but  the  temples  of 
our  sires ! 

in. 

The  column,  with  its  capital,  is  level  with 

the  dust, 
And  the  proud  halls  of  the  mighty,  and  the 

calm  homes  of  the  just ; 
For  the  proudest  works  of  man,  as  certainly 

but  slower, 
Pass  like  the  gi%ass  at  the  sharp  scythe  of 

the  mower ! 


POEMS  OF  DENIS  F.  M< CAU THV. 


315 


IV. 

But  the  grass  grows  again  when  in  majesty 
and  mirth, 

On  the  wing  of  the  Spring,  comes  the  god- 
dess of  the  Earth  : 

But  for  man  in  this  world  no  spring-tide  e'er 
returns 

To  the  labors  of  his  hands  or  the  ashes  of 
his  urns ! 


v. 

Two  favorites  hath  Time — the  pyramids  of 
Nile, 

And  the  old  mystic  temples  of  our  own  dear 
isle; 

As  the  breeze  o'er  the  seas,  where  the  hal- 
cyon has  its  nest, 

Thus  Time  o'er  Egypt's  tombs  and  the  tem- 
ples of  the  West ! 


VI. 

The  names  of  their  founders  have  vanished 

in  the  gloom, 
Like  the  dry  branch  in  the  fire  or  the  body 

ir  the  tomb ; 
Bat  to-day,  in  the  ray,  their  shadows  still 

they  cast — 
These  temples  of  forgotten  gods — these  relics 

of  the  past ! 


VII. 

Around  these  walls  have  wandered  the  Bri- 
ton and  the  Dane — 

The  captives  of  Armorica,  the  cavaliers  of 
Spain — 

Phoanician  and  Milesian,  and  the  plundering 
Norman  Peers — 

And  the  swordsmen  of  brave  Brian,  and  the 
chiefs  of  later  years ! 

VIII. 

How  many  different  rites  have  these  gray 

old  temples  known  ! 
To  the  mind  what  dreams  are  written  in 

these  chronicles  of  stone ! 
What  terror  and  what  error,  what  gleams 

of  love  and  truth, 
Have   flashed    from   these   walls    since   the 

world  was  in  its  youth  ! 


IX. 

Here  blax.cd  the  sacred  fire,  and  when  the 

sun  was  gone, 

As  a  star  from  afar  to  the  traveller  it  shone  ; 
And  the   warm   blood   of  the  victim    have 

these  gray  old  temples  drunk, 
And  the  death-son;.'1  of  the  Druid  and  the 

matin  of  the  Monk. 

x. 

Here  was  placed  the  holy  chalice  that  held 
the  sacred  wine, 

And  the  gold  cross  from  the  altar,  and  the 
relics  from  the  shrine, 

And  the  mitre,  shining  brighter  with  its  dia- 
monds than  the  East, 

And  the  crozier  of  the  Pontiff  and  the  vest- 
ments of  the  Priest ! 

XI. 

Where  blazed  the  sacred  fire,  rung  out  the 
vesper-bell, — 

Where  the  fugitive  found  shelter,  became 
the  hermit's  cell ; 

And  hope  hung  out  its  symbol  to  the  inno- 
cent and  good, 

For  the  Cross  o'er  the  moss  of  the  pointed 
summit  stood ! 

XII. 

There  may  it  stand  forever,  while  this  sym- 
bol doth  impart 

To  the  mind  one  glorious  vision,  or  one 
proud  throb  to  the  heart ; 

While  the  breast  nendeth  rest  may  these 
gray  old  temples  last, 

Bright  prophets  of  the  future,  as  preachers 
of  the  past ! 


THE  LAY  MISSIONER. 

HAD  I  a  wish — 'twere  this:  that  II* 

would  make 

My  heart  as  strong  to  imitate  as  love, 
That  half  its  weakness  it  could  leave,  and 

take 
Some  spirit's  strength,  by  which  to  soar 

above ; 
A  lordly  eagle  mated  with  a  dove — 


316 


POEMS  OF  DENIS  F.  McCARTHY. 


Strong  will  and  warm  affection,  these  be 
mine: 

Without   the  one  no   dreams   has   fancy 
wove, 

Without  the  other  soon  these  dreams  de- 
cline, 

Weak  children  of  the  heart,  which  fade  away 
and  pine ! 

Strong  have  I  been  in  love,  if  not  in  will ; 
Affections  crowd  and  people  all  the  past, 
And  now,  even  now,  they  come  and  haunt 

me  still, 
Even   from   the   graves   where   once   my 

hopes  were  cast. 

But  not  with  spectral  features,  all  aghast, 
Come  they  to  fright  me ;  no,  with  smiles 

and  tears, 
And  winding  arms,  and  breasts  that  beat 

O  / 

as  fast 
As  once  they  beat  in  boyhood's  opening 

years, 

Come  the  departed  shades,  whose  steps  my 
rapt  soul  hears. 

Youth  has  passed  by,  its  first  warm  flush 

is  o'er, 

And  now  'tis  nearly  noon  ;  yet  unsubdued 
My  heart  still  kneels  and  worships,  as  of 

yore, 
Those  twin-fair  shapes,  the  Beautiful  and 

Good! 
Valley  and  mountain,  sky  and  stream  and 

wood, 

And  that  fair  miracle,  the  human  face, 
And  human  nature  in  its  sunniest  mood, 
Freed  from  the'  shade  of  all  things  low 

and  base, — 

These  in  my  heart  still  hold  their  old  accus- 
tomed place. 

'Tis  not  with  pride,  but  gratitude,  I  tell 
How  beats  my  heart  with  all  its  youthful 

glow, 
How  one  kind  act  doth  make  my  bosom 

swell, 
And  Jown  my  cheeks  the  sweet,  warm, 

glad  tears  flow. 

Enough  of  self,  enough  of  me  you  know, 
Kind  reader;  but  if  thou  wouldst  further 

wend 


With  me  this  wilderness  of  weak  words' 
through, 

Let  me  depict,  before  the  journey  end, 
One  whom  methinks  thou'lt  love — my  bro- 
ther and  my  friend. 

Ah !    wondrous   is   the   lot   of  him   who 

stands 
A    Christian    Priest,    within   a   Christian 

fane, 
And   binds   with   pure    and    consecrated 

hands, 
Round  earth  and  heaven,  a  festal,  flowery 

chain ; 

Even  as  between  the  blue  arch  and  the  main- 
A  circling  western  ring  of  golden  light 
Weds  the  two  worlds,  or  as  the  sunny  rain 
Of  April  makes  the  cloud  and  clay  xinite, 
Thus  links  the  Priest  of  God  the  dark  world 

and  the  bright. 

All  are  not  priests,  yet  priestly  duties  may, 
And  should  be  all  men's :    as  a  common 

sight 

We  view  the  brightness  of  a  summers  day, 
And  think  'tis  but  its  duty  to  be  bright ; 
But   should   a  genial   beam    of  warming 

light 

Suddenly  break  from  out  a  wintry  sky, 
With  gratitude  we  own  a  new  delight, 
Quick  beats  the  heart,  and  brighter  beams 

the  eye, 
And  as  a  boon  we  hail  the  splendor  from  on 

high. 

'Tis  so  with  men,  with  those  of  them  at 

least 
Whose  hearts  by.  icy  doubts  are  chilled  and 

torn : 
They  think   the  virtues   of  a    Christian 

Priest 

Something  professional,  put  on  and  worn 
Even  as  the  vestments  of  a  Sabbath  morn  ; 
But  should  a  friend  or  act  or  teach  as  he, 
Then   is   the   mind   of  all   its    doublings 

shorn, 

The  unexpected  goodness  that  they  see 
Takes  root,  and  bears  its  fruit,  as  uncoerced 

and  free ! 

One  have  I  known,  and  haply  yet  I  know, 
A  youth  by  baser  passions  undefiled. 


IN) K.MS  ()F  DKNIS  F.  McCAKTIlV. 


317 


Lit  by  tlio  light  of  genius,  and  the  glow 
Which  iv.  il  it-eling  leaves  where  once  it 

smiled  ; 

Firm  as  a  man,  yet  tender  as  a  child  ; 
Armed    at    all    points    by    fantasy    and 

thought, 

To  face  the  true  or  soar  amid  the  wild  ; 
By  love  and  labor,  as  a  good  man  ought, 
Ueady  to  pay  the  price  by  which  dear  truth 

is  bought  ! 

'Tis  not  with  cold  advice  or  stern  rebuke, 
With  formal  precept,  or  with  face  demure, 
But  with  the  unconscious  eloquence  of 

look, 
Where  shines  the  heart,  so  loving  and  so 

pure: 
*Tis  these,  with  constant  goodness,  that 

allure 

All  hearts  to  love  and  imitate  his  worth. 
Beside  him  weaker  natures  feel  secure, 
Even  as  the  flower  beside  the  oak  peeps 

forth, 
Safe,  though  the  rain  descends,  and  blows 

the  biting  North  ! 

Such  ife  my  friend,  and  such  I  fain  would  be, 
Mild,  thoughtful,  modest,  faithful,  loving, 


Correct,  not  cold,  nor  uncontrolled,  though 

free, 
But  proof  to  all  the  lures   that  round  us 

}>'ay,— 

Even  as  the  sun,  that  on  his  azure  way 
Moveth  with  steady  pace  and  lofty  mien 
(Though  blushing  clouds,  like  sirens,  woo 

his  stay), 

Higher  and  higher  through  the  pure  serene, 
Till  comes  the  calm  of  eve  and  wraps  him 

from  the  scene. 


SUMMER   LONGINGS. 


La*  irnnnna*  Kloridas 
De  Abril  y   Mayo. 


CAI.DERON. 


An !  my  in-art  is  weary  waiting, 

Waiting  for  the  May — 
Waiting  for  the  pleasant  rambles, 
Where  the  fragrant  h:i\vth<>ni  brambles, 


With  the  woodbine  alternating, 

Scent  the  dewy  way  : — 
Ah  !  my  heart  is  weary  waiting, 

Waiting  for  the  May. 

Ah  !  my  heart  is  sick  with  longing, 

Longing  for  the  May — 
Longing  to  escape  from  study, 
To  the  young  face  fair  and  ruddy, 
And  the  thousand  charms  belonging 

To  the  sumine.V;  day: — 
Ah  !  my  heart  is  sick  with  longing 
Longing  for  the  May. 

Ah  !  my  heart  is  sore  with  sighing, 

Sighing  for  the  May — 
Sighing  for  their  sure  returning, 
When  the  summer  beams  are  burning, 
Hopes  and  flowers  that  dead  or  dying 

All  the  winter  lay  : — 
Ah  !  my  heart  is  sore  with  sighing, 
Sighing  for  the  May. 

Ah  !  my  heart  is  pained  with  throbbing, 

Throbbing  for  the  May — 
Throbbing  for  the  sea-side  billows, 
Or  the  water-wooing  willows ; 

Where  in  laughing  and  in  sobbing 

Glide  the  streams  away : — 
Ah  !  my  heart,  my  heart  is  throbbing, 
Throbbing  for  the  May. 

Waiting  sad,  dejected,  weary, 

Waiting  for  the  May — 
Spring  goes  by  with  wasted  warniii 
Moonlit  evenings,  sunbright  mornings; 
Summer  comes,  yet  dark  and  dreary 

Life  still  ebbs  away : — 
Man  is  ever  weary,  weary, 
Waiting  for  the  May  ! ' 


A    LA. MM  XT. 

Ya  CKta  Llama  i»e  cl.-ma. 
Ya  caduca  c-tc  cdltlclo, 
Ya  «e  deamaya  u*ta  Flor. 

THE  dream  is  over, 
The  vision  has  llown  ; 


1  Set  to  made  by  the  late  lamented  Earl 


318 


POEMS  OF  DENIS  F.  McCARTHY. 


Dead  leaves  are  lying 
Where  roses  have  blown ; 
Withered  and  strown 
Are  the  hopes  I  cherished, — 
All  hath  perished 
But  grief  alone. 

My  heart  was  a  garden 
Where  fresh  leaves  grew  ; 
Flowers  there  were  many, 
And  weeds  a  few ; 
Cold  winds  blew, 
And  the  frosts  came  thither, 
For  flowers  will  wither, 
And  weeds  renew ! 

Youth's  bright  palace 
Is  overthrown, 
With  its  diamond  sceptre 
And  golden  throne ; 
As  a  time-worn  stone 
Its  turrets  are  humbled, — 
All  hath  crumbled 
But  grief  alone ! 

Whither,  oh !  whither 

Plave  fled  away 

The  dreams  and  hopes 

Of  my  early  day  ? 

Ruined  and  gray 

Are  the  towers  I  builded  ; 

And  the  beams  that  gilded — 

Ah  i  where  are  they  ? 

Once  this  world 
Was  fresh  and  bright, 
With  its  golden  noon 
And  its  starry  night ; 
Glad  and  light, 
By  mountain  and  river, 
Have  I  blessed  the  Giver 
With  hushed  delisrht. 

O 

These  were  the  days 

Of  story  and  song, 

When  Hope  had  a  meaning 

And  Faith  was  strong. 

"  Life  will  be  long, 

And  lit  with  love's  gleamings :" 

Such  were  my  dreamings, 

But,  ah  !  how  wrong ! 


Youth's  illusions, 
One  by  one, 
Have  passed  like  clouds 
That  the  sun  looked  on. 
While  morning  shone, 
How  purple  their  fringes ! 
How  ashy  their  tinges 
When  that  was  gone ! 

Darkness  that  cometh 
Ere  morn  has  fled — 
Boughs  that  wither 
Ere  fruits  are  shed — 
Death-bells  instead 
Of  a  bridal's  pealings — 
Such  are  my  feelings, 
Since  hope  is  dead ! 

Sad  is  the  knowledge 

That  cometh  with  years — 

Bitter  the  tree 

That  is  watered  with  tears ; 

Truth  appears, 

With  his  wise  predictions, 

Then  vanish  the  fictions 

Of  boyhood's  years. 

As  fire-flies  fade 
When  the  nights  are  damp- 
As  meteors  are  quenched 
In  a  stagnant  swamp — 
Thus  Charlemagne's  camp, 
Where  the  paladins  rally, 
And  the  Diamond  Valley, 
And  Wonderful  Lamp, 

And  all  the  wonders 
Of  Ganges  and  Nile, 
And  Haroun's  rambles, 
And  Crusoe's  isle, 
And  Princes  who  smile 
On  the  Genii's  daughters 
'  Neath  the  Orient  waters 
Full  many  a  mile, 

And  all  that  the  pen 

Of  Fancy  can  write, 

Must  vanish 

In  manhood's  misty  light — 

Squire  and  knight, 

And  damosel's  glances, 


POEMS  OF  DENIS  F.  McCARTIIY. 


Sunny  romances 
So  pure  and  bright ! 

These  have  vanished, 
And  what  remains  ? 
Life's  budding  garlands 
Have  turned  to  chains — 
Its  beams  and  rains 
Feed  but  docks  and  thistles, 
And  sorrow  whistles 
O'er  desert  plains ! 

The  dove  will  fly 
From  a  ruined  nest — 
Love  will  not  dwell 
In  a  troubled  breast — 
The  heart  has  no  zest 
To  sweeten  life's  dolor — 
If  Love,  the  Consoler, 
Be  not  its  guest ! 

The  dream  is  over, 
The  vision  has  flown ; 
Dead  leaves  are  lying 
Where  roses  have  blown ; 
Withered  and  strown 
Are  the  hopes  I  cherished — 
All  hath  perished 
But  grief  alone  ! ' 


THE  CLAN  OF  MAcCAURA.1 

0 !  BRIGHT  are  the  names  of  the  chieftains 
and  sages, 

That  shine  like  the  stars  through  the  dark- 
ness of  ain's, 

O  ' 

Whose  deeds  are  inscribed  on  the  pages  of 

story, 
There   forever   to   live   in   the   sunshine   of 

glory- 
Heroes  of  history,  phantoms  of  fable, 
Charlemagne's    champions,    and     Arthur's 

Round  Table — 

O !  bnt  they  all  a  new  lustre  could  borrow 
From  the  glory  that  hangs  round  the  name 

of  MacCaura ! 


1  Set  to  music  by  the  Earl  of  Belfast.  Translated  Into 
French  by  M.  le  Chevalier  dc  Chatelaln. 

1  MauCurthy — MacCartha  (the  correct  way  of  gpcllin;;  the 
name  in  Knmrni  characters)  is  pronounced  iu-  Iri-li.  MacCaura, 
tin-  th  or  dotted  t  having  in  that  language  the  soft  sound  or  A. 


Thy  waves,  Man /.an  ares,  wash  many  a  shrine, 

And  proud  arc  the  castles  that  frown  oYr 
the  Rhine, 

And  stately  the  mansions  whose  pinnacles* 
glance 

Through  the  elms  of  old  England  and  vine- 
yards of  France ; 

Many  have  fallen,  and  many  will  fall — 

Good  men  and  brave  men  have  dwelt  in 
them  all — 

But  as  £ood  and  as  bra-ve  men,  in  gladness 
and  sorrow, 

Have  dwelt  in  the  halls  of  the  princely  Mac- 
Caura ! 

Montmorency,  Medina,  unheard  was  thy  rank 
By  the  dark-eyed  Iberian  and  light-hearted 

Frank, 
And  your  ancestors  wandered,  obscure  and 

unknown, 
By  the   smooth   Guadalquiver,   and   sunny 

Garonne — 

Ere  Venice  had  wedded  the  sea,  or  enrolled 
The  name  of  a  Doge  in  her  proud  "  Book  of 

Gold ;"  • 
When  her  glory  was  all  to  come  on  like  the 

morrow, 
There  were  chieftains  and  kings  of  the  clan 

of  MacCaura ! 

Proud  should  thy  heart  beat,  descendant  ol 

Heber,4 

Lofty  thy  head  as  the  shrines  of  the  Guebrc. 
Like  them  are  the  halls  of  thy  forefathers 

shattered, 
Like   theirs  is  the   wealth   of  thy   palaces 

scattered. 
Their  fire  is  extinguished — your  flag   long 

unfurled — 
But  how  proud  were  ye  both  in  the  dawn  ol 

the  world  ! 
And  should  both  fade  away,  oh!   what  heart 

would  not  sorrow 
O'er  the  lowers  of  the  Guebre — the  name  ol 

MaoCaurm ! 


1  Mnntmortnrti  and  Medina  are  respectively  at  the  head  of 
the  French  aial  Spanish  noliility.— The  flr-'  ted  In 

Venice  in  7IHI.  Voltaire  considered  the  families  \\  !i<>-e  name- 
were  inscribed  in  The  Itaokqf  (fold  at  the  founding  of  ihe 
city,  as  entitled  to  the  first  place  ID  European  nobility.— 
Bnrk«'«  Commonert. 

*  The  M:ii-r:iitliy's  trnee  their  origin  to  Heber  Fionn,  tin- 
elne-t  son  urMilesiiii-,  King  of  Spain,  throu-h  Oilioll  oliura. 
Kinir  (.!'  Mun-ter,  in  the  third  century. - Shrinu qf  t)u  6W«v 
— THIS  UOIND  TOWEM. 


320 


POEMS  OF  DENIS  F.  McCARTHY. 


What  a  moment  of  glory  to  cherish  and 
dream  on, 

When  far  o'er  the  sea  came  the  ships  of 
Heremon, 

With  Heber,  and  Ir,  and  the  Spanish  patri- 
cians, 

To  free  Inis-Fail  from  the  spells  of  magicians  ! 

Oh !  reason  had  these  for  their  quaking  and 
pallor, 

For  what  magic  can  equal  the  strong  sword 
of  valor  ? 

Better  than  spells  are  the  axe  and  the  arrow, 

When  wielded  or  flung  by  the  hand  of  Mac- 
Caura.1 

From  that  hour  a  MacCaura  had  reigned  in 

his  pride 
O'er  Desmond's  gieeri  valleys  and  rivers  so 

wide, 
From  thy  waters,  Lismore,  to  the  torrents 

and  rills 
That   are   leaping   forever  down  Brandon's 

brown  hills  ; 

The  billows  of  Bantry,  the  meadows  of  Bear, 
The   wilds   of  Evaugh,  and   the   groves  of 

Glancare — 
From  the  Shannon's  soft  shores  to  the  banks 

of  the  Barrow — 
All  owned  the  proud  sway  of  the  princely 

MacCaura ! 

In  the  house  of  M'odchuart,"  by  princes  sur- 
rounded, 

How  noble  his  step  when  the  trumpet  was 
sounded, 

And  his  clansmen  bore  proudly  his  broad 
shield  before  him, 

And  hung  it  on  high  in  that  bright  palace 
o'er  him  ; 

On  the  left  of  the  monarch  the  chieftain  was 
seated, 

And  happy  was  he  whom  his  proud  glances 
greeted. 


J  Heremon  and  Ir  were  also  the  sons  of  Milesius. — The  peo- 
ple who  were  in  possession  of  the  country  when  the  Milesians 
invaded  it,  were  the  Tnatha  cle  Danaans,  so  called,  says  Keat- 
tng,  "  from  their  skill  in  necromancy,  of  whom  some  were  so 
famous  as  to  be  called  Rods." 

a  The  house  of  Miodcfiuart  was  an  apartment  in  the  palace 
\»f  Tara,  where  the  provincial  kings  met  for  the  despatch  of 
public  business,  at  the  Feis  (pronounced  as  one  syllable),  or 
parliament  of  Tara,  which  assembled  then  once  in  every  three 
years— the  ceremony  alluded  to  is  described  in  detail  by  Keat- 
ing. See  Petrie'fi  "Tara." 


'  Mid  rnonarchs  and  chiefs  at  the  great  Feia 
of  Tara — 

Oh !  none  was  to  rival  the  princely  Mac- 
Caura ! 

To  the  halls  of  the  Red  Branch,  when  con- 
quest was  o'er, 
The  champions  their  rich  spoils  of  victory 

bore,8 
And  the  sword  of  the  Briton,  the  shield  of 

the  Dane, 
Flashed  bright  as  the  sun  on  tli6  walls  of 

Eamhain — 

There  Dathy  and  Niall  bore  trophies  of  war, 
From  the  peaks  of  the  Alps  and  the  waves 

of  the  Loire  ; 4 
But  no  knight  ever  bore  from  the  hills  of 

Ivaragh 
The  breastplate  or  axe  of  a  conquered  Mac 

Caura  ! 

In  chasing  the  red-deer  what  step  was  the 
fleetest, 

In  singing  the  love-song  what  ?oice  vas  tie 
sweetest — 

What  breast  was  the  foremost  in  couniug 
the  danger — 

What  door  was  the  widest  to  shelter  the 
stranger — 

In  friendship  the  truest,  in  battle  the  bravest, 

In  revel  the  gayest,  in  council  the  gravest — 

A  hunter  to-day,  and  a  victor  to-morrow? 

Oh  !  who  but  a  chief  of  the  princely  Mac- 
Caura ! 

But  oh !  proud  MacCaura,  what  anguish  to 
touch  on 

The  one  fatal  stain  of  thy  princely  es- 
cutcheon— 

In  thy  story's  bright  garden  the  one  spot  of 
bleakness — 

Through  ao-es  of  valor  the  one  hour  of  weak- 

o          o 

ness ! 

Thou,  the  heir  of  a  thousand  chiefs,  sceptred 
and  royal — 


*  The  house.'Of  the  Red  Branch  was  situated  in  the  stately 
palace  of  Eamhain  (or  Emania),  in  Ulster ;  here  the  spoils  taken 
from  the  foreign  foe  were  hung  up,  and  the  chieftains  who 
won  them  were  called  Knight?  of  the  Red  Branch. 

4  Dathy  was  killed  at  the  Alps  by  lightning,  and  Niall  (hia 
uncle  and  predecessor),  by  an  arrow  fired  from  the  opposite 
side  of  the  river  by  one  of  his  own  generals  as  he  sat  in  his 
tent  on  the  banks  of  the  Loire  in  France. 


POEMS  OF  DENIS  F.  McCARTHY. 


321 


Tlion  to  kneel  to  the  Norman  and  swear  to 

be  loyal ! 
Oh !  a  long  night  of  horror,  and  outrage, 

ami  sorrow 
Have  we  wept  for  thy  treason,  base  Diar- 

mid  MacCaura ! 

O !  why,  ere  you  thus  to  the  foreigner  pan- 
dered, 

Did  you  not  bravely  call  round  your  Emer- 
ald standard 

The  chiefs  of  your  house  of  Lough  Lcne  and 
Clan  Awley, 

O'Donogh,  Mac-Patrick,  O'Driscoll,  Mac- 
Awlcy, 

O'Sullivan  More,  from  the  towers  of  Dun- 
kerroti, 

And  O'Mahon,  the  chieftain  of  green  Ardin- 
teran  ? 

As  the  sling  sends  the  stone,  or  the  bent 
bow  the  arrow, 

Every  chief  would  have  come  at  the  call  of 
MacCaura ! 

Soon,  soon  didst  thou  pay  for  that  error  in 

woe — ' 

Thy  life  to  the  Butler — thy  crown  to  the  foe — 
Thy  castles  dismantled  and  strewn  on  the 

sod — 
And  the  homes  of  the  weak,  and  the  abbeys 

of  God ! 

No  more  in  thy  halls  is  the  wayfarer  fed — 
Nor  the  rich  mead  sent  round,  nor  the  soft 

heather  spread — 
Nor  the   clairseclCs    sweet    notes — now   in 

mirth,  now  in  sorrow — 
All,  all  have  gone  by  but  the  name  of  Mac- 

Caura ! 

MacCaura,  the  pride  of  thy  house  is  gone  by, 

But  its  name  cannot  fade,  and  its  fame  can- 
not die — 

Though  the  Arigideen,  with  its  silver  waves 
shine8 

Around  no  green  forests  or  castles  of  thine — 


1  Dinrmid  MacCarthy,  Kin<;  of  Dt-Kinoncl,  and  Daniel  O'Bri- 
ei:,  K'ng  of  Thomond.  were  the  llrbt  of  the  Irich  princes  to 
•wear  fealty  to  Henry  II. 

*  The  Arigideen  means  the  little  eilvur  stn-ain,  and  AUo, 
the  echoing  river.  By  these  rivers  and  m^nv  others  in  the 
•eouth  of  Ireland,  cattle*  were  erected  and  moiia-ti-rir-  found- 
%d  l>v  the  Mao''srthvs. 


Though  the  shrines  that  you  founded  no  in 
cense  doth  hallow, 

Nor  hymns  float  in  peace  down  the  echoing 
Allo— f 

One  treasure  thou  keepest — one  hope  for  the 
morrow — 

True  hearts  yet  beat  of  the  clan  of  Mac- 
Caura ! 


DEVOTION. 

WHEN  I  wander  by  the  ocean, 
When  I  view  its  wild  commotion, 
Then  the  spirit  of  devotion 

Cometh  near; 
But  it  tills  my  brain  and  bosom, 

Like  a  fear ! 

I  fear  its  booming  thunder, 
Its  terror  and  its  wonder, 
Its  icy  waves  that  sunder 

Heart  from  heart ; 
And  the  white  host  that  lies  under 
Makes  me  start ! 

Its  clashing  and  its  clangor 
Proclaim  the  Godhead's  anger — 
I  shudder,  and  with  languor 

Turn  away ; 
No  joyance  fills  my  bosom 

For  that  day ! 

When  I  wander  through  the  valleys, 
When  the  evening  zephyr  dallies 
And  the  light  expiring  rallies, 

In  the  stream, 
That  spirit  comes  and  glads  me 

Like  a  dream. 

Tin-  blue  smoke  upward  curling, 
The  silver  streamlet  purling, 
The  meadow  wild-flowers  furling 

Their  leaflets  to  repose — 
All  woo  me  from  the  world 

And  its  woes  ! 

The  evening  bell  that  bringcth 
A  truce  to  toil  ontringeth, — 
No  sweetest  l»ir<l  that  singeth 
Half  so  sweet. 


322 


POEMS  OF  DENIS  F.  McCARTHY. 


Not  even  the  lark  that  springeth 
From  my  feet ! 

Then  see  I  God  beside  me, 

The  sheltering  trees  that  hide  me, 

The  mountains  that  divide  me 

From  the  sea, — 
All  prove  how  kind  a  Father 

He  can  be. 

Beneath  the  sweet  moon  shining 
The  cattle  are  reclining, 
No  murmur  of  repining 

Soundeth  sad  ; 
All  feel  the  present  Godhead  ! 

And  are  glad  ! 

With  mute,  unvoiced  confessings, 
To  the  Giver  of  all  blessings 
I  kneel,  and  with  caressings 

Press  the  sod, 
And  thank  my  Lord  and  Father, 

And  my  God  ! 


OVER  THE  SEA. 

SAD  eyes,  why  are  ye  steadfastly  gazing 

Over  the  sea? 
Is  it  the  flock  of  the  Ocean-shepherd  grazing 

Like  lambs  on  the  lea  ? — 
Is  it  the  dawn  on  the  orient  billows  blazing 

Allureth  ye  ? 

Sad  heart,  why  art  thou  tremblingly  beating, 

What  troubleth  thee  ? 

There  where  the  waves  from  the  fathomless 
water  come  greeting, 

Wild  with  their  glee ! 

Or  rush  from  the  rocks  like  a  routed  battal- 
ion retreating, 

Over  the  sea ! 
Sad  feet,  why  are  ye  constantly  straying 

Down  by  the  sea  ? 

There  where  the  winds  in  the  sandy  harbor 
are  playing, 

Childlike  and  free, 

What  is  the  charm,  whose  potent  enchant- 
ment obeying, 

There  chaineth  ye  ? 


Oh!  sweet  is  the  dawn  and  bright  are  the 
colors  it  glows  in  ! 

Yet  not  to  me ! 

To  the  beauty  of  God's  bright  creation  my 
bosom  is  frozen  ! 

Naught  can  I  see  ! 

Since  she  has  departed — the  dear  one,  the 
loved  one,  the  chosen, 
Over  the  sea ! 

Pleasant  it  was  when  the  billows  did  strug- 
gle and  wrestle, 

Pleasant  to  see  ! 

Pleasant  to  climb  the  tall  cliffs  where  the 
sea-birds  nestle, 

When  near  to  thee ! 

Naught  can  I  now  behold  but  the  track  of 
thy  vessel 

Over  the  sea  ! 

Long  as  a  Lapland  winter,  which  no  pleasant 
sunlight  cheereth, 

The  summer  shall  be  : 

Vainly  shall   autumn   be   gay,  in   the   rich- 
robes  it  weareth, 

Vainly  for  me ! 

No  joy  can  I  feel  till  the  prow  of  thy  vessel 
appeareth 

Over  the  sea  ! 

Sweeter  than  summer,  which  tenderly,  moth- 
erly bringeth 

Flowers  to  the  bee  ! 

Sweeter  than  autumn,  which  bounteously, 
lovingly  flingeth 

Fruits  on  the  tree  ! 

Shall  be  winter,  when  homeward  returning,, 
thy  swift  vessel  wingeth 
Over  the  sea ! 


HOME  PREFERENCE. 

On  !  had  I  the  wings  of  a  bird, 

To  soar  through  the  blue,  sunny  sky, 

By  what  breeze  would  my  pinions  be  stim-d  ?• 
To  what  beautiful  land  would  I  fly  ? 

Would  the  gorgeous  East  allure, 
With  the  light  of  its  golden  eves, 


POEMS  OF  DENIS  F.  McCARTHY. 


323 


Where  the  tall,  green  palm  over  isles  of  balm, 
Waves  with  its  feathery  leaves? 
Ah  !  no !  no !  no ! 

I  heed  not  its  tempting  glare ; 
In  vain 'would  I  roam  from  my  island 

home, 
For  skies  more  fair. 

Would  I  seek  a  southern  sea, 

Italia's  shore  beside, 
Where  the  clustering  grape  from  tree  to  tree 

Hangs  in  its  rosy  pride  ? 
My  truant  heart,  be  still, 

For  I  long  have  sighed  to  stray 
Through  the   myrtle  flowers  of  fair  Italy's 

bowers, 

By  the  shores  of  its  southern  bay. 
But  no  !  no !  no ! 

Though  bright  be  its  sparkling  seas, 
I  never  would  roam  from  my  island 

home 
For  charms  like  these  ! 

Would  I  seek  that  land  so  bright, 

Where  the  Spanish  maiden  roves, 
With  a  heart  of  love  and  an  eye  of  light, 

Through  her  native  citron  groves  ? 
Oh  !  sweet  would  it  be  to  rest 

In  the  midst  of  the  olive  vales, 
Where  the  orange  blooms,  and  the  rose  per- 
fumes 

The  breath  of  the  balmy  gales  ! 
But  no !  no !  no  ! 

Though  sweet  be  its  wooing  air ! 
I  never  would  roam  from  my  island 

home 
To  scenes,  though  fair  ! 

Would  I  pass  from  pole  to  pole  ? 

Would  I  seek  the  western  skies, 
Where  the  giant  rivers  roll, 

And  the  mighty  mountains  rise  ? 
.  Or  those  treacherous  isles  that  lie 
In  the  midst  of  the  sunny  deeps, 
Where  the  cocoa  stands  on  the  glistening 

sands, 

\nd  the  dread  tornado  sweeps  ? 
Ah  !  no !  no !  no ! 

They  have  no  charms  for  me; 
I  never  would  roam  from  my  island 

home, 
Though  poor  it  be  ! 


Poor ! — oh  !  'tis  rich  in  all 

That  flows  from  Nature's  hand — 
Rich  in  the  emerald  wall 

That  guards  its  emerald  land  ! 
Are  Italy's  fields  more  green  ? 

Do  they  teem  with  a  richer  store 
Than  the  bright,  green  breast  of  the  isle  of 

the  West, 

And  its  wild,  luxuriant  shore  ? 
Ah  !  no !  no !  no ! 

Upon  it  Heaven  doth  smile. 
Oh  !  I  never  would  roam  from  my  na- 
tive home, 
My  own  dear  isle  ! ' 


THE  FIRESIDE. 

I  HAVE   tasted   all  life's  pleasures,  I  have 

snatched  at  all  its  joys, 
The  dance's  merry  measures  and  the  revel's 

festive  noise ; 
Though  wit  flashed  bright  the  livelong  night, 

and  flowed  the  ruby  tide, 
I  sighed  for  thee,  I  sighed  for  thee,  my  own. 

fireside ! 

In  boyhood's  dreams  I  wandered  far  across 
the  ocean's  breast, 

In  search  of  some  bright  earthly  star,  some 
happy  isle  of  rest ; 

I  little  thought  the  bliss  I  sought,  in  roam- 
ing far  and  wide, 

Was  sweetly  centred  all  in  thee,  my  own 
fireside ! 

How  sweet  to  turn  at  evening's  close  from 
all  our  cares  away, 

And  end  in  calm,  serene  repose,  the  swiftly 
passing  <lay ! 

The  pleasant  books,  the  smiling  looks  of  sis- 
ter or  of  bride, 

All  fairy  ground  doth  make  around  one's 
own  fireside ! 

"  My  Lord"  would  never  condescend  to  honor 

my  poor  hearth ; 
"  His  grace"  would  scorn  a  host  or  friend  of 

mere  plebeian  birth  ; 

>  Translated  Intc  French  by  M.  le  Chevalier  d«  Chatelaln 


324 


POEMS  OF  DENIS  F.  AlcCARTH\. 


And  yet  the  lords  of  human  kind,  whom 

man  has  deified, 
Forever  meet  in  converse  sweet  around  my 

fireside  ! 

The  poet  sings  his  deathless  songs,  the  sage 

his  lore  repeats, 
The  patriot  tells  his  country's  wrongs,  the 

chief  his  warlike  feats  ; 
Though    far  away  may  be  their   clay,  and 

gone  their  earthly  pride, 
Each  godlike  mind  in  books  enshrined  still 

haunts  my  fireside. 

Oh  !  let  me  glance  a  moment  through  the 

o  o 

coming  crowd  of  years, 

Their  triumphs  or  their  failures,  their  sun- 
shine or  their  tears, 

How  poor  or  great  may  be  my  fate,  I  care 
not  what  betide, 

So  peace  and  love  but  hallow  thce,  my  own 
fireside  ! 

Still  let  me  hold  the  vision  close,  and  closer 

to  my  sight ; 
Still,  still  in  hopes  elysian,  let  my  spirit  wing 

its  flight : 

C*  * 

Still  let  me  dream,  life's  shadowy  stream 
may  yield  from  out  its  tide, 

A  mind  at  rest,  a  tranquil  breast,  a  quiet 
fireside ! ' 


THE  VALE  OF  SHANGANAH. 

WHEN  I  have  knelt  in  the  temple  of  Duty, 
Worshipping  honor,  and  valor,  and  beauty — 
When,  like  a  brave  man,  in  fearless  resistance, 
I  have  fought  the  good  fight  on  the  field  of 

existence ; 
When  a  home  I  have  won  in  the  conflict  of 

labor, 
With  truth  for  my  armor  and  thought  for 

my  sabre, 
Be  that  home  a  calm  home  where  my  old 

age  may  rally, 
A  home  fall  of  peace  in  this  sweet,  pleasant 

valley ! 

1  Set  to  music  by  Mr.  J.  Hirst  of  Shelby,  Yorkshire.    Trans- 
lated into  French  by  M.  le  Chevalier  de  Chatelaiu 


Sweetest  of  vales  is  the  Vale  of  Shan- 
gun  ah  ! 

Greenest  of  vales  is  the  Vale  of  Shan- 
ganah  ! 

May  the  accents  of  love',  like  the  drop- 
pings of  manna, 

Fall  sweet  on  my  heart  in  the  Vale  of 
Shanganah  ! 

Fair  is  this  isle — this  dear  child  of  the  ocean, 
Nurtured    with    more   than  a  mother's   de- 
votion ; 
For,   see !    in  what  rich  robes  has  Nature 

arrayed  her, 
From  the  waves  of  the  west  to  the  cliffs  of 

Ben  Edar,' 
By  Glengariff  's  lone  islets — Killarney's  weird 

water, 
So  lovely  was  each,  that  then  matchless  ] 

thought  her ; 

But  I  feel,  as  I  stray  through  each  sweet- 
scented  alley, 
Less  wild  but  more  fair  is  this  soft,  verdant. 

valley  ! 

Sweetest  of  vales  is  the  Vale  of  Shan- 
.      .       ganah ! 

Greenest  of  vaies  is  the  Vale  of  Shan- 
ganah ! 
No  wide-spreading   prairie — no   Indian 

savannah, 

So  dear  to  the  eye  as  the  Vale  of  Shan- 
gunah  ! 

How  pleased,  how  delighted,  the  rapt  eye 

reposes 

On  the  picture  of  beauty  this  valley  discloses, 
From  that  margin  of  silver  whereon  the  blue 

water 
Doth  glance  like  the  eyes  of  the  ocean-foam's 

daughter  ! 
To  where,  with  the  red  clouds  of  mornincr 

'  O 

combining, 

The  tall  "Golden  Spears"3  o'er  the  moun- 
tains are  shining, 

With  the  hue  of  their  heather,  as  sunlight 
advances, 

Like  purple  flags  furled  round  the  staffs  of 
the  lances  ! 


4  Ben  Edar  is  the  Irish  name  of  the  Hill  of  Ho-.vth. 
1  The  Sugar  Loaf  Mountains,  Co.  Wicklow,  according  to 
some  antiquaries,  were  called  in  Irish  "  The  Golden  Spears.'' 


I'OK.MS  OF   DKMS  F.   .M.CA1ITIIY. 


3-25 


Sweetest  of  vales  is  the  Vale  of  Shan- 

ganah  ! 
Greenest  of  vales  is  the  Vale  of  Shan- 

gunah  ! 
No  lands  far  away  by  the  calm  Susque- 

hannah, 
So  tranquil  and  fair  as  the  Vale  of  Shan- 

ganah  ! 

0 

But  here,  even  here,  the  lone  heart  were  be- 
nighted, 
No  beauty  could  reach  it,  if  love  did  not 

light  it ; 
'Tis  this  makes  the  earth,  oh  !  what  mortal 

can  doubt  it  ? 

A  garden  with  ft,  but  a  desert  without  it ! 
With  the  loved  one,  whose  feelings  instinct- 
ively teach  her 
That  goodness  of  heart  makes  the  beauty  of 

feature, 
How  glad  through  this  vale  would  I  float 

down  life's  river, 
Enjoying   God's   bounty,  and   blessing  the 

Giver ! 
Sweetest  of  vales  is  the  Vale  of  Shan- 

giinah  ! 

Greenest  of  vales  is  the  Vale  of  Shan- 
gun  ah  ! 

M<iy  the  accents  of  love,  like  the  drop- 
pings of  manna, 

Fall  sweet  on  my  heart  in  the  Vale  of 
Shanganah  ! ' 


THE  WINDOW. 

AT  my  window,  late  and  early, 

In  the  sunshine  and  the  rain, 
•When  the  jocund  beams  of  morning 
Come  to  \vake  me  from  my  napping, 
With  their  golden  fingers  tapping 

At  my  window-pane  : 
From  my  troubled  slumbers  flitting — 

From  my  dreamings  fond  and  vain 
From  the  fever  intermitting, 
Up  I  start,  and  take  my  sitting 

At  my  window-pane  : — 
Through  the  morning,  through  the  noontide, 


Fettered  l>y  a  diamond  chain, 
Through  the  early  hours  of  evening, 
When  the  stars  begin  to  tremble, 
As  their  shining  ranks  assemble 

O'er  the  a/.ure  plain  : 
When  the  thousand  lamps  are  blazing 

Through  the  street  ami  lane — 
Mimic  stars  of  man's  upraising — 
Still  I  linger,  fondly  ga/.ing 

From  my  window-pane  ! 

For,  amid  the  crowds,  slow  passing, 

Surging  like  the  main, 
Like  a  sunbeam  among  shadows, 
Through  the  storm-swept  cloudy  masses,. 
Sometimes  one  bright  being  passes 

'Neath  my  window-pane  : 
Thus  a  moment's  joy  I  borrow 

From  a  day  of  pain. 
See,  she  comes  !  but,  bitter  sorrow  ! 
Not  until  the  slow  to-morrow 

Will  she  come  again. 


1  Tht  Vateof  Xhangiinah  (or  more  usually  called  ShAnffanagh) 
lien  to  the  so-iMi  of  Killincy  Hill,  nt-ar  Dalkey,  Co.  Dublin 


ADVANCE.1 

"There  is  nothing  stationary  in  space— even  the  fixed  sun 
move." 

Coano*. 

GOD  bade  the  Sun  with  golden  step  sublime 

Advance  ! 
He  whispered  in  the  listening  ear  of  Time,. 

Advance  !  ' 

He  bade  the  guiding  spirits  of  the  Stars,. 
With  lightning  speed,  in  silver-shining  cars, 
Along  the  bright  floor  of  his  azure  hall 

Advance ! 
Suns,  Stars,  and  Time,  obey  the  voice,  and  all 

Advance ! 
The  River,  at  its  bubbling  fountain,  cries 

Advance ! 

The  Clouds  proclaim,  like  heralds  through 
the  skies, 

Ad  \ance ! 
Throughout  the  world  the  mighty  Master's 

laws 
Allow  not  one  brief  moment's  idle  pause. 


*  Thin  poem   haa  been  admirably  translated  into  Fix-neb 

'•v  M.  !<•  Chevalier  de  ChatHain.     See  the  inter' 
yp-riineii!'  of  hi*  "  Bcuilli's  de  :lai«e,"  appended 

to  the  third  editioi   of  hi*  "  Fable*  de  day."  London. 


326 


POEMS  OF  DENIS  F.  McCARTHY. 


The  Earth  is  full  of  life,  the  swelling  seeds 

Advance  ! 

And  summer  hours,  like  flowery  harnessed 
steeds, 

Advance  ! 

To  Man's   most  wondrous   hand  the  same 
voice  cried, 

Advance  ! 
Go  clear  the  woods,  and  o'er  the  bounding  tide 

Advance  ! 

Go  draw  the  marble  from  its  secret  bed, 
And  make  the  cedar  bend  its  giant  head; 
Let  domes  and  columns  through  the  won- 


dering air 


Advance  ! 


The  world,  O  Man  !  is  thine.     But  wouldst 
thou  share — 

Advance  ! 

Unto  the  soul  of  man  the  same  voice  spoke, 

Advance  ! 
From  out  the  chaos,  thunder-like,  it  broke, 

"  Advance  ! 

"  Go  track  the  comet  in  its  wheeling  race, 
And  drag  the  lightning  from  its  hiding-place ; 
From  out  the  night  of  ignorance  and  fears, 

O  O  f 

Advance  ! 

For  love  and  hope,  borne  by  the  coming  years, 
Advance  !" 

All  heard,  and  some  obeyed  the  great  com- 
mand, 

Advance ! 
It  passed  along  from  listening  land  to  land, 

Advance  ! 
The   strong   grew  stronger,  and   the  weak 

grew  strong, 

As  passed  the  war-cry  of  the  World  along — 
Awake,  ye  nations,  know  your  powers  and 
rights — 

Advance  ! 

Through  hope  and  work  to  freedom's  new 
delights — 

Advance ! 

Knowledge  came  down  and  waved  her  steady 


torch, 


Advance ! 


Sages  proclaimed  'neath  many  a  marble  porch, 
Advance ! 


As  rapid  lightning  leaps  from  peak  to  peak, 
The  Gaul,  the  Goth,  the  Roman,  and  the 

Greek, 
The  painted  Briton  caught  the  winged  word, 

Advance  ! 
And  earth  grew  young,  and  carolled  as  a  bird, 

Advance ! 

Oh  !  Ireland — oh !  my  country,  wilt  thou  not 

Advance  ? 

Wilt  thou  not  share  the  world's  progressive 
lot? 

Advance  ! 
Must  seasons   change,  and   countless  years 

roll  on, 

And  thou  remain  a  darksome  Ajalon,1 
And  never  see  the  crescent  moon  of  hope 

Advance  ? 
'  Tis  time  thine  heart  and  eye  had  wider  SCOJK, 

Advance  ! 

Dear  brothers,  wake  !  look  up  !  be  firm  !   be 


strong ! 


Advance  ! 


From  out  the  starless  night  of  fraud  and  wrong 

Advance ! 
The  chains  have  fallen  from  off"  thy  wasted 

hands, 

And  every  man  a  seeming  freed  man  stands. 
But  ah  !  'tis  in  the  soul  that  freedom  dwells : 

Advance  ! 
Proclaim  that  there  thou  wearest  no  manacles  • 

Advance  ! 

Advance  !  thou  must  advance  or  perish  now : 

Advance  ! 

Advance  !     Why  live  with  wasted  heart  and 
brow? 

Advance ! 

Advance  !  or  sink  at  once  into  the  grave  ;    - 
Be  bravely  free,  or  artfully  a  slave  ! 
Why  fret  thy  master,  if  thou  mus*  have  one  ': 

Advance  ! 

"  Advance  three  steps,  the  glor  ous  work  is 
done"—2 

Advance ! 

The  first  is  COURAGE — 'tis  a  giant  stride  ! 
Advance  ! 


1  "Move  not,  O  Sun,  towards  Gabaon,  nor  thou,  O  Moon, 
toward  the  Valley  of  Ajalon."— Josue,  ix.  12. 
•  "  Trois  pas  en  avant,  c'est  fait."— VICTOR  11  coo. 


POEMS  OF  DENIS  F.  MoCAKTIIY. 


\Vith  bounding  step  up  freedom's  rugged  bide 

Advance  ! 
KNOWLEDGE  will  lead  you  to  the  dazzling 

heights ; 

TOLERANCE  wiil  teach  and  guard  your  bro- 
ther's rights. 
Faint  not !  for  thce  a  pitying  Future  waits  : 

Advance  ! 

Be  wise,  be  just :  with  will  as  fixed  as  Fate's, 
Advance ! 


THE  EMIGRANTS. 

PART  I. 

"  On  !  come,  my  mother,  come  away,  across 

the  sea-green  water ; 
Oh !  come  with  me,  and  come  with  him,  the 

husband  of  thy  daughter; 
Oh  !  come  with  us,  and  come  with  them,  the 

sister  and  the  brother, 
Who,  prattling,  clime  thine  aged  knees,  and 

call  thy  daughter — mother. 

**  Oh  !  come,  and  leave  this  land  of  death — 
this  isle  of  desolation — 

This  speck  upon  the  sunbright  face  of  God's 
sublime  creation ; 

Since  now  o'er  all  our  fatal  stars  the  most 
malign  hath  risen, 

When  labor  seeks  the  poorhouse,  and  inno- 
cence the  prison. 

"  'Tis  true,  o'er  all  the  sun-brown  fields  the 
husky  wheat  is  bending  ; 

'Tis  true,  God's  blessed  hand  at  last  a  better 
time  is  sending  ; 

'Tis  true,  the  island's  aged  face  looks  hap- 
pier and  younger, 

But  in  the  best  of  days  we've  known  the 
sickness  and  the  hunger. 

"  When  health  breathed  out  in  every  breeze, 
too  oft  we've  known  the  fever — 

Too  oft,  my  mother,  have  we  felt  the  hand 
of  the  bereaver ; 

Too  well  remember  many  a  time  the  mourn- 
ful task  that  brought  him, 

When  freshness  fanned  the  summer  air,  and 
cooled  the  glow  of  autumn. 


"  But  then  the  trial,  though  severe,  still  tea- 
tified  our  patience, 

We  bowed  with  mingled  hope  and  fear  to 
God's  wise  dispensations ; 

We  felt  the  gloomiest  time  was  both  a  pro- 
mise and  a  warning, 

Just  as  the  darkest  hour  of  night  is  herald 
of  the  morning. 

"  But  now  through  all  the  black  expanse  no 
hopeful  morning  breaketh — 

No  bird  of  promise  in  our  hearts  the  glad- 
some song  awaketh ; 

No  far-off  gleams  of  good  light  up  the  hills 
of  expectation — 

Naught  but  the  gloom  that  might  precede 
the  world's  annihilation. 

"So,  mother,  turn  thine  aged  feet,  and  let 

our  children  lead  'em 
Down  to  the  ship  that  wafts  us  soon  to  plenty 

and  to  freedom  ; 
Forgetting  naught  of  all  the  past,  yet  all  the 

past  forgiving : 
Come,  let  us  leave  the  dying  land,  and  fly 

unto  the  living. 

"They  tell  us,  they  who  read  and  think  of 
Ireland's  ancient  story, 

How  once  its  Emerald  Flag  flung  out  a  sun- 
burst's fleeting  glory  ; 

Oh  !  if  that  sun  will  pierce  no  more  the  dark 
clouds  that  efface  it, 

Fly  where  the  rising  stars  of  heaven  com- 
mingle to  replace  it. 

"  So,  come,  my  mother,  come  away,  across 

the  sea-green  water ; 
Oh !  come  with  us,  and  come  with  him,  the 

husband  of  thy  daughter ; 
Oh!  come  with  us,  and  come  with  them,  the 

sister  and  the  brother, 
Who,  prattling,  climb  thine  age"d  knees,  an-1 

call  thy  daughter — mother." 


PART  II. 

"  An  !  go,  my  children,  go  away — obey  this 

inspiration ; 
Go  with  the  mantling  hopes  of  henltb  and 

youthful  expectation  ; 


328 


POEMS  OF  DENIS  F.  McCARTHY. 


Go,  clear  the  forests,  climb  the  hills,  and 
plough  the  expectant  prairies ; 

Go,  in  the  sacred  name  of  God,  and  the 
blessed  Virgin  Mary's. 

"  But  though  I  feel  how  sharp  the  pang  from 
thee  and  thine  to  sever, 

To  look  upon  these  darling  ones  the  last  time 
and  forever; 

Yet  in  this  sad  and  dark  old  land,  by  deso- 
lation haunted, 

My  heart  has  struck  its  roots  too  deep  ever 
to  be  transplanted. 

"A  thousand  fibres  still  have  life,  although 

the  trunk  is  dying — 
They   twine   around   the   yet   green   grave 

where  thy  father's  bones  are  lying  : 
Ah !   from  that  sad  and  sweet  embrace  no 

soil  on  earth  can  loose  'em, 
Though  golden  harvests  gleam  on  its  breast, 

and  golden  sands  in  its  bosom. 

"  Others  are  twined  around  the  stone,  where 

ivy  blossoms  smother 
The  crumbling  lines  that  trace  thy  names, 

my  father  and  my  mother  ! 
God's  blessing   be   upon   their   souls — God 

grant,  my  old  heart  prayeth, 
Their  names  be  written  in  the  Book  whose 

writing  ne'er  decayeth. 

"  Alas !  my  prayers  would  never  wann  with- 
in those  great  cold  buildings, 

Those  grand  cathedral  churches,  with  their 
marbles  and  their  gildings  ; 

Far  fitter  than  the  proudest  dome  that  would 
hang  in  splendor  o'er  me, 

Is  the  simple  chapel's  whitewashed  walls, 
where  my  people  knelt  before  me. 

"  No  doubt  it  is  a  glorious  land  to  which  you 

now  are  going, 
Like  that  which  God  bestowed  of  old,  with 

milk  and  honey  flowing  ; 
Rut  where   are  the  blessed  saints  of  God, 

whose  lives  of  his  Law  remind  me, 
Like  Patrick,  Brigid,  and  Columbkille,  in  the 

land  I'd  leave  behind  me  ? 

"So  leave  rne  here,  my  children,  with  my 
old  ways  and  old  notions — 


Leave  me  here  in  peace,  with  my  memoriei 

and  devotions  : 
Leave  me  in  sight  of  your  father's  grave ;  and 

as  the  heavens  allied  us, 
Let  not,  since  we  were  joined  in  life,  even 

the  grave  divide  us. 

"  There's  not  a  week  but  I  can  hear  how  you 

prosper  better  and  better, 
For  the  mighty  fire-ships  over  the  sea  will 

bring  the  expected  letter  ; 
And  if  I  need  aught  for  my  simple  wants, 

my  food  or  my  winter  firing, 
Thou'lt  gladly  spare  from  thy  growing  store, 

a  little  for  my  requiring 

"  So,  go,  my  children,  go  away — obey  this 

inspiration  ; 
Go  with  the  mantling  hopes  of  health  and 

youthful  expectation  ; 
Go  clear  the   forests,  climb   the   hills,  and 

plough  the  expectant  prairies  ; 
Go,  in  the   sacred    name  of  God,  and    the 

blessed  Virgin  Mary's." 


Da  lei  si  move  ciascun  mio  pensiero, 
Perche  1'anima  ha  preso  qualitate 
l)i  sua  bulla  persona. 

DANTK. 

FIRST  loved,  last  loved,  best  loved  of  all 

I've  loved  ! 

Ethna,   my   boyhood's   dream,   my   man- 
hood's light, — 
Pure   angel    spirit,   in    whose    light   I've 

moved 
Full    many  a  year  along  life's  darksome 

night ! 
Thou    wert    my    star,    serenely    shining 

bright 
Beyond  youth's  passing  clouds  and  mists 

obscure ; 
Thou  wert  the  power  that  kept  my  spirit 

white, 
My  soul  unsoiled,  my  heart  untouched  and 

pure. 
Thine  was  the  light  from  Heaven  that  ever 

must  endure. 


POEMS  OF  DENIS  F.  McCAUTIIY. 


329 


Purest,  and  best,  and  brightest,  no  mishap, 
No  chance  or  change  can  break  our  mu- 
tual ties ; 

My  heart  lies  spread  before  thee  like  a  map, 
Here  roll  the  tides,  and  there  the  moun- 
tains rise ; 
Here   dangers    frown,   and    there   hope's 

streamlet  flies, 

And  golden  promontories  cleave  the  main  ; 
And  I  have  looked  into  thy  lustrous  eyes, 
And  saw  the  thought  thou  couldst  not  all 

restrain, 
A  sweet,  soft,  sympathetic  pity  for  my  pain  ! 

Dearest  and  best,  1  dedicate  to  thee, 
From    this    hour    forth,   my    hopes,    my 

dreams,  my  cares, 

All  that  I  am,  and  all  I  e'er  may  be, — 
Youth's  clustering  locks,  and  age's  thin, 

white  hairs  ; 

Thou  by  my  side,  fair  vision,  unawares — 
Sweet  saint — shalt  guard  me  as  with  an- 
gel's wings  ; 
To  thee  shall  rise  the  morning's  hopeful 

prayers, 

The  evening  hymns,  the  thoughts  that  mid- 
night brings, 

The  worship  that  like  fire  out  of  the  warm 
heart  springs. 

Thou  wilt  be  with  me  through  the  strug- 
gling day, 

Thou  wilt  be  with  me  through  the  pen- 
sive night, 

Thou  wilt  be  with  me,  though  far,  far  away 
Some  sad  mischance  may  snatch  you  from 

my  sight. 

In  grief,  in  pain,  in  gladness,  in  delight, 
In  every  thought  thy  form  shall  bear  a  part, 
In  every  dream  thy  memory  shall  unite, 
Bride  of  my  soul,  and  partner  of  my  heart ! 
Till  from  the  dreadful  bow  flieth  the  fatal  dart ! 

Am  I  deceived  ?  and  do  I  pine  and  faint 
For  worth   that   only   dwells   in   heaven 

above  ? 

Ah  !  if  thou'rt  not  the  Ethna  that  I  paint, 
Then  thou  art  not  the  Ethna  that  I  love  : 
If  thou  art  not  as  gentle  as  the  dove, 
A^nd  good  as  thou  art  beautiful,  the  tooth 
Of  venomed   serpents   will   not   deadlier 

prove 


Than  that  dark  revelation  :  but,  in  sooth, 
Ethna,  I  wrong  thee,  dearest,  for  thy  name 
is  Tfiuxu.1 


WINGS  FOR  HOME. 

MY  heart  hath  taken  wings  for  home ; 

Away !  away  !  it  cannot  stay. 
My  heart  hath  taken  wings  for  home, 
Nor  all  that's  best  of  Greece  or  Rome 

Can  stop  its  sway. 
My  heart  hath  taken  wings  for  home, 

Away ! 

My  heart  hath  taken  wings  for  home, 
O  Swallow,  Swallow,  lead  the  way  I 

O,  little  bird,  fly  north  with  me, 

I  have  a  home  beside  the  sea 

Where  thou  canst  sing  and  play ; — 

My  heart  hath  taken  wings  for  home, 
Away! 

My  heart  hath  taken  wings  for  home, 
But  thou,  O  little  bird,  wilt  stay ; 

Thou  hast  thy  little  ones  with  thee  hero, 

Thy  mate  floats  with  thee  through  the  clear 
Italian  depths  of  day; — 

My  heart  hath  taken  wings  for  home, 
Away ! 

My  heart  hath  taken  wings  for  home, 

Away!  away!  it  cannot  stay. 
One  spring  from  Brunelleschi's  dome, 
To  Venice  by  the  Adrian  ibam, 
Then  westward  be  my  way. — 
My  heart  hath  taken  wings  for  home, 
Away ! 


TO  AN  INFANT. 

LEAP,  little  feet ;  leap  up,  oh  leap  ! 

With  bounding  life,  be  bol.l  and  brave; 
The  time  may  come  when  ye  must  creep, 
Even  to  a  grave  ! 


JSthna,  or  Althna,  in  Irish  ri^nltlc*  Truth.  The  mothci  nf 
St.  Colnmbkllle  bore  this  beautiful  name.  See  "Adamnan'* 
Life  of  St.  Columba,"  edited  by  the  Kcv.  I>  •  thf 

Irish  Archieologtcal  and  Celtic  Society,  p.  8. 


330 


POEMS  OF  DENIS  F.  McCAUTIIY. 


Laugh,  little  lips,  in  dreamless  sleep, 

Sweet  eyes,  smile  sweet,  the  angels  hear ; 
The  time  may  come  when  ye  must  weep, 
No  angel  near ! 

Look,  little  soul,  from  out  thy  gate ; 

Look  out  and  seek  thy  one  true  friend : 
Ah  me !  to  think  that  thou  must  wait 
Till  life  shall  end ! 

Beat,  little  heart,  within  thy  breast ; 

Beat  fond  and  fast,  oh  flesh-caged  dove, 
And  when  the  bars  are  broke,  thy  nest 
Be  heaven  above ! 


HOME-SICKNESS. 

TO    THE    BAY    OF    DUBLIN'. 
I. 

MY  native  bay,  for  many  a  year 
I've  loved  thee  with  a  trembling  fear, 
Lest  thou,  though  dear,  and  very  dear, 

And  beauteous  as  a  vision, 
Shouldst  have  some  rival  far  away — 
Some  matchless  wonder  of  a  bay 
Whose  sparkling  waters  ever  play 

'Neath  azure  skies  elysian. 

u. 

1  Tis  love,  me  thought,  blind  love  that  pours 
The  rippling  magic  round  these  shores — 
For  whatsoever  love  adores 

Becomes  what  love  desireth : 
'Tis  ignorance  of  aught  beside 
That  throws  enchantment  o'er  the  tide 
And  makes  my  heart  respond  with  pride 

To  what  mine  eye  admireth. 

in. 

And  thus,  unto  our  mutual  loss, 
Whene'er  I  paced  the  sloping  moss 
Of  green  Killiney,  or  across 

The  intervening  waters — 
Up  Howth's  brown  sides  my  feet  would  wen-d, 
To  see  thy  sinuous  bosom  bend, 
Or  view  thine  outstretched  arms  extend 

To  clasp  thine  islet  daughters : 

IV. 

Then  would  this  spectre  of  my  fear 
Beside  me  stand — how  calm  and  clear 


Slept  underneath  the  green  waves,  near 

The  tide-worn  rocks'  recesses ; 
Or  when  they  woke  and  leaped  from  land, 
Like  startled  sea-nymphs,  hand  in  hand 
Seeking  the  southern  silver  strand 
With  floating  emerald  tresses  : 

v. 

It  lay  o'er  all,  a  moral  mist ; 
Even  on  the  hills,  when  evening  kissed 
The  granite  peaks  to  amethyst, 

I  felt  its  fatal  shadow : 
It  darkened  o'er  the  brightest  rills, 
*It  lowered  upon  the  sunniest  hills, 
And  hid  the  winged  song  that  fills 

The  moorland  and  the  meadow. 

VI. 

But  now  that  I  have  been  to  view 
All  even  nature's  self  can  do, 
And  from  Gaeta's  arch  of  blue 

Borne  many  a  fond  memento  ; 
And  from  each  fair  and  famous  scene, 
Where  beauty  is,  and  power  hath  been, 
Along  the  golden  shores  between 

Misenum  and  Sorrento  : 

VII. 

I  can  look  proudly  in  thy  face, 

Fair  daughter  of  a  hardier  race, 

And  feel  thy  winning,  well-known  grace, 

Without  my  old  misgiving  ; 
And  as  I  kneel  upon  thy  strand, 
And  kiss  thy  once  unvalued  hand, 
Proclaim  earth  holds  no  lovelier  land, 

Where  life  is  worth  the  living. 


YOUTH  AND  AGE. 


To  give  the  blossom  and  the  fruit 

The  soft  warm  air  that  wraps  them  round 

Oil !  think  how  long  the  toilsome  root 
Must  live  and  labor  'neath  the  ground. 

n. 
To  send  the  river  on  its  way, 

With  ever  deepening  strength  and  force, 
Oh  !  think  how  long  'twas  let  to  play, 

A  happy  streamlet,  near  its  source. 


POEMS  OF  DENIS  F.  McCARTHY. 


331 


SUNNY  DAYS  IN  WINTER. 


SUMMER  is  a  glorious  season — 

Warm,  and  bright,  and  pleasant ; 

But  the  past  is  not  a  reason 
To  despise  the  present. 

So  while  health  can  climb  the  mountain, 
And  the  log  lights  up  the  hall, 

There  are  sunny  days  in  winter,  after  all ! 

ii. 
Spring,  no  doubt,  hath  faded  from  us, 

Maiden-like  in  charms ; 
Summer,  too,  with  all  her  promise, 

Perished  in  our  arms. 
But  the  memory  of  the  vanished, 

Whom  our  hearts  recall, 
Maketh  sunny  days  in  winter,  after  all ! 

in. 
True,  there's  scarce  a  flower  that  bloom eth, 

All  the  best  are  dead  ; 
But  the  wall-flower  still  perfumeth 

Yonder  garden-bed. 
And  the  arbutus  pearl-blossomed 

Hangs  its  coral  ball — 
There  are  sunny  days  in  winter,  after  all ! 

IV. 

Summer  trees  are  pretty — very, 

And  I  love  them  well ; 
But  this  holly's  glistening  berry, 

None  of  those  excel. 
While  the  fir  can  warm  the  landscape, 

And  the  ivy  clothes  the  wall, 
There  are  sunny  days  in  winter,  after  all ! 

v. 
Sunny  hours  in  every  season 

Wait  the  innocent— 
Those  who  taste  with  love  and  reason 

What  their  God  hath  sent. 
Those  who  neither  soar  too  highly, 

Nor  too  lowly  fall, 
Feel  the  sunny  days  of  winter,  after  all ! 

VI. 

Then,  although  our  darling  treasures 
Vanish  from  the  heart ; 


Then,  although  our  once-loved  pleasures 

One  by  one  depart ; 
Though  the  tomb  looms  in  the  distance, 

And  the  mourning  pall, 
There  is  sunshine  and  no  winter,  after  all ! 


DUTY. 

As  the  hardy  oat  is  growing, 

Howsoe'er  the  wind  may  blow  ; 
As  the  untired  stream  is  flowing, 

Whether  shines  the  sun  or  no:— 
Thus,  though  storm-winds  rage  about  it, 

Should  the  strong  plant,  Duty,  grow ; 
Thus,  with  beauty  or  without  it, 

Should  the  stream  of  being  flow. 


ORDER. 

A  WORD  went  forth  upon  Creation's  day, 
At  which  th<}  void  infinitude  was  filled 
With  life  and  light.     Where  horrid  CIIAOH 

reigned 

In  dark  confusion,  orbed  ORDER  rose. 
And  with  the  silent  majesty  of  strength 
Took  up  the  sceptre  of  a  thousand  worlds, 
And  ruled  by  right  divine  the  radiant  realms. 
Where  all  was  blank  vacuity,  or  worse, 
Monstrous  Disorder — fair  material  Form 
Rose  wondering  from  the  vacant  wastes  of 

Space ; 

And  as  each  world  beheld  its  sister  world, 
So  calm,  so  beautiful,  so  full  of  light, 
Walking  in  gladness  through  the  halls  of 

heaven, 

Like  a  fair  daughter  in  her  father's  house — 
Its  heart  yearned  towards  her,  and  its  trem- 
bling feet 

Turned  in  pursuit ;  and  its  great,  eager  eyes 
Followed  her  ever  down  the  eternal  day. 
Round  golden  suns  the  silver  planets  rolled, 
Round  silver  planets  circled  moons  of  pearl, 
Round  pearly  moons,  the  roses  of  the  sky 
(Eve-crimsoned  clouds)  stood  wondering,  till 

their  cluvks 
Grew  pale  with  passion,  and  then  dark  with 

pain  ; 
As  sank  the  moons  behind  the   unheeding 

hills ! 


332 


POEMS  OF  DEXIS  F.  McCARTHY. 


THE  FIRST  OF  THE  ANGELS. 


Husii !  hush!  through  the  azure  expanse  of 

the  sky 
Comes  a  low,  gentle  sound,  'twixt  a  laugh 

and  a  sigh ; 
And  I  rise  from  my  writing,  and  look  up 

on  high, 
And  I  kneel — for  the  first  of  God's  angels  is 

nisjh ! 

o 

II. 
Oh !    how  to  describe  what  my  rapt  eyes 

descry ! 

For  the  blue  of  the  sky  is  the  blue  of  his  eye ; 
And  the  white  clouds,  whose  whiteness  the 

snow-flakes  outvie, 
Are  the  luminous  pinions  on  which  he  doth 


fly! 


in. 


And  his  garments  of  gold  gleam  at  times 

like  the  pyre 
Of  the  west,  when  the  sun  in  a  blaze  doth 

expire ; 
Now  tinged  like  the  orange — now  flaming 

with  fire  ! 
Half  the  crimson  of  roses  and  purple  of  Tyre. 

IV. 

And  his  voice,  on  whose  accents  the  angels 

have  hung — 
He   himself  a  bright   angel,  immortal   and 

young — 
Scatters    melody   sweeter  the   green   buds 

among, 
Than  the  poet  e'er  wrote,  or  the  nightingale 

sung. 


v. 

It  comes  on  the  balm-bearing  breath  of  the 

breeze, 
And  the  odors  that  later  will  gladden  the 

bees, 

With  a  life  and  a  freshness  united  to  these, 
From,  the  rippling  of  waters  and  rustling  of 

trees. 


VI. 

Like  a  swan  to  its  young  o'er  the  glass  of  a 


So  to  earth  comes  the  angel,  as  graceful  and 
fond ; 

While  a  bright  beam  of  sunshine — his  mag- 
ical wand — 

Strikes  the  fields  at  my  feet,  and  the  moun- 
tains beyond. 

VII. 

They  waken — they  start  into  life  at  a  bound — 
Flowers  climb  the  tall  hillocks,  and  cover 

the  ground ; 
With  a  nimbus  of  glory  the  mountains  are 

crowned, 
As  their  rivulets  rush  to  the  ocean  profound. 

VIII. 

There  is  life  on  the  earth — there  is  calm  on 

the  sea, 
And  the  rough  waves  are  smoothed,  and  the 

frozen  are  free ; 
And  they  gambol  and  ramble  like  boys  in 

their  glee, 
Round  the  shell-shining  strand  on  the  grass- 


bearing  lea. 


IX. 


There  is  love  for  the  young — there  is  life  lor 

the  old, 
And  wealth  for  the  needy,  and  heat  for  th& 

cold ; 
For  the  dew  scatters  nightly  its  diamonds 

untold, 
And  the  snowdrop  its  silver — the  crocus  it* 

gold! 

x. 

God — whose  goodness  and  greatness  we  bless 

and  adore- — 
Be  Thou  praised  for  this  angel — the  first  of 

the  four — 
To  whose  charge  Thou  hast  given  the  world's 

uttermost  shore, 
To  guide  it,  and  guard  it,  till  time  is  no  more ! 


SPIRIT  VOICES. 


THERE   are    voices,   spirit    voices,  sweetly 

sounding  everywhere, 
At  whose   coming   earth   rejoices,  and   the 

echoing  realms  of  air, 


POEMS  OF  DENIS  F.  McfAKTII  V. 


And  their  joy  and  jubilation  pierce  the  near 

and  reach  the  far — 
From   the   rapid   world's    gyration   to   the 

twinkling  of  the  star. 

n. 

One,  a  potent  voice  uplifting,  stops  the  white 
cloud  on  its  way, 

As  it  drives  with  driftless  drifting  o'er  the 
vacant  vault  of  day, 

And  in  sounds  of  soft  upbraiding  calls  it 
down  the  void  inane 

To  the  gilding  and  the  shading  of  the  moun- 
tain and  the  plain. 

in. 

Airy  offspring  of  the  fountains,  to  thy  des- 
tined duty  sail — 

Seek  it  on  the  proudest  mountains,  seek  it  in 
the  humblest  vale ; 

Howsoever  high  thou  fliest,  howso  deep  it 
bids  thee  go, 

Be  a  beacon  to  the  highest  and  a  blessing  to 
the  low. 

IV. 

When  the  sad  earth,  broken-hearted,  hath 
not  even  a  tear  to  shed, 

And  her  very  soul  seems  parted  for  hei  chil- 
dren lying  dead, 

Send  the  streams  with  warmer  pulses  through 
that  frozen  fount  of  fears, 

And  the  sorrow  that  convulses,  soothe  and 
soften  down  to  tears. 


v. 

Bear  the  sunshine  and  the  shadow,  bear  the 
rain-drop  and  the  snow, 

Bear  the  night-dew  to  the  meadow,  and  to 
hope  the  promised  bow, 

Bear  the  moon,  a  moving  mirror,  for  her 
angel  face  and  form, 

And  to  guilt  and  wilful  error,  bear  the  light- 
ning and  the  storm. 

VI. 

When  thou  thus  hast  done  thy  duty  on  the 
earth  and  o'er  the  sea, 

Bearing  many  a  beam  of  beauty,  ever  bet- 
tering what  must  be, 


Thus  reflecting  heaven's  pure  splendor,  and 

concealing  ruined  clay, 
Up  to  God  thy  spirit  render,  and  dissolving, 

pass  away. 

VII. 

And  with  fond  solicitation,  speaks  another 

to  the  streams — 
Leave  your  airy  isolation,  quit  the  cloudy 

land  of  dreams, 
Break  the  lonely  peak's  attraction,  burst  the 

solemn,  silent  glen, 
Seek  the  living  world  of  action,  and  the  busy 

haunts  of  men. 

VIII. 

Turn  the  mill-wheel  with  thy  fingers,  turn 
the  steam-wheel  with  thy  breath, 

With  thy  tide  that  never  lingers,  save  the 
dying  fields  from  death  ; 

Let  the  swiftness  of  thy  currents  bear  to  man 
the  freight-filled  ship, 

And  the  crystal  of  thy  torrents  bring  re- 
freshment to  his  lip. 

IX. 

And  when  thou,  O  rapid  river,  thy  eternal 

home  dost  seek — 
When   no  more  the  willows   quiver  but  to 

touch  thy  passing  check — 
When  the  groves  no  longer  greet  thec  and 

the  shores  no  longer  kiss — 
Let  infinitude  come  meet  thee  on  the  verge 

of  the  abyss. 

x. 

Other  voices  seek  to  win  us — low,  sugges- 
tive, like  the  rest — 

But  the  sweetest  is  within  us,  in  the  stillness 
of  the  breast ; 

Be  it  ours,  with  fond  desiring,  the  same  har- 
vest to  produce 

As  the  cloud  in  its  aspiring,  and  the  river  in 
its  use. 


TRUTH  IN  SONG. 


I  CANNOT  sing,  I  cannot  write, 

To  show  that  I  can  write  and  sing- 


334 


POEMS  OF  DENIS  F.  McCARTHY. 


I  cannot  for  a  cause  so  slight 

Command  my  Ariel's  dainty  wing : 

Not  for  the  dreams  of  cultured  youth, 
Nor  praises  of  the  lettered  throng. 
Oh,  no !  I  string  the  pearls  of  song 

But  only  on  the  chords  of  truth  : 

ii. 
And  when  the  precious  pearls  are  strung, 

What  are  their  value  but  to  deck 
Some  kindred  forehead,  or  be  hung 

Around  the  whiteness  of  some  neck  ? 
Some  neck  ?  some  forehead  ? — ah  !  but  one 

Would  win  or  haply  wear  the  chain, 

And  now  the  fragments  of  the  strain 
Lie  broken  round  me — SHE  is  gone ! 

in. 
Gone  from  my  home  some  weary  hours, 

But  never,  never  from  my  heart — 
Gone,  like  the  memory  of  the  showers 

To  flowers  long-drooping,  love,  thou  art : 
O,  truest  friend — O,  best  of  wives — 

Come  soon:    my  world,  my  queen,  my 
crown, 

Then  shall  the  pearls  run  ringing  down 
The  love-twined  chords  of  both  our  lives. 


ALL  FOOL'S  DAY. 


THE  sun  called  a  beautiful  beam  that  was 

playing 
At  the  door  of  his  golden-walled  palace  on 

high; 
And  he  bade  him  be  off  without  any  delay- 

ing, 
To  a  fast-fleeting  cloud  on  the  verge  of  the 

sky: 
'  You  will  give  him  this  letter,"  said  roguish 

Apollo, 
(While  a  sly  little  twinkle  contracted  his 


"  With  my  royal  regards  ;  and  be  sure  that 

you  follow 
Whatsoever  his  highness  may  send  in  re- 

ply." 


ii. 

The  beam  heard  the  order,  but  being  no- 
novice, 
Took  it  coolly,  of  course — nor  in  this  was 

he  wrong ; 
But  was  forced  (being  a  clerk  in  ApolloV 

post-office) 
To    declare    (what    a    bounce !)    that   he 

wouldn't  be  long ; 
So   he  went  home   and   dressed — gave  his* 

beai'd  an  elision — 
Put  his  scarlet  coat  on,  Cicely  edged  with 

gold  lace ; 
And  thus  being  equipped,  with  a  postman's 

precision, 
He  prepared  to  set  out  on  his  nebulous  race. 

in. 
Off  he  posted  at  last,  but  just  outside  the 

portals 
He  lit  on  earth's  high-soaring  bird  in  the 

dark ; ' 

So  he  tarried  a  little,  like  many  frail  mortals, 
Who,  when  sent  on  an  errand,  first  go  on 

a  lark. 
But  he  broke  from   the   bii'd — reached  the 

cloud  in  a  minute — 

Gave  the  letter  and  all,  as  Apollo  ordained  i 
But   the   sun's    correspondent,   on   looking 

within  it, 

Found  "  Send  the  fool  farther,"  was  all  it 
contained. 

IV. 

The  cloud,  who  was  up  to  all  mystification, 
Quite  a  humorist,  saw  the  intent  of  the 

sun  ; 
And  was  ever  too  airy — though  lofty  his 

station — 
To  spoil  the  least  taste  of  the  prospect  of 

fun  ; 
So  he  hemmed  and  he  hawed — took  a  roll  of 

pure  vapor, 
Which  the  light  from  the  beam  made 

bright  as  could  be, 
(Like  a  sheet  of  the  whitest  cream  golden- 

edged  paper), 

And  wrote  a  few  words,  superscribed  "  Tf 
the  Sea." 


>  "Hark  !  hark  !  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  ehiKS,"  &c. 


POEMS  OF  DENIS  F.  McCARTIIV. 


335 


v. 
"My  dear  Beam,"  or  "dear  Ray,"  ('twas 

thus  coolly  he  hailed  him), 
"  Pray  take  down  to  Neptune  this  letter 

from  me, 

For  the  person  you  seek — though  I  lately  re- 
galed him — 
Now  tries  a  new  airing,  and  dwells  by  the 

sea." 
So  our  Mercury  hastened  away  through  the 

ether, 
The  bright  face  of  Thetis  to  gladden  and 

greet ; 

And  he  plunged  in  the  water  a  few  feet  be- 
neath her, 
Just  to  get  a  sly  peep  at  her  beautiful  feet. 

VI. 

To  Neptune  the  letter  was  brought  for  in- 
spection— 
But  the  god,  though  a  deep  one,  was  still 

rather  green  / 

So  he  took  a  few  moments  of  steady  reflection, 
Ert  he  wholly  made  out  what  the  missive 

could  mean: 
Dut  the  date  (it  was  "April  the  first")  came  to 

save  it 
From  all  fear  of  mistake ;  so  he  took  pen 

in  hand, 
And,   transcribing    the   cruel    entreaty,   lie 

gave  it 

To  our    travelled-tired    friend,   and   said 
"  Bring  it  to  Land." 

VII. 

To  Land  went  the  Sunbeam,  which  scarcely 

received  it, 
When  it  sent  it  post-haste  back  again  to 

the  Sea ; 

The  Sea's  hypocritical  calmness  deceived  it, 
And  sent  it  once  more  to  the  Land  on  the 

lea ; 
From  the  Land  to  the  Lake — from  the  Lakes 

to  the  Fountains — 
From  the  Fountains  and  Streams  to  the 

Hills'  azure  crest, 
'Till,  at  last,  a  tall  Peak  on  the  top  of  the 

mountains, 

Sent   it   back   to   the   Cloud  in  the   now 
golden  west. 


VIII. 

He  saw  the  whole  trick,  by  the  way  he  wa» 

greeted 

By  the  Sun's  laughing  face,  which  all  pur- 
ple appears ; 
Then  amused,  yet  annoyed  at  the  way  he 

was  treated, 
He  first  laughed  at  the  joke,  and  then  burst 

into  tears. 

It  is  thus  at  this  day  of  mistakes  and  sur- 
prises, 
When  fools  write  on  foolscap,  and  wear 

it  the  while, 
This  gay  saturnalia  forever  arises 

'Mid  the  shower  and  sunshine,  the  tear 
and  the  smile. 


THE  BIRTH  OF  THE  SPRING. 


0  KATHLEEX,  my  darling,  I've  dreamt  such- 

a  dream  ! 

'Tis  as  hopeful  and  bright  as  the  Summer's 
first  beam : 

1  dreamt    that    the   World,   like   yourself 

darling  dear, 

Had  presented  a  son  to  the  happy  New 
Year ! 

Like  yourself,  too,  the  poor  mother  suffered 
awhile, 

But  like  thine  was  the  joy,  at  her  baby's 
first  smile, 

When  the  tender  nurse,  Nature,  quick  hast- 
ened to  fling 

Her  sun-mantle  round,  as  she  fondled  THE 
SPUING. 

ii. 
O  Kathleen,  'twas  strange  how  the  elements 

all, 
With  their  friendly  regards,  condescended 

to  call : 
The  rough  rains  of  Winter  like  summer-dews 

fell, 
And  the  North-wind  said,  /ophyr-like — "  Is 

the  World  well  ?" 
And  the  streams  ran  quick-sparkling  to  tell 

o'er  tin-  F.arth 
God'a  good  ness  to  man  in  this  mystical  birth, 


336 


POEMS  OF  DENIS  F.  McCARTIIY. 


For  a  Son  of  this  World,  and  an  heir  to  the 

King 
Who  rules  over  man,  is  this  beautiful  Spring ! 


in. 
O   Kathleen,  methought,  when   the  bright 

babe  was  born, 
More   lovely   than   morning    appeared   the 

bright  morn ; 
The   birds   sang    more   sweetly,   the   grabs 

greener  grew, 
And  with  buds  and  with  blossoms  the  old 

trees  looked  new ; 

And  methought  when  the  Priest  of  the  Uni- 
verse came — 
The    Sun,   in    his   vestments  ol'  glory  and 

flame — 
He  was  seen  the  warm  rain-drops  of  April 

to  fling 
On  the  brow  of  the  babe,  and  baptize,  him 

The  Spring ! 


IV. 

O  Kathleen,  dear  Kathleen  !  what  treasures 

are  piled 
In  the  mines  of  the  Past  lor  this  wonderful 

Child ! 

The  lore  of  the  sages,  the  lays  of  the  bards, 
Like  a  primer,  the  eye  of  this  infant  regards; 
All  the  dearly-bought  knowledge  that  cost 

life  and  limb, 
Without  price,  without  peril,  are  offered  to 

him ; 
And  the  blithe  bee  of  Progress  concealeth  its 

sting, 
As   it   offers    its    sweets   to   this    beautiful 

Spring  1 


v. 

0  Kathleen,  they  tell  us  of  wonderful  things, 
Of  speed   that   surpasseth  the  fairy's  fleet 

wings ; 
How  the  lands  of  the  world  in  co-mmunion 

are  brought, 


And  the  slow  march  of  speech  is  as  rapid  as 

thought. 
Think,  think  what  an  heir-loom  the  great 

world  will  be, 
With  this  wonderful  wire  'neath  the  Earth 

and  the  Sea ; 
When  the  snows  and  the  sunshine  together 

shall  bring 
All  the  wealth  of  the  world  to  the  feet  ol 

the  Spring. 

VI. 

0  Kathleen,  but  think  of  the  birth -gifts  of 

love, 
That  THE  MASTER  who  lives  in  the  GREAT 

HOUSE  above, 
Prepares  for  the  poor  child  that's  born  on 

His  land — 
Dear  God !    they're  the  sweet   flowers  that 

fall  from  Thy  hand — 

The  crocus,  the  primrose,  the  violet  given 
Awhile,   to   make   Earth    the   reflection    oi 

Heaven ; 
The  brightness  and  lightness  that  round  tho 

world  wins; 

O 

Are  Thine,  and  are  ours  too,  through  thee, 
happy  Spring ! 

VII. 

O  Kathleen,  dear  Kathleen  !  that  dream  is 

gone  by, 
And  I  wake  once   again,  but,  thank  God  ! 

thoti  art  by ; 
And  the  land  that  we  love  looks  as  bright 

in  the  beam, 
Just  as  it  my  sweet  dream  was  not  all  out  a 

dream  : 

The  spring-tide  of  Nature  its  blessing  im- 
parts— 
Let  the  spring-tide  of  Hope  send  its  pube 

through  our  hearts ; 
Let  us  feel  'tis  a  mother,  to  whose  breast  we 

cling, 
And  a  brother  we  hail,  when  we  welcome 

the  Spring. 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAK 


GERMAN    ANTHOLOGY. 


FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


fflie  lag  of  the 


VlYoe  TOCO.    Mortnoa  plango.    Folgura  frango. 

PREPARATION  FOR  FOUNDING  THE  BELL. 

FIRMLY  walPd  within  the  soil 

Stands  the  firebaked  mould  of  clay. 
Courage,  comrades  !     Now  for  toil  ! 
For  we  cast  TUB  BELL  to-day. 
Sweat  must  trickle  now 
Down  the  burning  brow, 
If  the  work  may  boast  of  beauty  : 
Stlil  'tis  Heaven  must  bless  our  duty. 


A  word  of  earnest  exhortation 

The  serious  task  before  us  needs : 
Beguiled  by  cheerful  conversation, 

How  much  more  lightly  toil  proceeds  1 
Then  let  us  here,  with  best  endeavor, 

Weigh  well  what  these  our  labors  mean: 
Contempt  awaits  that  artist  ever 

Who  plods  through  all,  the  mere  machine; 
But  Thought  makes  Man  to  dust  superior, 

And  he  alone  is  thoughtful-soul'd 
Who  ponders  in  his  heart's  interior 

Whatever  shape  his  hand  may  mould. 

Gather  first  the  pine-tree  wood, 

Only  be  it  wholly  dry, 
That  the  flame,  with  subtle  flood, 
Through  the  furnace-chink  may  fly. 
Now  the  brass  is  in, 
Add  the  alloy  of  tin, 
That  the  ingredients  may,  while  warm, 
Take  the  essential  fluid  form. 


OFFICES  OF  THE  BELL. 

What  here  in  caverns  by  the  power 

Of  fire  our  mastering  fingers  frame, 
Hereafter  fi'om  the  belfry  tower 

Will  vindicate  its  makers'  aim ; 
'Twill  speak  to  Man  with  voice  unfailing 

In  latest  years  of  after-days, 
Will  echo  back  the  mourner's  wailing, 

Or  move  the  heart  to  prayer  and  praise  i 
In  many  a  varying  cadence  ringing, 

The  willing  BELL  will  publish  far 
The  fitful  changes  hourly  springing 

Beneath  Man's  ever-shifting  star. 


Surface-bubbles  glittering  palely 
Show  the  mixture  floweth  well : 
Mingle  now  the  quick  alkali ; 
That  will  help  to  found  the  BELL. 
Purified  from  scum 
Must  the  mass  become, 
That  the  tone,  escaping  free, 
Clear  and  deep  and  full  may  be. 


THE  BIRTH -DAY  BELL. 

For,  with  a  peal  of  joyoiw  clangor 
It  hails  the  infant  boy,  that  in 

The  soft  embrace  of  sleep  and  languor 
Life's  tiring  travel  doth  begin. 

1 1  is  brighter  lot  and  darker  doom 

Lie  shrouded  in  the  Future's  womb. 

Watch'd  over  by  his  tender  mother, 

His  golden  mornings  chase  each  other; 

Swift  summers  fly  like  javelins  by. 


338 


POEMS  BY  JAMES   CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


The  woman's  yoke  the  stripling  spurneth ; 

He  rushes  wildly  forth  to  roam 
The  wide  world  over,  and  returneth 

When  years  have  wheel'd — a  stranger — 

home. 
Array' d  in  Beauty's  magic  might, 

A  vision  from  the  Heaven  that's  o'ei  him, 
With  conscious  blush  and  eye  of  light, 

The  bashful  virgin  stands  before  him. 
Then  flies  the  youth  his  wonted  sports, 

For  in  his  heart  a  nameless  feeling 
Is  born ;  the  lonesome  dell  he  courts, 

And  down  his  check  the  tears  are  stealing. 
He  hangs  upon  her  silver  tone, 

He  tracks  with  joy  her  very  shadow, 
And  culls,  to  deck  his  lovely  one, 

The  brightest  flowers  that  gem  the  meadow. 
Oh,  golden  time  of  Love's  devotion, 

When   tenderest  hopes  and  thrills   have 

birth, 
When  hearts  are  drunk  with  blest  emotion, 

And  Heaven  itself  shines  out  on  Earth ! 
Were  thy  sweet  season  ever  vernal ! 
Were  early  Youth  and  Love  eternal ! 


Ha !  the  pipes  appear  embrown'd, 

So  this  little  staff  I  lower : 
'Twill  be  time,  I  wis,  to  found, 
If  the  fluid  glaze  it  o'er. 

Courage,  comrades !     Move  1 
Quick  the  mixture  prove. 
If  the  soft  but  well  unite 
With  the  rigid,  all  is  right. 


THE  WEDDING -BELL. 

For,  where  the  Strong  protects  the  Tender, 
Where  Might  and  Mildness  join,  they  render 

A  sweet  result,  content  insuring; 
Let  those  then  prove  who  make  election, 
That  heart  meets  heart  in  blent  affection, 

Else  Bliss  is  brief,  and  Grief  enduring ! 
In  the  bride's  rich  ringlets  brightly 

SLines  the  flowery  coronal, 
As  the  BELL,  now  pealing  lightly, 

Bids  her  to  the  festal  hall. 
Fairest  scene  of  Man's  elysian 

World !  thou  closest  life's  short  May : 


With  the  zone  and  veil1  the  Vision 
Melts  in  mist  and  fades  for  aye ! 

The  rapture  has  fled, 

Still  the  love  has  not  perish'd ; 

The  blossom  is  dead, 

But  the  fruit  must  be  cherish'd. 

The  husband  must  out, 

He  must  mix  in  the  rout, 

In  the  struggle  and  strife 

And  the  clangor  of  life, 

Must  join  in  its  jangle, 

Must  wrestle  and  wrangle, 

O'erreaching,  outrunning, 

By  force  and  by  cunning, 

That  Fortune  propitious 

May  smile  on  his  wishes. 
Then  riches  flow  in  to  his  uttermost  wishes*; 
His  warehouses  glitter  with  all  that  is  pre- 
cious ; 

The  storehouse,  the  mansion, 

Soon  call  for  expansion ; 

And  busied  within  is 

The  orderly  matron, 

The  little  ones'  mother," 

Who  is  everywhere  seen 

As  she  rules  like  a  queen, 

The  instructress  of  maidens 

And  curber  of  boys ; 

And  seldom  she  lingers 

In  plying  her  fingers, 

But  doubles  the  gains 

By  her  prudence  and  pains, 
And  winds  round  the  spindle  the  threads  at 

her  leisure, 
And  fills  odoriferous  coffers  with  treasure, 
And  storeth  her  shimng  receptacles  full 
Of  snowy-white  linen  and  pale-colored  wool, 
And  blends  with  the  Useful  the  Brilliant  and 

Pleasing, 

And  toils  without  ceasing. 
And  the  father  counts  his  possessions  now, 
As  he  paces  his  house's  commanding  terrace, 
And  he  looks  around  with  a  satisfied  brow 


»  Mit  dem  Qurtel,  mit  dem  Schleier, 
Reiszt  der  schOne  Wahn  entzwei. 

Schiller  here  alludes  to  that  custom  of  antiquity  according  to 
which  the  bridegroom  unloosed  the  zone  and  removed  the  veil 
of  his  betrothed.  Among  the  ancients,  to  unbind  the  cesttu, 
and  to  espouse,  were  expressions  meaning  the  eame  thing. 
Hence  the  well-known  line  of  Catullus — 

Quod  possit  zonam  solvere  virgineam. 
1  Here,  and  In  a  few  subsequent  passages,  Schiller  oral!* 
hie  rhymes. 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


On  his  pillar-like  trees  in  rows  unending, 
And  his  barns  and  rooms  that  are  filling 

amain, 

And  his  granaries  under  their  burden  bend- 
ing, 

And  his  wavy  fields  of  golden  graii , 
And  speaks  with  exultation, 
"  Fast  as  the  Earth's  foundation, 
Against  all  ill  secure. 
Long  shall  my  house  endure  ! " 
But  ah  !  with  Destiny  and  Power 
No  human  paction  lasts  an  hour, 
And  Ruin  rides  a  restless  courser. 


Good  !     The  chasm  is  guarded  well ; 

Now,  my  men  !  commence  to  found ; 
Yet,  before  ye  run  the  BELL, 

Breathe  a  prayer  to  Heaven  around ! 
Wrench  the  stopple-cork ! 
GOD  protect  our  work ! 
Smoking  to  the  bow  it  flies, 
While  the  flames  around  it  rise. 


THE  FIRE-BELL. 

Fire  works  for  good  with  noble  force 
So  long  as  Man  controls  its  course  ; 
And  all  he  rears  of  strong  or  slight 
Is  debtor  to  this  heavenly  might. 
But  dreadful  is  this  heavenly  might 
When,  bursting  forth  in  dead  of  night, 
Unloosed  and  raging,  wide  and  wild 
It  ranges,  Nature's  chainless  child  ! 
Woe  !  when  oversweeping  bar, 

With  a  fury  naught  can  stand, 
Through  the  stifled  streets  afar 

Rolls  the  monstrous  volume-brand  ! 
For  the  elements  ever  war 

With  the  works  of  human  hand. 
From  the  cloud 

Blessings  gush ; 
From  the  cloud 

Torrents  rush ; 
From  the  cloud  alike 
Come  the  bolts  that  strike. 
LARUM  peals  from  lofty  steeple 
Rouse  the  people  1 
Red,  like  blood, 

Heaven  is  flashing ! 
How  it  shames  the  daylight's  flood  I 


Hark !  what  crashing 

Down  the  streets ! 

Smoke  ascends  in  volumes  ! 

Skyward  flares  the  flame  in  columns  I 

Through  the  tent-like  lines  of  streets 

Rapidly  as  wind  it  fleets  ! 

Now  the  white  air,  waxing  hotter, 

Glows  a  furnace — pillars  totter — 

Rafters  crackle — casements  rattle — 

Mothers  fly — 

Children  cry — 

Under  ruins  whimper  cattle. 

All  is  horror,  noise,  affright ! 

Bright  as  noontide  glares  the  night ! 
Swung  from  hand  to  hand  with  zeal  along 
By  the  throng, 

Speeds  the  pail.     In  bow-like  form 
Sprays  the  hissing  water-shower, 
But  the  madly-howling  storm 

Aids  the  flames  with  wrathful  power ; 
Round  the  shrivell'd  fruit  they  curl : 
Grappling  with  the  granary-stores, 
Now  they  blaze  through  roof  and  floors, 
And  with  upward-dragging  whirl, 
Even  as  though  they  strove  to  bear 
Earth  herself  aloft  in  air, 
Shoot  into  the  vaulted  Void, 
Giant-vast ! 
Hope  is  past : 

Man  submits  to  GOD'S  decree, 
And,  all  stunn'd  and  silently, 
Sees  his  earthly  All  destroy'd  1 

Burn'd  a  void 

Is  the  Dwelling : 

Winter  winds  its  wailing  dirge  are  knelling ; 

In  the  skeleton  window-pits 

Horror  sits, 

And  exposed  to  Heaven's  wide  woof 

Lies  the  roof. 

One  glance  only 

On  the  lonely 

Sepulchre  of  all  his  wealth  below  _ 

Doth  the  man  bestow ; 

Then  turns  to  tread  the  world's  broad  path. 

It  matters  not  what  wreck  the  wrath 

Of  fire  hath  bi  ought  on  house  and  land, 
One  treasured  blessing  still  he  hath, 

His  Best  Beloved  beside  him  stand  ! 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


Happily  at  length,  and  rightly, 
I)oth  it  till  the  loamy  frame : 
Think  ye  will  it  come  forth  brightly  ? 
Will  it  yet  fulfil  our  aim  ? 
If  we  fail  to  found  ? 
If  the  mould  rebound  ? 
Ah  I  perchance,  when  least  we  deem, 
Fortune  may  defeat  our  scheme. 


In  hope  our  work  we  now  confide 

To  Earth's  obscure  but  hallow'd  bosom ; 
Therein  the  sower,  too,  doth  hide 

The  seed  he  hopes  shall  one  day  blossom, 
If  bounteous  Heaven  shall  so  decide. 
But  holiei',  dearer  Seed  than  this 

We  bury  oft,  with  tears,  in  Earth, 
And  trust  that  from  the  Grave's  abyss 

'Twill  bloom  forth  yet  in  brighter  birth. 


THE  PASSING  BELL. 
Hollowly  and  slowly, 

By  the  BELL'S  disasti'ous  tongue, 
Is  the  melancholy 

Knell  of  death  and  burial  rang. 
Heavily  those  muffled  accents  mourn 
Some  one  journeying  to  the  last  dark  bourne. 

Ah  !  it  is  the  spouse,  the  dear  one ! 
Ah  !  it  is  that  faithful  mother ! 
She  it  is  that  thus  is  borne, 
Sadly  borne  and  rudely  torn 
By  the  sable  Prince  of  Spectres 
From  her  fondest  of  protectors — 
From  the  children  forced  to  flee 
Whom  she  bore  him  lovingly, 
Whom  she  gazed  on  day  and  night 
With  a  mother's  deep  delight. 
Ah  !  the  house's  bands,  that  held 

Each  to  each,  are  doom'd  to  sever 
She  that  there  as  mother  dwell'd 

Roams  the  Phantom-land  forever. 
Truest  friend  and  best  arranger  ! 

Thou  art  gone,  and  gone  for  aye ; 
And  a  loveless  hireling  stranger 
O'er  thine  orphan'd  ones  will  sway. 


Till  the*  BELL  shall  cool  and  harden, 
Labor's  heat  a  while  may  cease ; 

Like  the  wild-bird  in  the  garden, 
Each  may  play  or  take  his  ease. 


Soon  as  twinkles  Hesper, 
Soon  as  chimes  the  Vesper, 
All  the  workman's  toils  are  o'er, 
But  the  master  frets  the  more. 


Wandering  through  the  lonely  greenwood 

Blithely  hies  the  merry  rover 

Forward  towards  his  humble  hovel. 

Bleating  sheep  are  homeward  wending, 

And  the  herds  of 

Sleek  and  broad-brow'd  cattle  come  with 

Lowing  warning 

O  ~ 

Each  to  fill  its  stall  till  morning. 

Town  ward  rumbling 

Reels  the  wagon, 

Corn-o'erladen, 

On  whose  sheaves 

Shine  the  leaves 

Of  the  Garland  fair, 

While  the  youthful  band  of  reapers 

To  the  dance  repair. 

Street  and  market  now  grow  stiller : 

Round  the  social  hearth  assembling, 

Gayly  crowd  the  house's  inmates, 

As  the  town-gate  closes  creaking ; 

And  the  earth  is 

Robed  in  sable, 

But  the  night,  which  wakes  affright 

In  the  souls  of  conscience-haunted  men, 

Troubles  not  the  tranquil  denizen, 

For  he  knows  the  eye  of  Law  unsleeping 

Watch  is  keeping. 

Blessed  Order !  heaven-descended 

Maiden  !     Early  did  she  band 
Like  with  like,  in  union  blended, 

Social  cities  early  plann'd  ; 
She  the  fiei'ce  barbarian  brought 

From  his  forest-haunts  of  wildness; 
She  the  peasant's  hovel  sought, 

And  redeem'd  his  mind  to  mildness, 
And  first  wove  that  ever-dearest  band, 
Fond  attachment  to  our  Fatherland  1 

Thousand  hands  in  ceaseless  moticu 

All  in  mutual  aid  unite, 
Every  art  with  warm  devotion 

Eager  to  reveal  its  might. 
All  are  bonded  in  affection ; 

Each,  rejoicing  in  his  sphere, 
Safe  in  Liberty's  protection, 


I'OKMS  IJY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


Laughs  to  scorn  the  scoffer's  sneer. 
Toil  is  polish'd  Man's  vocation  : 

Praises  are  the  meed  of  Skill ; 
Kings  may  vaunt  their  crown  and  station, 

We  will  vaunt  our  Labor  still. 

Mildest  Quiet ! 

Sweetest  Concord  ! 

Gently,  gently 

Hover  over  this  our  town  ! 

Ne'er  may  that  dark  day  be  witness'd 

When  the  dread  exterminator! 

Through  our  vales  shall  rush,  destroying, 

When  that  azure 

Softly  painted  by  the  rays  of 

Sunset  fair 
Shall  (oh,  horror  !)  with  the  blaze  of 

Burning  towns  and  hamlets  glare  ! 


Now,  companions,  break  the  mould, 
For  its  end  and  use  have  ceased : 
On  the  structure  'twill  unfold 
Soul  and  sight  alike  shall  feast. 
Swing  the  hammer!     Swing  I 
Till  the  covering  spring. 
Shivered  first  the  mould  must  lie 
Ere  the  BELL  may  mount  on  high. 


The  Master's  hand,  what  time  he  wills, 

May  break  the  mould  ;  but  woe  to  ye 
If,  spreading  far  in  fiery  rills, 

The  glowing  ore  itself  shall  free ! 
With  roar  as  when  deep  thunder  crashes 
It  blindly  blasts  the  house  to  ashes, 
And  as  from  Hell's  abysmal  deep 
The  death-tide  rolls  with  lava-sweep. 
Where  lawless  force  is  awless  master 

Stands  naught  of  noble,  naught  sublime ! 
Where  Freedom  comes  achieved  by  Crime 
Her  fruits  are  tumult  and  disaster. 


THE  TOCSIN,  OR  ALARM-BELL. 

Woe !  when  in  cities  smouldering  long 
The  pent-up  train  explodes  at  length ! 

Woe !  when  a  vast  and  senseless  throng 
Shake  off  their  chains  by  desperate 
strength  ! 


Then  to  thc*bcllrope  rushes  Riot, 

And  rings,  and  sounds  the  alarm  afar, 

And,  destined  but  for  tones  of  quiet, 
The  TOCSIN  peals  To  War !  To  W&r 

"  Equality  and  Liberty  !" 

They  shout :  the  rabble  seize  on  swords ; 
And  streets  and  halls1  fill  rapidly 

With  cutthroat  gangs  and  ruffian  horde*. 
Then  women  change  to  wild  hyenas, 

And  mingle  cruelty  with  jest, 
And  o'er  their  prostrate  foe  are  seen,  as 

With  panther-teeth  they  tear  his  breast. 
All  holy  shrines  go  trampled  under : 

The  Wise  and  Good  in  horror  flee  ; 
Life's  shamefaced  bands  are  ripped  asunder, 

And  cloakk'ss  Riot  wantons  free. 
The  lion  roused  by  shout  of  stranger, 

The  tiger's  talons,  these  appal — 
But    worse,   and   charged    with    deadlier 
danger, 

Is  reckless  Man  in  Frenzy's  thrall ! 
Woe,  woe  to  those  who  attempt  illuming 

Eternal  blindness  by  the  rays 
Of  Truth  ! — they  flame  abroad,  consuming 

Surrounding  nations  in  their  blaze  ! 
GOD  hath  given  my  soul  delight ! 

Glancing  like  a  star  of  gold, 
From  its  shell,  all  pure  and  bright, 

Comes  the  metal  kernel  roll'd. 
Brim"  and  rim,  it  gleams   • 
As  when  sunlight  beams ; 
And  the  armorial  shield  and  crest 
Tell  that  Art  hath  wrought  its  best. 

In,  in  !  our  task  is  done — 
In,  in,  companions  every  one  ! 
By  what  name  shall  we  now  baptize  the  BELL? 
CONCOKDIA  will  become  it  well : 
For  oft  in  concord  shall  its  pealing  loud 
Assemble  many  a  gay  and  many  a  solemn 
crowd. 


THE  DESTINATION  OF  THE  BELL. 

And  this  henceforward  be  its  duty, 

For  which  'twas  framed  at  first  in  beauty : 


1  Die  Strao7.cn  ftsUrn  Men.  die  Ilatten. — Schiller  means  pub- 
lic Malls,  a*  the  Town  Hall,  the  Hall*  of  Justice.  Ac. 

*  Brim  IB  the  technical  torm  for  the  body  of  toe  bell,  or  that 
part  upon  which  the  clapper  strikes. 


342 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


High  o'er  this  world  of  lowly  labor 

In  Heaven's  blue  concave  let  it  rise, 
And  heave  aloft,  the  thunder's  neighbor, 

In  commerce  with  the  starry  skies. 
There  let  it  chorus  with  the  story 

Of  the  resplendent  planet-sphere, 
Which  nightly  hymns  its  MAKER'S  glory, 

And  guides  the  garland-crowned  year. 
Be  all  its  powers  devoted  only 

To  things  eternal  and  sublime, 
As  hour  by  hour  it  tracks  the  lonely 

And  forward-winging  flight  of  Time  ! 
To  destiny  an  echo  lending, 

But  never  doom'd  itself  to  feel, 
Forever  be  it  found  attending 

Each  change  of  Life's  revolving  wheel ; 
And  as  its  tone,  when  tolling  loudest, 

Dies  on  the  listener's  ear  away, 
So  let  it  teach  that  all  that's  proudest 

In  human  might  must  thus  decay  ! 


Now  attach  the  ropes — now  move, 

Heave  the  BELL  from  this  its  prison, 
Till  it  hath  to  Heaven  above 
And  the  realm  of  Sound  arisen. 
Heave  it !  heave  it ! — There — 
Now  it  swings  in  air. 
Joy  to  this  our  city  may  it  presage  ! 
PEACE  attend  its  first  harmonious  messaere  ! 


THE  DIVER 

A  BALLAD. 

**  BARON  or  vassal,  is  any  so  bold 

As  to  plunge  in  yon  gulf,  and  follow 
Through  chamber  and  cave  this  beaker  ol 

gold, 
Which    already    the    waters    whirlingly 

swallow  ? 
Who   retrieves   the   prize   from  the   horrid 

abyss 
Shall  keep  it:    the  gold  and  the  glory  be 

his !" 

So  spake  the  King,  and  incontinent  flung 
From  the  cliff  that,  gigantic  and  steep, 

High  over  Charybdis's  whirlpool  hung, 
A  glittering  wine-cup  down  in  the  deep  ; 


And  again  he  ask'd,  "  Is  there  one  so  brave 
As  to  plunge  for  the  gold  in  the  dangerous 
wave  ?" 

And  the  knights  and  the  knaves  all  answer- 
less  hear 
The  challenging  words  of  the  speaker ; 

And  some  glance  downward  with  looks  of 

fear, 

And  none  are  ambitious  of  winning  the 
beaker. 

And  a  third  time   the   King  his  question 
urges — 

"  Dares   none,   then,   breast    the  menacing 
surges  ?" 

But  the  silence  lasts  unbroken  and  long ; 

When  a  Page,  fair-featured  and  soft, 
Steps   forth    from    the    shuddering   vassal- 
throng, 
And  his  mantle  and   girdle   already  are 

doff'd, 

And  the  groups  of  nobles  and  damosels  nigh, 
Envisage  the  youth  with  a  wondering  eye. 

He  dreadlessly  moves  to  the  gaunt  crag's 

brow, 

And  measures  the  drear  depth  under  ; — 
But   the  waters  Charybdis   had   swallow 'd 

she  now 

Regurgitates  bellowing  back  in  thunder ; 
And  the  foam,  with  a  stunning  and  horrible 

sound, 

Breaks  its    hoar   way  through   the   waves 
around. 


And  it  seethes  and  roars,  it  welters  and  boils, 

As  when  water  is  shower'd  upon  fire ; 
And  skyward  the  spray  agonizingly  toils, 
And  flood  over  flood  sweeps  higher  and 

higher, 

Upheaving,  downrolling,  tumultuously, 
As  though  the  abyss  would  bring  forth  a 
young  sea. 


But  the  terrible  turmoil  at  last  is  over ; 

And  down  through  the  whirlpool's  well 
A  yawning  blackness  ye  may  discover. 

Profound  as  the  passage  to  central  Hell ; 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


343 


And  the  waves,  under  many  a  struggle  and 

spasm, 
Are  suck'd  in   afresh   by  the  gorge  of  the 

chasm. 

And  now,  ere  the  din  rethunders,  the  youth 
Invokes  the  Great  Name  of  GOD  ; 

And  blended  shrieks  of  horror  and  ruth 
Burst  forth  as  he  plunges  headlong  unawM : 

And  down  he  descends  thro'  the  watery  bed, 

And  the  waves  boom  over  his  sinking  head. 

But  though  for  a  while  they  have  ceased 

their  swell, 

They  roar  in  the  hollows  beneath, 
And  from  mouth  to  mouth  goes  round  the 

farewell — 
"  Brave-spirited     youth,     good-night     in 

death!" 

And  louder  and  louder  the  roarings  grow, 
While  with  trembling  all  eyes  are  directed 

below. 


Now,  wert  thou  even,  O  monarch  !  to  fling 

Thy  crown  in  the  angry  abyss, 
And   exclaim,   "  Who   recovers   the   crown 

shall  be  king  1" 
The  guerdon  were  powerless  to  tempt  me, 

I  wis ; 

For  what  in  Charybdis's  caverns  dwells 
No  chronicle  penn'd  of  mortal  tells. 

Full  many  a  vessel  beyond  repeal 

Lies  low  in  that  gulf  to-day, 
And  the   shatter'd  masts  and  the  drifting 

keel 

Alone  tell  the  tale  of  the  swooper's  prey. 
But  hark  ! — with  a  noise  like  the  howling  of 

storms, 
Again  the  wild  water  the  surface  deforms  ! 


And  it  hisses  and  rages,  it  welters  and  boils, 

As  when  water  is  spurted  on  fire, 
And  skyward  the  spray  agonizingly  toils, 
Aiid  wave  over  wave   beats  higher  and 

higher, 

While  the  foam,  with  a  stunning  and  horri- 
ble sound, 

Breaks  its  white  way  through   the  waters 
around. 


When  lo  !  ere  as  yet  the  billowy  war 

Loud-raging  beneath  is  o'er, 
An  arm  and  a  neck  are  distinguish'd  afar, 

And  a  swimmer  is  seen  to  make  for  the 

shore, 

And  hardily  buffeting  surge  and  breaker, 
He  springs  upon  land  with  the  golden  beaker. 

And  lengthen'd  and  deep  is  the  breath  he 

draws 

As  he  hails  the  bright  face  of  the  sun  ; 
And  a  murmur  goes  round  of  delight  and 

applause — 
He  lives  ! — he  is  safe  ! — he  has  conquer'd 

and  won  ! 

He  has  master'd  Charybdis's  perilous  wave  ! 
He  has  rescued  his  life  and  his  prize  from 

the  grave ! 

Now,  bearing  the  booty  triumphantly, 
At  the  foot  of  the  throne  he  falls, 

And  he  proffers  his  trophy  on  bended  knee ; 
And  the  King  to  his  beautiful  daughter 
calls, 

Who  fills  with  red  wine  the  golden  cup, 

While  the  gallant  stripling  again  stands  up. 

"  All   hail  to  the  King  !     Rejoice,  ye  who 

breathe 

Wheresoever  Earth's  gales  are  driven  ! 
For  ghastly  and  drear  is  the  region  beneath  ; 
And  let  Man  beware  how  he  tempts  high 

Heaven ! 

Let  him  never  essay  to  uncurtain  to  light 
What  destiny  shrouds  in  horror  and  night ! 

"The  maelstrom  dragg'd  me  down   in  its 

course ; 

When,  forth  from  the  cleft  of  a  rock, 
A  torrent  outrush'd  with  tremendous  force, 
And  met  me  anew  with  deadening  shock  ; 
Arid  I  felt  my  brain  swim  and  my  senses  i  eel 
As  the  double-flood  whirl'd  me  round  like  a 
wheel. 

"  But  the  GOD  I  had  cried  to  answer'd  me 
When  my  destiny  darkliest  frown'd, 

And  He  show'd  me  a  reef  of  rocks  in  the  sea, 
Whereunto  I  clung,  and  there  I  found 

On  a  coral  jag  th'j  goblet  of  gold, 

Which  else  to  tro  lowermost  crypt  had  roll'd. 


344 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


"  And  the  gloom  through  measureless  toises 

under 

Was  all  as  a  purple  haze  ; 
And  though  sound  was  none  in  these  realms 

of  wonder, 

I  shudder'd  when  under  my  shrinking  gaze 
That  wilderness  lay  develop'd  where  wander 
The  dragon,  and  dog-fish,  and  sea-salamander. 

"  And  I  saw  the  huge  kraken  and  magnified 

snake, 
And  the  thornback  and  ravening  shark, 

Their  way  through  the  dismal  waters  take ; 
While  the  hammer-fish  wallow'd  below  in 
the  dark, 

And  the  river-horse  rose  from   his  lair  be- 
neath, 

And  grinn'd  through  the  grate  of  his  spiky 
teeth. 

"  And  there  I  hung,  aghast  and  dismay'd, 
Among  skeleton  larvae,  the  only 

Soul  conscious  of  life — despairing  of  aid 
In  that  vastness  untrodden  and  lonely. 

Not  a  human  voice — not  an  earthly  sound — 

But  silence,  and  water,  and  monsters  around. 

•*  Soon  one  of  these  monsters  approach'd  me, 

and  plied 

His  hundred  feelers  to  drag 
Me    down    through    the    darkness;    when, 

springing  aside, 

I  abandon'd  my  hold  of  the  coral  crag, 
And  the  maelstrom  grasp'd  me  with  arms  of 

strength, 
And  upwhirl'd  and  upbore  me  to  daylight 

at  length." 
Then  spake  to  the  Page  the  marvelling  King, 

"  The  golden  cup  is  thine  own, 
But — I  promise  thee  further  this  jewell'd  ring 
That  beams  with  a  priceless  hyacinth-stone, 
Shouldst  thou  dive  once  more  and  discover 

for  me 

The  mysteries  shrined   in  the  cells   of  the 
sea."— 

Now  the  King's  fair  daughter  was  touch'd 

and  grieved, 

And  she  fell  at  her  father's  feet — 
"  O   father,   enough    what    the    youth    has 

achieved  1 


Expose  not  his  life  anew,  I  entreat ! 
If  this  your  heart's  longing  you  cannot  well 

tame, 
There  are  surely  knights  here  who  will  rival 

his  fame." — 

But  the  King  hurl'd  downward  the  golden 

cup, 

And  he  spake  as  it  sank  in  the  wave, 
"  Now,  shouldst  thou  a  second  time  bring  it 

me  up, 
As  my  knight,  and  the  bravest  of  all  my 

brave, 

Thou  shalt  sit  at  my  nuptial  banquet,  and  she 
Who  pleads  for  thee  thus  thy  wedded  shall 

be  !"— 

Then  the  blood  to  the  youth's  hot  temples 

rushes, 

And  his  eyes  on  the  maiden  are  cast, 
And   he   sees  her  at  first  overspread  with 

blushes, 

And  then  growing  pale  and  sinking  aghast. 
So,  vowing  to  win  so  glorious  a  crown, 
For  Life  or  for  Death  he  again  plunges  down. 

The  far-sounding  din  returns  amain, 

And  the  foam  is  alive  as  before, 
And  all  eyes  are  bent  downward.     In  vainr 

in  vain — 

The  billows  indeed  re-dash  and  re-roar. 
But  while  ages  shall  roll  and  those  billow* 

shall  thunder, 
That  youth  shall  sleep  under ! 


THE  MAIDEN'S  PLAINT. 

THE  forest-pines  groan — 

The  dim  clouds  are  flitting — 

The  Maiden  is  sitting 

On  the  green  shore  alone. 

The   surges   are   broken  with   might,  with 

might, 

And  her  sighs  are  pour'd  on  the  desert  Night, 
And  tears  are  troubling  her  eye. 

"  All,  all  is  o'er  : 
The  heart  is  destroyed — 
The  world  is  a  void — 
It  can  yield  me  no  more. 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


346 


Then,  Master  of  Life,  take  back  thy  boon : 
I  have  tasted  such  bliss  as  is  under  the  moon  : 
I  have  lived,  I  have  loved — I  would  die  !" 

Thy  tears,  O  Forsaken  ! 

Are  gushing  in  vain  ; 

Thy  wail  shall  not  waken 

The  Buried  again  : 

But  all  that  is  left  for  the  desolate  bosom, 

The  flower  of  whose  Love  has  been  blasted 

in  blossom, 
Be  granted  to  thee  from  on  high  ! 


Then  pour  like  a  river 

Thy  tears  without  number ! 

The  Buried  can  never 

Be  wept  from  their  slumber  : 

But  the  luxury  dear  to  the  Broken-hearted, 

When  the  sweet  enchantment  of  Love  hath 

departed, 
Be  thine — the  tear  and  the  sigh  1 


THE  UNREALITIES. 

AND  dost  thou  faithlessly  abandon  me  ? 

Must  thy  chameleon  phantasies  depart? 
Thy  griefs,  thy  gladnesses,  take  wing  and 

flee 
The  bower  they  builded  in  this  lonely 

heart  ? 

O,  Summer  of  Existence,  golden,  glowing  ! 
Can  naught  avail  to  curb  thine  onward 

motion  ? 

In  vain  !     The  river  of  my  years  is  flowing, 
And  soon  shall  mingle  with  the  eternal 
ocean. 


Extinguish'd  in  dead  darkness  lies  the  sun, 
That  lighted  up    my  shrivell'd   world  of 

wonder ; 
Those  fairy  bands  Imagination  spun 

Around   my  heart   have   long   been  rent 

asunder. 
Gone,  gone  forever  is  the  fine  belief, 

The  all  too  generous  trust  in  the  Ideal : 
\\\  my  Divinities  have  died  of  grief, 

And  left  me  wedded  to  the  Rude  and  Heal. 


As  clasp'd  the  enthusiastic  Prince1  of  old 

The  lovely  statue,  stricken  by  its  charms, 
Until  the  marble,  late  so  dead  and  cold, 
Glow'd   into   throbbing   life   beneath  hit 

arms; 

So  fondly  round  enchanting  Nature's  form, 
I  too  entwined  my  passionate  arms,  till, 

press'd 
In  my  embraces,  she  began  to  warm 

And  breathe  and  revel  in  my  bounding 
breast. 


And,  sympathizing  with  my  virgin  bliss, 

The  speechless  things  of  Earth  received  a 

tongue ; 
They  gave  me  back  Affection's  burning  kiss, 

And  loved  the  Melody  my  bosom  sung : 
Then  sparkled  hues  of  Life  on  tree  and  flower, 

Sweet    music    from    the    silver   fountain 

flow'd ; 
All  soulless  images  in  that  brief  hour 

The  Echo  of  my  Life  divinely  glow'd  1 


How  struggled  all  my  feelings  to  extend 
Themselves  afar  beyond  their  prisoning 

bounds ! 

Oh,  how  I  long'd  to  enter  Life  and  blend 
Me  with  its  words  and  deeds,  its  shapes 

and  sounds ! 

This  human  theatre,  how  fair  it  beam'd 
While  yet  the   curtain   hung   before  the 

scene ! 

Uproll'd,  how  little  then  the  arena  seem'd ! 
That  little  how  contemptible  and  mean  ! 


How  roam'd,  imparadised  in  blest  illusion, 
With  soul  to  which  upsoaring  Hope  lent 

pinions, 

And  heart  as  yet  unchill'd  by  Care's  intru- 
sion, 
How    roam'd   the   stripling-lord   through 

his  dominions ! 
Then  Fancy  bore  him  to  the  palest  star 

Pinnacled  in  the  lofty  ether  dim  : 
Was  naught  so  elevated,  naught  so  fair, 
But  thither  the  Enchantress  guided  him  t 


1  Pygmalion. 


346 


POEMS  BY  JAMES   CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


With  what  rich  reveries  his  brain  was  rife  ! 
What    adversary    might    withstand    him 

long? 
How  glanced  and  danced  before  the  Car  of 

Life 
The   visions   of  his   thought,  a  dazzling 

throng  ! 
For  there  was   FORTUNE  with   her  golden 

crown, 
There  flitted  LOVE  with  heart-bewitching 

boon, 

There  glitter'd  starry-diadem'd  RENOWN, 
And  TRUTH,  with  radiance  like  the  sun  of 
noon ! 


But  ah  !  ere  half  the  journey  yet  was  over, 
That   gorgeous    escort   wended    separate 

ways ; 
All  faithlessly  forsook  the  pilgrim-rover, 

And  one  by  one  evanish'd  from  his  gaze. 
Away  inconstant-handed  FORTUNE  flew ; 
And,  while  the  thirst  of  knowledge  burn'd 

alway, 

The  dreary  mists  of  Doubt  arose  and  threw 
Their  shadow  over  TRUTH'S  resplendent 
ray. 

I  saw  the  sacred  garland-crown  of  FAME 

Around  the  common  brow  its  glory  shed : 
The  rapid  Summer  died,  the  Autumn  came, 

And  LOVE,  with  all  his  necromancies,  fled, 
And  ever  lonelier  and  silenter 

Grew  the  dark  images  of  Life's  poor  dream, 
Till  scarcely  o'er  the  dusky  scenery  there 

The  lamp  of  HOPE  itself  could  cast  a  gleam. 


And  now,  of  all,  Who,  in  my  day  of  dolor, 
Alone  survives  to  clasp  my  willing  hand  ? 
Who  stands  beside  me  still,  my  best  con- 
soler, 

And  lights  my  pathway  to  the  Phantom- 
strand  ? 
Thou,  FRIENDSHIP  !  stancher  of  our  wounds 

and  sorrows, 
From  whom  this  lifelong  pilgrimage  of 

pain 

A  balsam  for  its  worst  afllictions  borrows  ; 
Thou  whom  I  early  sought,  nor  sought  in 
vain ! 


And   thou   whose   labors   by  her  light  are 

wrought,  • 

Soother  and  soberer  of  the  spirit's  fever, 
Who,  shaping   all  things,   ne'er  destroyest 

aught, 
Calm   OCCUPATION  !    thou    that   weariest 

never ! 

Whose  efforts  rear  at  last  the  mighty  Mount 
Of  Life,  though  merely  grain  on  grain 

they  lay. 

And,  slowly  toiling,  from  the  vast  Account 
Of  Time  strike  minutes,  days,  and  years 
away. 


THE  WORDS   OF  REALITY. 

I  NAME  you'  Three  Words  which  ought  to 

resound 

In  thunder  from  zone  to  zone  : 
But  the  world  understands  them  not — they 

are  found 

In  the  depths  of  the  heart  alone. 
That  man  must  indeed  be  utterly  base 
In  whose  heart  the  Three  Words  no  longei 
find  place. 

First, — MAN  is  FREE,  is  CREATED  FREE, 

Though  born  a  manacled  slave  : — 
I  abhor  the  abuses  of  Liberty — 

I  hear  how  the  populace  rave, — 
But  I   never  can  dread,  and  I  dare  not  dis- 
dain, 

The  slave  who   stands  up  and  shivers  his 
chain ! 

And, — VIRTUE  is  NOT  AN  EMPTY  NAME  : — 

'Tis  the  paction  of  Man  with  his  soul, 
That,  though  balk'd  of  his  worthiest  earthly 

aim, 

He  will  still  seek  a  heavenly  goal ; 
For,  that  to  which  worldling   natures   are 

blind 
Is  a  pillar  of  light  for  the  childlike  mind. 

And, — A  GOD,  AN  IMMUTABLE  WILL,  EXISTS, 
However  Men  waver  and  yield  : — 

Beyond  Space,  beyond  Time,  and  their  dim- 
ming mists, 
The  Ancient  of  Days  is  reveal'd  ; 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


347 


And  while  Time  and  the  Universe  haste  to 

decay, 
Their  unchangeable  Author  is  Lord  for  aye ! 

Then,  treasure  those  Words.     They  ought 

to  resound 

In  thunder  from  zone  to  zone  ; 
But   the   world  will   not  teach  thee  their 

force  ; — they  are  found 
In  the  depths  of  the  heart  alone ; 
Thou  never,  O  Man !  canst  be  utterly  base 
While  those  Three  Words  in  thy  heart  find 
place ! 


THE  WORDS  OF  DELUSION. 

THREE  Words  are  heard  with  the  Good  and 
Blameless, 

Three  ruinous  words  and  vain — 
Their  sound  is  hollow — their  use  is  aimless — 

They  cannot  console  and  sustain. 
Man's  path  is  a  path  of  thorns  and  troubles 
So  long  as  he  chases  these  vagrant  bubbles. 

So  long  as    he    hopes  that  Triumph  and 

Treasure 

Will  yet  be  the  guerdon  of  Worth : — 
Both  are  dealt  out  to  Baseness  in  lavishest 

measure ; 

The  Worthy  possess  not  the  earth — 
They  are  exiled  spirits  and  strangers  here, 
And  look  for  their  home  to  a  purer  sphere. 

So  long  as   he  dreams  that  On  day-made 

creatures 

The  noonbeams  of  Truth  will  shine : — 
No  mortal  may  lift  up  the  veil  from  her 

features ; 

On  earth  we  but  guess  and  opine  : 
We  prison  her  vainly  in  pompous  words  : 
She  is  not  our  handmaid — she  is  the  Lord's. 

So  long  as  he  sighs  for  a  Golden  Era, 
When  Good  will  be  victress  o'er  III : 

The  triumph  of  Good  is  an  idiot's  chimera ; 
She  never  can  combat — nor  will : 

The  Foe  must  contend  and  o'ermaster,  till, 
cloy'd 

By  destruction,  he  perishes,  self-destroy'-!. 


Then,  Man  !  through  Life's  labyrinths  wind- 
ing and  darken'd, 

Take,  dare  to  take,  Faith  as  thy  clue ! 
THAT  WHICH  KV  i:  .\  \:\  KH  SAW,  TO  WHICH  EAB 

NEVER  UEARKEN'D, 

THAT,  THAT  is  THE  BEAUTEOUS  AND  TRUE  1 
It  is  not  without — let  the  foe  1  seek  it  there — 
It  is  in  thine   own   bosom  and  heart — the 
Perfect,  the  Good,  and  the  Fair !' 


THE   COURSE   OF  TIME. 

TIME  is  threefold — triple — three  : 

First — and  Midst — and  Last ; 
Was— and  Is— and  Yet-To-Be  ;— 

Future — Present — Past. 

Lightning-swift,  the  Is  is  gone — 
The  Yet-To-Be  crawls  with  a  snakelike  slow- 
ness on ; 

Still  stands  the  Was  for  aye — its  goal  is  won. 
No  fierce  impatience,  no  entreating, 

Can  spur  or  wing  the  tardy  Tarrier ; 

No  strength,  no  skill,  can  rear  a  barrier 
Between  Departure  and  the  Fleeting : 
No  prayers,  no  tears,  no  magic  spell, 
Can  ever  move  the  Immovable. 

Wouldst  thou,  fortunate  and  sage, 
Terminate  Life's  Pilgrimage  ? 
Wouldst  thou  quit  this  mundane  stage 
Better,  happier,  worthier,  wiser  ? 
Then,  whate'er  thine  aim  and  end, 
Take,  0  Youth  !  for  thine  adviser, 

Not  thy  workiny-niate,  The  Slow ; 
Oh,  make  not  The  Vanishing  thy  friend^ 

Or  The  Permanent  thy  foe! 


HOPE. 

THE  Future  is  Man's  immemorial  hymn : 
In  vain  runs  the  Present  a-wasting ; 

To  a  golden  goal  in  the  distance  dim 
In  life,  in  death,  he  is  hasting. 

The  world  grows  old,  and  young,  and  old, 

But  the  ancient  story  still  bears  to  be  told. 


1  The  classical  reader  need  hardly  oe  Informed  that  th«  «pt 
IheU  In  thi!'  line  are  from  Plato. 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


Hope  smiles  on  the  Boy  from  the  hour  of 

his  birth : — 

To  the  Youth  it  gives  bliss  without  limit ; 
It  gleams  for  Old  Age  as  a  star  on  earth, 

And  the  darkness  of  Death  cannot  dim  it. 
Its  rays  will  gild  even  fathomless  gloom, 
When  the  Pilgrim  of  Life  lies  down  in  the 
tomb. 

Never  deem  it  a  Shibboleth  phrase  of  the 

crowd, 

Never  call  it  the  dream  of  a  rhymer  ; 
The  instinct  of  Nature  proclaims  it  aloud — 

WE    AEE    DESTINED    FOK   SOMETHING   SUB- 
LIMEE. 

This  truth,  which  the  Witness  within  reveals, 
The  purest  worshipper  deepliest  feels. 


SPIRITS  EVERYWHERE. 

A  MANY  a  summer  is  dead  and  buried 
Since  over  this  flood  I  last  was  ferried ; 
And  then,  as  now,  the  Noon  lay  bright 
On  strand,  and  water,  and  castled  height. 

Beside  me  then  in  this  bark  sat  nearest 
Two  companions  the  best  and  dearest ; 
One  was  a  gentle  and  thoughtful  sire, 
The  other  a  youth  with  a  soul  of  fire. 

One,  outworn  by  Care  and  Illness, 
Sought  the  grave  of  the  Just  in  stillness 
The  other's  shroud  was  the  bloody  rain 
And  thunder-smoke  of  the  battle  plain. 

Yet  still,  when  memory's  necromancy 
Robes  the  Past  in  the  hues  of  Fancy, 
Me  dreameth  I  hear  and  see  the  Twain, 
With  talk  and  smiles  at  my  side  again ! 

Even  the  grave  is  a  bond  of  union ; 
Spirit  and  spirit  best  hold  communion  ! 
Seen  through  Faith,  by  the  Inward  Eye, 
It  is  after  Life  they  are  truly  nigh  ! 


Then,  ferryman,  take  this  coin,  I  pray  theer 
Thrice  thy  fare  1  cheerfully  pay  thee  ; 
For,  though  thou  seest  them  not,  there  stand 
Anear  me  Two  from  the  Phantom-land  I 


SPRING  ROSES. 

GREEN-LEAFY  Whitsuntide  was  come, 

To  gladden  many  a  Christian  home : — 
Spake  then  King  Engelbert — "  A  fitter 

Time  than  this  we  scarce  shall  see 

For  tournament  and  revelrie  : 
Ho  !  to  horse,  each  valiant  Ritter  !" 

Gay  banners  wave  above  the  walls, — 
The  herald's  trumpet  loudly  calls, 

And  beauteous  eyes  rain  radiant  glances ! 
And  of  all  the  knights  can  none 
Match  the  Monarch's  gallant  son, 

In  the  headlong  shock  of  lances  ! 

Till,  at  the  close,  a  Stranger  came, — 

Japan-black  iron  cased  his  frame ; 
In  his  air  was  somewhat  kingly : 

Well  I  guess,  that  stalwart  knight 

Yet  will  overcome  in  fight 
All  the  hosts  of  Europe  singly. 

As  he  flings  his  gage  to  earth 

You  hear  no  more  the  sound  of  mirth,— 

All  shrink  back,  as  dreading  danger  ; 
The  Prince  alone  defies  the  worst — 
Alas !  in  vain !  He  falls,  unhorsed : 

Sole  victor  bides  the  Sable  Stranger  ! 

Boots  now  no  longer  steed  or  lance : 
"Light up thehall! — a  dance! — adance! 

Anon  a  dazzling  throng  assembles  ; 

And  then  and  there  that  DarkUnscann'd 
Asks  the  Royal  Maiden's  hand, 

Whilk  she  gives,  albeit  it  trembles. 

And  as  they  dance — the  Dark  and  Fair- 
In  the  Maiden's  breast  and  hair 

Every  golden  clasp  uncloses, 

And,  to  and  fro — that  way  and  this — 
Drops  dimm'd  each  pearl  and  amethyss — 

Drop  dead  the  shrivell'd  yello  v  roses. 


POKMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


349 


But  who  makes  merriest  at  the  feast? 

Not  he  who  furnish'd  it  at  least ! 
Sad  is  he  for  son  and  daughter! 

Fears  that  reason  cannot  bind 

Chase  each  other  through  his  mind, 
Swift  and  dark  as  midnight  water ! 

So  pale  both  youth  and  maiden  were  ! 
Whereon  the  Guest,  affecting  care, 
Spake,  "  Blushful   wine   will   mend   your 

color," 

Fill'd  he  then  a  beaker  up, 
And  they — they  drank ;  but  oh  !  that 

cup 
Proved  in  sooth  a  draught  of  dolor ! 

Their  eyelids  droop,  and  neither  speaks ; 

They  kiss  their  father ;  and  their  cheeks, 
Pale  before,  wax  white  and  shrunken : 

Momently  their  death  draws  nigher, 

lie,  the  while,  their  wretched  sire, 
Gazing  on  them,  terror-drunken  ! 

"Spai'e  these!     Take  me/"  he  shriek'd, 
and  pressed 

The  stone-cold  corpses  to  his  breast ; 
When,  to  that  heart-smitten  father 

Spake  the  Guest,  with  iron  voice, 

"Autumn  spoils  are  not  my  choice; 
Roses  in  the  Spring  I  gather !" 


THE  CASTLE  OVER  THE  SEA. 

**  SAWEST  thou  the  castle  that  beetles  over 

The  wine-dark  sea  ? 
The  rosy  sunset  clouds  do  hover 

Above  it  so  goldenly ! 

"  It  hath  a  leaning  as  though  it  would  bend  to 

The  waves  below ; 
It  hath  a  longing  as  though  to  ascend  to 

The  skies  in  their  gorgeous  glow." 

"  — Well  saw  I  the  castle  that  beetles  over 

The  wine-dark  sea; 
And  a  pall  of  watery  clouds  did  cover 

Its  battlements  gloomsomely." 


"The  winds  and  the  moonlit  waves  were 
singing 

A  choral  song  ? 
And  the  brilliant  castle-hall  was  ringing 

With  melody  all  night  long  ?" 

"  The  winds  and  the  moonless  waves  wert 
sleeping 

In  stillness  all ; 
But  many  voices  of  woe  and  weeping 

Rose  out  from  the  castle-hall." — 

— "  And  sawest  thou  not  step  forth  so  lightly 

The  King  and  the  Queen, 
Their  festal  dresses  bespangled  brightly, 

Their  crowns  of  a  dazzling  sheeu  ? 

"  And  by  their  side  a  resplendent  vision, 

A  virgin  fair, 
The  glorious  child  of  some  clime  elysian 

With  starry  gems  in  her  hair  ?" 

"  — Well  saw  I  the  twain  by  the  wine-dark 
water 

Walk  slower  and  slower ; 
They  were  clad  in  weeds,  and  their  vir- 
gin daughter 

Was  found  at  their  side  no  more." 


DURAND  OF  BLONDEN. 

Tow  AKDS  the  lofty  walls  of  Balbi,  lo !  Durand 

•    of  Blonde  n  hies; 
Thousand  songs  are  in  his  bosom ;  Love  and 

Pleasure  light  his  eyes. 
There,   he   dreams,  his  own  true  maiden, 

beauteous  as  the  evening  star, 
Leaning  o'er  her  turret-lattice,  waiu  to  hear 

her  knight's  guitar. 


In  the  linden-shaded  courtyard  soon  Durand 

begins  his  lay. 
But  his  eyes  glance  vainly  upward ;  there 

they  meet  no  answering  ray. 
Flowers  are  blooming  in  the  lattice,  rich  of 

odor,  fair  to  see, 
But  the  fairest  flower  of  any,  Ladj  Blauca, 

where  is  she  ? 


350 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


Ah !  while  yet  he  chants  the  ditty,  draws  a 
mourner  near  and  speaks — 

"  She  is  dead,  is  dead  forever,  whom  Durand 
of  Blonden  seeks !" 

Ana  the  knight  replies  not,  breathes  not; 
darkness  gathers  round  his  brain : 

He  is  dead,  is  dead  forever,  and  the  mourn- 
ers weep  the  twain. 

In  the  darken'd  castle-chapel  burn  a  many 

tapers  bright : 
There  the  lifeless  maiden  lies,  with  whitest 

wreaths  and  ribands  di^ht. 

O 

There ....  But  lo  !  a  mighty  marvel !     She 

hath  oped  her  eyes  of  blue  ! 
All  are  lost  in  joy  and  wonder !  Lady  Blanca 

lives  anew ! 
Dreams  and  visions  flit  before  her,  as  she 

asks  of  those  anear, 
"  Heard  I  not  my  lover  singing ! — Is  Durand 

of  Blonden  here  ?" 
Yes,  O  Lady,  thou  hast  heard  him ;  he  has 

died  for  thy  dear  sake ! 
He  could  wake  his  tranced  mistress:  him 

shall  none  forever  wake  ! 

He  is  in  a  realm  of  glory,  but  as  yet  he 

weets  not  where ; 
He  but  seeks  the  Lady  Blanca:  dwells  she 

not  already  there  ? 
Till  he  finds  her  must  he  wander  to  and  fro, 

as  one  bereaven, 
Ever  calling,  "Blanca!    Blanca!"  through 

the  desert  halls  of  Heaven. 


LIFE  IS  THE  DESERT  AND  THE  SOLITUDE. 

WHENCE  this  fever  ? 
Whence  this  burning 
Love  and  Longing  ? 
Ah!  forever, 
Ever  turning, 
Ever  thronging 


Towards  the  Distance, 
Roams  each  fonder 
Yearning  yonder, 
There,  where  wander 
Golden  stars  in  blest  existence  I 


Thence  what  fragrant 
Airs  are  blowing ! 
What  rich  vagrant 
Music  flowing ! 
Angel  voices, 
Tones  wherein  the 
Heart  rejoices, 
Call  from  thence  from  Earth  to  win  the«  1 


How  yearns  and  burns  for  evermore 
My  heart  for  thee,  thou  blessed  shore ! 
And  shall  I  never  see  thy  fairy 

Bowers  and  palace-gardens  near  ? 
Will  no  enchanted  skiff  so  airy, 

Sail  from  thee  to  seek  me  here  ? 
Oh  !  undeveloped  Land, 

Whereto  I  fain  would  flee, 
What  mighty  hand  shall  break  each  band 

That  keeps  my  soul  from  thee  ? 
In  vain  I  pine  and  sigh 

To  trace  thy  dells  and  streams : 
They  gleam  but  by  the  spectral  sky 

That  lights  my  shifting  dreams. 
Ah !  what   fair  form,  flitting  through  yon 

green  glades, 
Dazes  mine   eye?      Spirit,  oh!  rive  my 

chain ! 

Woe  is  my  soul !     Swiftly  the  vision  fades, 
And  I  start  up — waking — to  weep  in  vain ! 


Hence  this  fever ; 
Hence  this  burning 
Love  and  Longing: 
Hence  forever, 
Ever  turning, 
Ever  thronging, 
Towards  the  Distance, 
Roams  each  fonder 
Yearning  yonder, 
There,  where  wander 
Golden  stars  in  blest  existence  I 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


351 


LIGHT  AND 

THE  gayest  lot  beneath 

By  Grief  is  shaded : 
Pale  Evening  sees  the  wreath 

Of  Morning  faded. 

Pain  slays,  or  Pleasure  cloys ; 

All  mortal  morrows 
But  waken  hollow  joys 

Or  lasting  sorrows. 

Hope  yesternoon  was  bright, — 

Earth  beam'd  with  beauty ; 
But  soon  came  conquering  Night 
'  And  claim'd  his  booty. 

Life's  billows,  as  they  roll, 
Would  fain  look  sunward ; 

But  ever  must  the  soul 
Drift  darkly  onward. 

The  sun  forsakes  the  sky, 
Sad  stars  are  sovereigns, 

Long  shadows  mount  on  high 
And  darkness  governs. 

So  Love  deserts  his  throne, 

Weary  of  reigning ! 
Ah !  would  he  but  rule  on 

Young  and  unwaning ! 

Pain  slays,  or  Pleasure  cloys, 

And  all  onr  morrows 
But  waken  hollow  joys 

Or  lasting  sorrows. 


Justinus 


THE  MIDNIGHT  BELL. 

HARK  !  through  the  midnight  lonely 
How  tolls  the  convent-bell ! 

But  ah  !  no  summer-breeze  awakes  the 

sound ; 

The  beating  of  the  heavy  hammer  only 
Is  author  of  the  melancholy  knell 

That    startles   the    dull    car   for  miles 
around. 


How  such  a  bell  resembles 
The  drooping  poet's  hetrt ! 

Thereon  must  Misery's  hammer  drearily 

jar, 
Ere    the    deep    melody    that    shrinks    and 

trembles 

Within  its  daedal  chambers  can  impart 
Its  tale  unto  the  listless  world  afar. 


And,  woe  is  me !  too  often 
Hath  such  a  bell  alone, 

At  such  an  hour,  with  such  disastrous 

tongue, 
Power  to   disarm  the  heart's  despair,  and 

soften 

Its  chords  to  music ;  even  as  now  its  tone 
Inspires  me  with  the  lay  I  thus  have  sung. 


THE  WANDERER'S  CHANT. 

MAY  sparkle  for  others 

Henceforward  this  wine ! 
Adieu,  beloved  brothers 

And  sisters  of  mine, 
My  boyhood's  green  valleys, 

My  fathers'  gray  halls ! 
Where  Liberty  rallies 

My  destiny  calls. 


The  sun  never  stands, 

Never  slackens  his  motion ; 
He  travels  all  lands 

Till  he  sinks  in  the  ocean ; 
The  stars  cannot  rest ; 

The  wild  winds  have  no  pillow, 
And  the  shore  from  its  breast 

Ever  flings  the  blue  billow. 


So  Man  in  the  harness 

Of  Fortune  must  roam, 
And  far  in  the  Farness 

Look  out  for  his  home ; 
Unresting  and  errant, 

West,  East,  South,  and  North, 
The  liker  his  parent, 

The  weariless  Earth  . 


552 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


Though  he  hears  not  the  words  of 

The  language  he  loves, 
He  kens  the  blithe  birds  of 

His  Fatherland's  groves : 
Old  voices  are  singing 

From  river  and  rill, 
And  flow'rets  are  springing 

To  welcome  him  still. 

And  Beauty's  dear  tresses 

Are  lovely  to  view, 
And  Friendship  still  blesses 

The  soul  of  the  True  : 
And  love,  too,  so  garlands 

The  wanderer's  dome, 
That  the  farthest  of  far  lands 

To  him  is  a  home. 


NOT  AT  HOME. 

41  One  grand  cause  of  this  uneasiness  is,  that  Man  is  not  at 
*»me."— GODWIN,  Thoughts  on  Man. 

MY  spirit,  alas,  knoweth  no  rest  1 
I  lay  under  Heaven's  blue  dome, 

One  day,  in  the  summer  beam, 
By  the  Mummel-zee  in  the  forest, 

And  dream'd  a  dream 
Of  my  Home — 

My  Home,  the  Home  of  my  Father! 
Shone  glory  within  and  without ; 

Shone  bright  in  its  garden  bowers 
Such  fruits  as  the  Angels  gather, 

And  gold-hued  flowers 
All  about ! 

Alas !  the  illusion  soon  vanish'd. 

I  awoke.    There  were  clouds  in  the  sky. 

My  tears  began  to  flow. 
My  quiet  of  soul  was  banish'd ; 

I  felt  as  though 
I  could  die ! 

And  still  with  a  heart  ever  swelling 
With  yearnings, — and  still  with  years 

Overdark'd  by  a  desolate  lot, 
I  seek  for  my  Father's  Dwelling, 

And  see  it  not 
For  my  tears ! 


HOPE. 

OH  !  maiden  of  heavenly  birth, 

Than  rubies  and  gold  more  precious, 
Who  earnest  of  old  upon  Earth, 

To  solace  the  human  species ! 
As  fair  as  the  morn  that  uncloses 

Her  gates  in  a  region  sunny, 
Thou  openest  lips  of  roses 

And  utterest  words  of  honey. 

When  Innocence  forth  at  the  portals 

Of  Sorrow  and  Sin  was  driven, 
For  sake  of  afflicted  mortals 

Thou  leftest  thy  home  in  Heaven, 
To  mitigate  Anguish  and  Trouble, 

The  monstrous  brood  of  Crime, 
And  restore  us  the  prospects  noble 

That  were  lost  in  the  olden  time. 

Tranquillity  never-ending 

And  Happiness  move  in  thy  train  : 
Where  Might  is  with  Might  contending, 

And  labor  and  tumult  reign, 
Thou  succorest  those  that  are  toiling, 

Ere  yet  all  their  force  hath  departed ; 
And  pourest  thy  balsam  of  oil  in 

The  wounds  of  the  Broken-hearted. 

Thou  lendest  new  strength  to  the  warrior 

When  battle  is  round  him  and  peril ; 
Thou  formest  the  husbandman's  barrier 

'Gainst  Grief,  when  his  fields  are  sterile 
From  the  sun  and  the  bright  Spring  show 
ers, 

From  the  winds  and  the  gentle  dew, 
Thou  gatherest  sweets  for  the  flowers 

And  growth  for  the  meads  anew. 

When  armies  of  sorrows  come  swooping, 

And  Reason  is  captive  to  Sadness, 
Thou  raisest  the  soul  that  was  drooping, 

And  givest  it  spirit  and  gladness ; 
The  powers  Despair  had  degraded 

Thou  snatchest  from  dreary  decay, 
And  all  that  was  shrunken  and  faded 

Reblooms  in  the  light  of  thy  ray. 


POK.MS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


When  the  Sick  on  his  couch  lies  faintest 

Thou  deadenest  half  of  his  dolors, 
For  still  as  he  suffers  thou  paintest 

The  Future  in  rainbow  colors  : 
By  thee  are  his  visions  verrailion'd  ; 

Thou  thronest  his  soul  in  a  palace, 
In  which,  under  purple  pavilion'd, 

He  quaffs  Immortality's  chalice. 

Down  into  the  mine's  black  hollows, 

Where  the  slave  is  dreeing  his  doom, 
A  ray  from  thy  lamp  ever  follows 

His  footsteps  throughout  the  gloom. 
And  the  wretch  condemn'd  in  the  galleys 

To  swink  at  the  ponderous  oar, 
Revived  by  thy  whisperings,  rallies, 

And  thinks  on  his  labors  no  more. 

O  goddess !  the  gales  of  whose  breath 

Are  the  heralds  of  Life  when  we  languish, 
And  who  dashest  the  potion  of  Death 

From  the  lips  of  the  martyr  to  Anguish : 
No  earthly  event  is  so  tragic 

But  thou  winnest  good  from  it  still, 
And  the  lightning-like  might  of  thy  magic 

Is  conq\;eror  over  all  ill ! 


Karl  £hnrocfe. 


O  MARIA,  REGINA  MISERICORDI.E  I 

THERE  lived  a  Knight  long  years  ago, 
Proud,  carnal,  vain,  devotionless. 
Of  GOD  above,  or  Hell  below, 

He  took  no  thought,  but,  undismay'd, 
Pursued  his  course  of  wickedness. 

His  heart  was  rock  ;  he  never  pray'd 
To  be  forgiven  for  all  his  treasons ; 
He  only  said,  at  certain  seasons, 
"  O  MARY,  Queen  of  Mercy !  " 

Years  roll'd,  and  found  him  still  the  same, 
Still  draining  Pleasure's  poison-bowl ; 

Yet  felt  he  now  and  then  some  shame ; 
The  torment  of  the  Undying  Worm 
At  whiles  woke  in  bis  trembling  soul ; 


And  then,  though  powerless  to  reform, 
Would  he,  in  hope  to  appease  that  sternest 
Avenger,  cry,  and  more  in  earnest, 
"  O  MARY,  Queen  of  Mercy !" 

At  last  Youth's  riotous  time  was  gone, 
And  loathing  now  came  after  Sin. 
With  locks  yet  brown  he  felt  as  one 

Grown  gray  at  heart ;  and  oft  with  tears, 
He  tried,  but  all  in  vain,  to  win 

From  the  dark  desert  of  his  years 
One  flower  of  hope  ;  yet,  morn  and  e'ening, 
He  still  cried,  but  with  deeper  meaning, 
"  O  MARY,  Queen  of  Mercy ! " 

A  happier  mind,  a  holier  mood, 
A  purer  spirit,  ruled  him  now  ; 

No  more  in  thrall  to  flesh  and  blood, 

He  took  a  pilgrim-staff  in  hand, 
And,  under  a  religious  vow, 

TravelPd  his  way  to  Pommerland : 
There  enter'd  he  an  humble  cloister, 
Exclaiming,  while  his  eyes  grew  moister, 
"  O  MARY,  Queen  of  Mercy !  " 

Here,  shorn  and  cowl'd,  he  laid  his  cares 
Aside,  and  wrought  for  GOD  alone. 
Albeit  he  sang  no  choral  prayers, 

Nor  matin  hymn  nor  laud  could  learn, 
He  mortified  his  flesh  to  stone  : 

For  him  no  penance  was  too  stern  ; 
And  often  pray'd  he  on  his  lonely 
Cell-couch  at  night,  but  still  said  only, 
"  O  MARY,  Queen  of  Mercy  !  " 


And  thus  he  lived  long,  long;  and,  when 
GOD'S  angels  call'd  him,  thus  he  died. 
Confession  made  he  none  to  men, 

Yet,  when  they  anointed  him  with  oil. 
He  seem'd  already  glorified, 

His  penances,  his  tears,  his  toil, 
Were  past ;  and  now,  with  passionate  sigh- 
ing, 

Praise  thus  broke  from  his  lips  while  dying 
"  O  MARY,  Queen  of  Mercy ! " 


They  buried  him  with  mass  and  song 
Aneath  a  little  knoll  so  green  ; 

But,  lo  !  a  wonder-sight ! — Ere  long 


854 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


Rose,    blooming,    from     that    verdant 

mound, 
The  fairest  lily  ever  seen  ; 

And,  on  its  petal-edges  round, 
Relieving  their  translucent  whiteness, 
Did  shine  these  words  in  gold-hued  bright- 
ness, 
"  O  MARY,  Queen  of  Mercy ! " 


And,  would  GOD'S  angels  give  thee  power, 
Thou,  dearest  reader,  mightst  behold 
The  fibres  of  this  holy  flower 

Upspringing  from  the  dead  man's  heart 
In  tremulous  threads  of  light  and  gold ; 

Then  Avouldst  thou  choose  the  better 

part  I1 

And  thenceforth   flee  Sin's  foul    sugges- 
tions ; 

Thy  sole  response  to  mocking  questions, 
"  O  MARY,  Queen  of  Mercy ! " 


Johitnn  (gluts 


LOVE -DITTY. 

MY  love,  my  winged  love,  is  like  the  swallow, 
Which  in  Autumn  flies  from  home, 
But,  when  balmy  Spring  again  is  come, 

And  soft  airs  and  sunshine  follow, 
Returneth  newly, 

And  gladdens  her   old  haunts  till  after 
bowery  July, 


My  slumbrous  love  is  like  the  winter-smitten 
Tree,  whereon  Decay  doth  feed, 
Till  the  drooping  dells  and  forests  read 

What  the  hand  of  May  hath  written 
Against  their  sadness  ; 
And  then,  behold  !  it  wakens  up  to  life 
and  gladness ! 


'  Lake,  x.  42. 


My  love,  my  flitting  love,  is  like  the  shadow 

All  day  long  on  path  or  wall : 

Let  but  Evening's  dim-gray  curtains  fall, 
And  the  sunlight  leave  the  meadow, 

And,  self-invited, 

It  wanders  through  all  bowers  where 
Beauty's  lamps  are  lighted. 


(ftmmutel  (Sdbler. 


CHARLEMAGNE  AND  THE  BRIDGE  OF 
MOONBEAMS. 

["  Many  traditions  are  extant  of  the  fondness  of  Charle- 
magne for  the  neighborhood  of  Langewinkel.  Nay,  it  i» 
firmly  believed  that  this  affection  survived  his  death ;  and  that 
even  now,  at  certain  seasons  of  the  year,  his  spirit  loves  to 
wake  from  its  slumber  of  ages,  and  revisit  it  still  "— SNOWK'* 
Legends  of  the  Rhine,  vol.  ii.] 

BEAUTEOUS  is  it  in  the  Summer-night,  and 

calm  along  the  Rhine, 
And  like  molten  silver  shines  the  light  that 

sleeps  on  wave  and  vine. 
But  a  stately  Figure  standeth  on  the  Silent 

Hill  alone, 
Like   the  phantom   of  a  Monarch   looking 

vainly  for  his  throne  ! 


Yes ! — 'tis  he — the  unforgotten  Lord  of  this 

beloved  land ! 
'Tis  the  glorious  Car'lus  Magnus,  with  his 

gleamy  sword  in  hand, 
And  his  crown  enwreath'd  with  myrtle,  and 

his  golden  sceptre  bright, 
And  his  rich  imperial  purple  vesture  floating 

on  the  night ! 


Since  he  dwell'd  among  his  people,  stormy 

centuries  have  roll'd. 
Thrones  and  kingdoms  have  departed,  and 

the  world  is  waxing  old  : 
Why  leaveth  he  his  house  of  rest  ?     Why 

cometh  he  once  more 
From  his  marble  tomb  tc  .van'ler  here  by 

Lan^awinkel's  shore? 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


:i5fl 


Oh,  fear  ye  not  the  Emperor ! — he  doth  not 
leave  his  tomb 

As  the  herald  of  disaster  to  our  land  of 
blight  and  bloom ; 

He  cometh  not  with  blight  or  ban  on  castle, 
field,  or  shrine, 

But  with  overflowing  blessings  for  the  Vine- 
yards of  the  Rhine ! 

As  a  bridge  across  the  river  lie  the  moon- 
beams all  the  time, 

They  shine  from  Langawinkel  unto  ancient 
Ingelheim ; 

And  along  this  Bridge  of  Moonbeams  is  the 
Monarch  seen  to  go, 

And  from  thence  he  pours  his  blessings  on 
the  royal  flood  below. 

He  blesses  all  the  vineyards,  he  blesses  vale 
and  plain, 

The  lakes  and  glades  and  orchards,  and  fields 
of  golden  grain, 

The  lofty  castle-turrets  and  the  lowly  cot- 
tage-hearth ; 

He  blesses  all,  for  over  all  he  reign'd  of  yore 
on  earth ; 

Then  to  each  and  all  so  lovingly  he  waves  a 

mute  Farewell, 
And  returns  to  slumber  softly  in  his  tomb  at 

La  Chapelle, 
Till  the  Summer-time  be  come  again,  with 

sun,  and  rain,  and  dew, 
And  the  vineyards  and  the  gai'dens  woo  him 

back  to  them  anew. 


Theodore  ftocrncr. 


T1IE  MINSTREL'S  MOTHERLAND. 

WIIEUE  lies  the  minstrel's  Motherland  ? 
Where  Love  is  faith  and  Friendship  duty, 
Whsre  Valor  wins  its  meed  from  Beauty, 
Where  Man  makes  Truth,  not  Gold  his 
booty, 

And  Freedom  bids  the  soul  expand — 

There  lay  my  Motherland  ! 


Where  Man  makes  Truth,  not  Gold  hi§ 

booty, 
There  was  my  Motherland  ! 

How  fares  the  minstrel's  Motherland  ! 

The  land  of  oaks  and  sunlit  waters 

Is  dark  with  woe,  is  red  with  slaughters; 

Her  bravest  sons,  her  fairest  daughters, 
Are  dead — or  live  proscribed  and  bann'd — 
So  fares  my  Motherland  ! 

The  land  of  oaks  and  sunlit  waters — 
My  cherish'd  Motherland  ! 

Why  weeps  the  minstrel's  Motherland  ? 
To  see  her  sons,while  tyrants  trample 
Her  yellow  fields  and  vineyards  ample, 
So  coldly  view  the  bright  example 

Long  shown  them  by  a  faithful  band — 

For  this  weeps  Motherland  ! 

Because  they  slight  that  high  example 

Weeps  thus  my  Motherland  ! 

What  wants  the  minstrel's  Motherland  ? 

To  fire  the  Cold  and  rouse  the  Dreaming, 

And    see     their    German     broadsword* 
gleaming, 

And  spy  their  German  standard  stream- 
ing, 

Who  spurn  the  Despot's  haught  command — 
This  wants  my  Motherland  ! 

To  fire  the  Cold  and  rouse  the  Dreaming, 
This  wants  my  Motherland! 

Whom  calls  the  minstrel's  Motherland? 
Her  saints  and  gods  of  ancient  ages, 
Her  Great  and  Bold,  her  bards  and  sages, 
To  bless  the  war  fair  Freedom  wages, 

And  speed  her  torch  from  hand  to  hand — 

These  calls  my  Motherland  ! 

Her  Great  and  Bold,  her  bards  and  sages, 

These  calls  my  Motherland  ! 


And  hopes  then  still  the  minstrel's  Land? 

Yes  !  Prostrate  in  her  deep  dejection, 

She  still  dares  hope  swift  resurrection  ! 

She  hopes  in  Heaven  ami   His  protectioo 
Who  can  redeem  from  Slavery's  brand — 
This  hopes  my  Motherland  ! 

She  hopes  in  GOD  and  Gor's  prelection, 
My  suffering  Motherland ! 


356 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


HOLINESS  TO  THE  LORD. 

THERE  blooms  a  beautiful  Flower ;  it  blooms 
in  a  far-off  land ; 

Its  life  has  a  mystic  meaning  for  few  to  un- 
derstand. 

Its  leaves  illumine  the  valley,  its  odor 
scents  the  wood ; 

And  if  evil  men  come  near  it  they  grow  for 
the  moment  good. 


When  the  winds  are  tranced  in  slumber,  the 

rays  of  this  luminous  Flower 
Shed  glory  more  than  earthly  o'er  lake  and 

hill  and  bower ; 
The  hut,  the  hall,  the  palace,  yea,  Earth's 

forsakenest  sod, 
Shine  out  in  the  wondrous  lustre  that  fills 

the  Heaven  of  GOD. 


Three  kings  came  once  to  a  hostel,  wherein 

lay  the  Flower  so  rare  : 
A  star  shone  over  its  roof,  and  they  knelt 

adoring  there. 
Whenever  thou  seest  a  damsel  whose  young 

eyes  dazzle  and  win, 
Oh,  pray  that  her  heart   may  cherish  this 

Flower  of  Flowers  within  ! 


JttaMmamt. 


THE  GRAVE,  THE  GRAVE. 

BLEST  are  the  Dormant 

In  Death  !     They  repose 
From  Bondage  and  Torment, 
From  Passions  and  Woes, 
From  the  yoke  of  the  world  and  the  snares 

of  the  traitor: 
The  Grave,  the  Grave,  is  the  true  Liberator 


Griefs  chase  one  another 

Around  the  Earth's  dcme; 
In  the  arms  of  the  Mother1 

Alone  is  our  home. 
Woo  Pleasure,  ye  triflers  !     The  Thoughtful 

are  wiser : 

The  Grave,  the  Grave,  is  their  one  Tranquil- 
lizer ! 

Is  the  good  man  unfriended 

On  Life's  ocean-path, 
Where  storms  have  expended 

Their  turbulent  wrath  ? 
Are  his  labors  requited  by  Slander  and  Ran- 
cor ? 

The  Grave,  the  Grave,  is  his  sure  bower- 
anchor  ! 

To  gaze  on  the  faces 

Of  Lost  ones  anew, — 
To  lock  in  embraces 

The  Loved  and  the  True, 
Were  a  rapture   to   make    even    Paradise 

brighter : 
The  Grave,  the  Grave,  is  the  great  Reuniter ! 

Crown  the  corpse  then  with  laurels, 

The  conqueror's  wreath, 
Make  joyous  with  cai-ols 

The  Chamber  of  Death, 
And  welcome  the  Victor  with  cymbal  and 

psalter : 
The  Grave,  the  Grave,  is  the  only  Exalter ! 


lotolfpng  wrn  doethe. 


THE  MINSTREL. 

"  WHAT  voice,  what  hai*p,  are  those  we  hear 

Beyond  the  gate  in  chorus  ? 
Go,  page ! — the  lay  delights  our  ear, 

We'll  have  it  sung  before  us ! " 
So  speaks  the  king  :  the  stripling  flies. 
He  soon  returns ;  his  master  cries — 

"  Bring  in  the  hoary  minstrel !  " 


>  Mother  Earth. 


1'oK.MS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


357 


"Hail,  princess  mine  !     Hail,  noble  knights  ! 

All  hail,  enchanting  dames  ! 
What  starry  heaven  !   What  blinding  lights ! 

Whose  tongue  may  toll  their  imines? 
In  this  bright  hall,  amid  this  bla/.c, 
Close,  close,  mine  eyes  !     Ye  may  not  gaze 

On  such  stupendous  glories  ! " 

The  Minnesinger  closed  his  eyes  : 

He  struck  his  mighty  lyre : 
Then  beauteous  bosoms  heaved  with  sighs, 

And  warriors  felt  on  fire; 
The  king,  enraptured  by  the  strain, 
Commanded  that  a  golden  chain 

Be  given  the  bard  in  guerdon. 

"  Not  so !     Reserve  thy  chain,  thy  gold, 
For  those  brave  knights  whose  glances, 

Fierce  flashing  through  the  battle  bold, 

Might  shiver  sharpest  lances  ! 

Bestow  it  on  thy  Treasurer  there — 

The  golden  burden  let  him  bear 
With  other  glittering  burdens. 

"  I  sing  as  in  the  greenwood  bush 
The  cageless  wild-bird  carols — 

The  tones  that  from  the  full  heart  gush 
Themselves  are  gold  and  laurels  ! 

Yet,  might  I  ask,  then  thus  I  ask, 

Let  one  bright  cup  of  wine  in  flask 
Of  glowing  gold  be  brought  me ! " 

They  set  it  down  :  he  quaffs  it  all — 
"  Oh  !  draught  of  richest  flavor ! 

Oh  !  thrice  divinely  happy  hall, 
Where  that  is  scarce  a  favor ! 

If  Heaven  shall  bless  ye,  think  on  me, 

And  thank  your  GOD  as  I  thank  ye 
For  this  delicious  wine-cup  !  " 


THE  ROSE. 

ONCE  a  boy  beheld  a  bright 
Rose  in  dingle  growing; 

Far,  far  off  it  pleased  his  sight ; 

Near  he  view'd  it  with  delight : 
Soil  it  seemed  and  glowing. 

Lo !  the  rose,  the  rose  so  bright, 
Rose  so  brightly  blowing  ! 


Spake  the  boy,  "  I'll  pluck  thee,  grand 

I  fuse  nil  wildly  blowing." 
Spake  the  rose,  "  I'll  wound  thy  hand, 
Thus  the  scheme  thy  wit  hath  plann'd 

Deftly  overthrow! MI;." 
Oh!  the  rose,  the  r  ami, 

Kose  so  grandly  glowing. 

But  the  stripling  plwk'd  the  red 

Rose  in  glory  growing, 
And  the  thorn  hi* .//<*•/<  Imtk  bled, 
And  the  rose's  pride  is  fled, 

And  her  beauty's  f/oimj. 
Woe  !  the  rose,  the  rose  once  red, 

Rose  once  redly  glowing. 


A  VOICE  FROM  THE  INVISIBLE  WORLD 

HIGH  o'er  his  mouldering  castle  walls 

The  warrior's  phantom  glides, 
And  loudly  to  the  skiff  it  calls 
That  on  the  billow  rides — 

"  Behold  !  these  arms  once  vaunted  might, 

This  heart  beat  wild  and  bold — 
Behold  !  these  ducal  veins  ran  bright 

O 

With  wine-red  blood  of  old. 

"  The  noon  in  storm,  the  eve  in  rest, 

So  sped  my  life's  brief  day. 
What  then  ?    Young  bark  on  Ocean's  breast^ 

Cleave  thou  thy  destined  way  !  " 


A  SONG  FROM  THE  COPTIC. 

QUARRELS  have  long  been  in  vogue  among 

sages ; 
Still,  though  in  many  things  wranglers  and 

rancorous. 
AH  the  philosopher-scribes  of  all  ages 

Join,  -and  voce,  on  one  point  to  anchor  us. 
Here  is  the  gist  of  their  mystified  jm^i-s, 

Here  is  the  wisdom  we  pm-chiiM-  with  gold: 
Children  of  Light,  leave  the  world  to  it* 

mulishness, 
Things  to  their  natures,  and  fools  to  ///•/> 

foolishness  ; 
Berries  were  bitter  in  forests  of  <M. 


358 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


Hoary  old  Merlin,  that  great  necromancer, 
Made  me,  a  student,  a  similar  answer, 

When  I  besought  him  for  light  and  for 

lore : 

Toiler  in  vain  !  leave  Ike  world  to  its  mulish- 
ness, 
Things  to  their  natures,  and  fools  to  their 

foolishness  ; 
Granite  was  hard  in  the  quarries  of  yore. 

And  on  the  ice-crested  heights  of  Armenia, 
And  in  the  valleys  of  broad  Abyssinia, 
Still  spake  the  Oracle  just  as  before : 
Wouldst  tkou  have  peace,  'leave  the  world  to 

its  mulishness, 
Things  to  their  natures,  and  fools  to  their 

foolishness  / 
Beetles  loere  blind  in  the  ages  of  yore. 


ANOTHER  COPTIC  SONG. 

Go ! — but  heed  and  understand 
This  my  last  and  best  command  : 
Turn  thine  Youth  to  such  advantage 
As  that  no  reverse  shall  daunt  Age. 
Learn  the  serpent's  wisdom  early ; 
And  contemn  what  Time  destroys; 
Also,  wouldst  thou  creep  or  climb, 
Choose  thy  role,  and  choose  in  time, 
Since  the  scales  of  Fortune  rarely 
Show  a  liberal  equipoise. 
Thou  must  either  soar  or  stoop, 
Fall  or  triumph,  stand  or  droop  ; 
Thou  must  either  serve  or  govern, 
Must  be  slave,  or  must  be  sovereign  ; 
Must,  in  fine,  be  block  or  wedge, 
Must  be  anvil  or  be  sledge. 


Jwdrich  (iottlicb  Jtloptocjt. 


[One  night,  in  1748,  KLOPSTOCK,  was  seated  alone  in  his 
room  in  the  University  at  Leipsic.  He  was  deeply  immersed 
In  meditation  on  the  Past  and  the  Future.  Suddenly  a  thought, 
Isolated  and  dreary  in  its  character,  appears  to  have  taken 
possession  of  his  mind.  He  fancied  that  some  unknown  in- 
dirida»l  had  been  reft  by  death  of  his  nearest  and  dearest,  of 


all  his  friends  and  his  beloved,  and  stood  alone  in  the 
world.  Involuntarily  his  imagination  called  up  and  marshal 
led  before  him  the  Appearances  of  the  Departed..  They  came, 
a  shrouded  and  shadowy  group,  and  surrounded  the  Living 
Man ;  and  then  it  was  that  the  poet,  as  he  earnestly  contem- 
plated them,  found  that  he  had  suffered  a  forfeiture  of  his 
proper  identity ;  for  he  himself  was  now  that  other  Man,  and 
the  Appearances  he  gazed  on  wore  the  forms  and  lineaments 
of  his  own  literary  friends.  The  vision  lasted  but  a  brief 
while,  and  when  the  spell  was  broken,  KLOPSTOCK  started  as 
from  a  dream  ;  but  so  vivid  was  the  impression  that  remained 
with  him,  that  he  ever  afterward  regarded  what  he  had  seen 
as  a  kind  of  pictorial  revelation,  a  prophetical  figure-history 
of  his  own  destiny.  We  are  now  to  fancy  him  over  a  flask  of 
wine  with  his  fellow-student  Johann  Arnold  Ebert.  With 
every  glass  their  gayety  grows  wilder  and  wilder.  Suddenly 
KLOPSTOCK  covers  his  face  with  his  hands :  the  recollection 
of  his  vision  has  intervened,  and  brings  with  it  gloom  and 
anguish.] 

TO  EBERT. 

EBERT,   Ebert,  my  friend  !     Here  over  the 

dark-bright  wine 
A  horrible  phantasy  masters  me  ! 
In  vain  thou  showest  me  where  the  chalice- 
glasses  shine, 

In  vain  thy  words  ring  cheerily: 
I  must  aside  and  weep — if  haply  my  weo.p- 

ing  may 

Assuage  this  agony  of  distress. 
Oh,  tears !  in  pity  Nature  blent  you  witli  hu- 
man clay, 

To  mitigate  human  wretchedness  ; 
For,  were  your  fountain  uplocked,  and  you 

forbidden  to  flow, 

Could  Man  sustain  his  sorrows  an  hour? 
Then  let  me  aside  and  weep :  this  thought 

of  dolor  and  woe 
Struggles  within  me  with  giant  power. 


0,  Ebert !   if  all  have  perished,  and  under 

shroud  and  pall 

Lie  still  and  voiceless  in  Death's  abyss ; 
If  thou  and  1  be  the  lone  and  withered  sur- 
vivors of  all  ? 

Art  not  thou,  also,  speechless  at  this  ? 
Glazes  not  horror  thine  eye?     Glares  it  not 

blank  without  soul  ? 
So  from  mine,  too,  departed  the  light, 
When  first  this  harrowing  phantom  over  the 

purple  bowl 

Struck  my  spirit  with  thundermight. 
Sudden  as  when  a  wanderer,  hastening  home 

to  the  faces 

That  circle  with  smiles  his  joyous  hearth, 
To  his  blooming  offspring  and  spouse,  whom 
already  in  thought  he  embraces, 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  WA.\<-  AN 


By  the  tempest-bolt  is  fell'd  to  the  earth, 
Death-stricken,  so  that  his  bones  are  blasted 

to  blackest  ashes, 

The  while  in  triumph  is  heard  to  roll 
The  booming  thunder  through   Heaven,  so 

suddenly  flash'd,  so  flashes 
This  vision  athwart  my  shuddering  soul, 
Deadening  the  might  of  mine  arm,  and  dark- 
ening the  light  of  mine  eyes, 
And  shrivelling  the  flesh  of  my  heart  with 
despair. 

Oh !  in  the  depth  of  the  Night  I  saw  the  Death- 
Pageant  arise ! 
And — Ebert  ! — the   souls   of  our   friends 

were  there. 
Oh !  in  the  depths  of  the  Night  I  saw  the 

Graves  laid  bare ! 
Around  me  tln'ong'd  the  immortal  Band  ! 


When  gentle  GISEKE'S  eye  no  longer  lustre 

shall  wear ; 

When  faithful  CRAMER,  lost  to  our  land, 
Shall  moulder  in  dust ;  when  the  words  that 
GAERTNER     and     RAJJNER     have 
spoken 

Shall  only  be  echo'd  through  years  in  dis- 
tance ; 
When  every  sweetly-sounding  chord  shall  be 

ruefully  broken 

In  the  noble  GELLERT'S  harmonious  exist- 
ence ; 

\Vlicn    his   early   companions    of   pleasure 
young  ROTHE,  the  social  and  bright, 
Shall  meet  on  the  charnel  chamber-floor, 
And  when  from   a  longer  exile1   ingenious 

SCIILEGEL  shall  write 
To  the  cherish'd  friends  of  his  youth  no 

more; 

When  for  SCHMIDT,  the  beloved  and  evan- 
ished, these  weariful  eyes  shall  weep 
No  longer  their  wonted  affectionate  rain ; 
When  HAGEDORN  at  last  in   our  Father's 
bosom  shall  sleep ; 


1  Schlegel,  on  quitting  college,  bad  gone  to  Strchla,  and 
there  established  an  academy,  from  whence  he  corresponded 
with  hla  friends,  the  members  of  the  Poetical  club  at  Leipzig. 
This  residence  of  his  at  Strchla  they  were  playfully  wont  to 
designate  his  exile.  By  longer  exile,  Klopstock,  of  course, 
Beans  Death. 


Oh,  Ebcrt !  what  then  are  We  who  remain  ? 
What  but  Woe-consecrated,  whom  here  a 

dreary  doom 

Has  left  to  mourn  for  those  that  are  gone  ? 
If  then  one  of  us  should  die  (Behold  how  my 

thought  of  gloom 

Further  and  darklier  hurries  me  on  !) 
If  then,  of  us,  one  should  die,  and  ONE  alone 

should  survive — 

And  oh,  should  that  sad  survivor  be  I — 
II'  she,  the  unknown  Beloved,  with  whom  I 

am  destined  to  wive, 
If  she,  too,  under  the  mould  should  lie  1 


If  I  be  the  Only,  the  Lonely,  the  earth's 

companionless  One, 

Oh,  answer !    Shalt  thou,  my  undying  soul, 
For  friendship  created,  shalt  thou  preserve 

thy  feeling  and  tone, 

In  the  days  that  then  may  vacantly  roll  ? 
Or  shalt  thou,  in  slumberful  stupor,  imagine 

that  Daylight  is  pass'd, 
And  the  reign  of  Night  has  begun  for  thee  ? 
Haply !  but  shouldst  thou  up  start,  oh,  im- 
mortal spirit,  at  last, 
And  feel  all  the  weight  of  thy  misery, 
Wilt   thou   not,  suffering   spirit,   in   agony 

shrickingly  call 

To  the  sepulchres  where  thy  Sleepers  are — 
"  Oh  !  ye  graves  of  my  Dead !     Ye  tombs  of 

my  dearest  ones  all ! 
Why  are  ye  severed  apart  so  far  ? 
Why  not  rather  ingrouped  in  the  blossomy 

valleys  yonder, 

Or  cluster'd  in  groves,  or  flower-crowu'd ? 
Guide  an  expiring  old  man  !    With  faltering 

feet  will  I  wander 

And  plant  upon  every  hallow'd  mound 
A  cypress-tree,  beneath  whose  yet  undark- 

cning  shade 

May  rest  my  happier  daughters  and  sons, 
And  oft  through  its  boughs  at  night  shall 

stand  before  me  portray'd 
The  effigies  of  my  immortal  ones  ! 
Till,  worn  with  weeping,  I  too  shall  finally 

join  those  immortals ; 
Then,  oh  1  Grave,  beside  which  I  snail  bo  I 
Grave   over  which  I  shall  die! — I  call  on 

thee — open  thy  portals, 
And  hide  forever  my  tear*  and  me !" 


360 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


Horrible  dream !  from  which,  as  in  chains,  I 

struggle  to  waken, 
Terrible  as  the  Judgment-hour, 
And  as  Eternity  solemn !    My  spirit,  appall'd 

and  shaken, 
Can  wrestle  no  longer  against  thy  power. 


THE  BROTHER  AND  THE  SISTER. 

IN  a  winding  dell,  thick-sown  with  flowers, 
Often  play'd  together,  through  the  hours 
Of  the  livelong  sunny  Summer's  day, 
Two  most  lovely  children — one  a  boy, 

One  a  girl,  a  sister  and  a  brother ; 
And  along  with  them  did  ever  play 
Innocence,  and  Gracefulness,  and  Joy. 
Hei-e   there   stood   an  image   of  the 

Mother 

Of  our  Blessed  Saviour,  with  her  Child 
In  her  arms,  who  always  look'd  and  smiled 
On  the  playmates.    And   their   own 

dear  mother 
One  day  told  them,  after  they  had  play'd, 

Who  the  smiling  little  Infant  was  ; 
How  He  was  the  mighty  GOD,  who  made 
Sun,  and  Moon,  and  Earth,  and  the  green 

grass, 
And  themselves ;  and,  when  she  saw  them 

moved 
With  deep  reverence,  and  their  childish 

mirth 
Hush'd,  she  told  them  how  this   GOD  had 

loved 

Little  children  when  He  dwell'd  on  Earth, 
And  that  now  in  Heaven  He  loved  them  still. 
And  the  little  girl  said,  "  I  and  brother 
Both  love   GOD  :  will  He   love   us,   too, 

mother  ?  " 

And  the  mother  said,  "  If  you  be  good,  He 
will." 

So  upon  another  time,  a  bland, 

Bright,  soft,  Summer-evening,  as  the  fair 
Children  sat  together  hand  in  hand, 


One  said  to  the  other  ('twas  the  boy 

To  the  girl),  "  Oh,  if  the  dear  GOD  there 
Would  come  down  to  us  !   There's  not  a  toy 
In  our  house  but  I  would  give  to  Him." 
And  the  girl  said,  "  I  would  cull  Him  all 
Pretty  flowers."    "  And  I  would  climb  the 

tall 

Trees,"  the  boy  said, "  till  the  day  grew  dim, 
And  would  gather  fruits  for  Him."  And  thus 
Each  sweet  child  did  prattle  to  the  other, 

Till  the  sun  sank  low  behind  the  hill, 
And  both,  running,  then   sought   out  their 

mother, 

And  cried  out  together,  "  Mother ! — will 
GOD  come  down  some  day  and  play  with  us  ?w 

Gently  spake  the  mother  in  rebuke 

Of  their  babble ;  but  it  bore  a  deep 
Meaning  in  the  eternal  Minute-book ; 

For,  one  night,  soon  after,  in  her  sleep, 
She  beheld  the  Infant-Saviour  playing 
With  her  children  and  she  heard  Him  saying, 
"  How  shall  I  requite  you  for  the  flowers 

And   the   fruits   you   would    have  given 
me  ?    Thee, 

Brother,  will  I  take  along  with  me, 

To  my  Father's  many-mansion'd  Home, 
And  will  guide  thee  to  luxuriant  bowers, 

Where  bloom  fruits  unknown  on  Earth  be- 
neath ; 
And  to  thee,  my  sister,  will  I  come 

On  thy  bridal-day,  and  with  a  wreath 
Of  celestial  flowers  adorn  thy  brow, 
And  will  bless  thy  nuptials,  so  that  thou 
Shalt  have  children  good  and  innocent  even 
As  my  Father's  angels  are  in  Heaven." 

And  the  mother  woke,  and  pray'd  with  tears, 
"  Oh,  my  GOD  !  my  Saviour !  spare  my  son ! 

Spare  him  to  console  my  waning  years, 
If  thou  canst!     If  not,  thy  will  be  done  !w 

And  the  will  of  GOD  was  done.     The  boy 
Sicken'd  soon  and  died.     But,  ere  he  died 

Those  about  him  saw  his  countenance 
Lighted  up  with  gloriousness  and  joy 
Inexpressible  ;  for  by  his  side 

He  beheld  (rapt  all  the  while  in  trance, 
As  his  mother  noticed)  a  young  Child 
Brighter  than  the  sun  and  beauteous  as 
GOD  Himself! 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


361 


Year  after  year  did  pass, 
And  at  length  her  twentieth  Summer  smiled 
On  the  maiden  with  her  wedding-day ; 
But  behold ! — as  she  knelt  down  to  pray 
At  the  altar,  heavenly  radiance  beam'd 
Round  her,   and   she  saw,  as  though  she 

dream'd, 
HIM,  her  childhood's  Infant-Saviour,  reaching 

Her  a  wreath  of  brilliant  flowers,  with  some 
Dark  ones  intermix'd  :  a  symbol,  teaching 

Her  what  hue  the  years  that  were  to  come 
Should  assume  for  her.     And  truly,  she 

Spent  a  life  of  peace  and  blessedness, 
Mingled  with  such  mild  adversity 

That  she  rather  wish'd  it  more  than  less. 


THE  FIELD  OP  KUNNERSDORF.1 

DAY  is  exiled  from  the  Land  of  Twilight ; 

Leaf  and  flower  are  drooping  in  the  wood, 
And  the  stars,  as  on  a  dark-stain'd  skylight, 

Glass  their  ancient  glory  in  the  flood. 
Let  me  here,  where  night-winds  through  the 
yew  sing, 

Where  the  moon  is  chary  of  her  beams, 
Consecrate  an  hour  to  mournful  musing 

Over  Man  and  Man's  delirious  dreams. 
Pines  and  yews  !  envelop  me  in  deeper, 

Dunner  shadow,  sombre  as  the  grave, 
While  with  moans,  as  of  a  troubled  sleeper, 

Gloomily  above  my  head  ye  wave ; 
Let  mine  eye  look  down  from  hence  on  yonder 

Battle-plain,  which  Night  in  pity  dulls ; 
Let  my  sad  imagination  ponder 

Over  Kunnersdorf,  that  Place  of  Skulls ! 

Dost  thou  reillume  those  wastes,  0  Summer? 

Hast  thou  raised  anew  thy  trampled  bow- 
ers ? 
Will  the  wild  bee  come  again  a  hummer 

Here,  within  the  houses  of  thy  flowers  ? 


1  ffvnnertdor/,  a  village  near  Frankltort  on  the  Oder,  where 
Frederick  was  defeated  by  the  Russians,  on  the  12th  of  Au- 
gust, 1790,  In  one  of  the  bloodiest  battles  of  modern  times. 


Can  thy  sunbeams  light,  thy  mild  rains  water 
This  Aceldema,  this  human  soil, 

Since  that  dark  day  of  redundant  slaughter 
When  the  blood  of  men  flow'd  here  like 
oil? 

Ah,  yes  ! — Nature,  and  thou,  GOD  of  Nature, 
Ye  are  ever  bounteous !     Man  alone, 

Man  it  is  whose  frenzies  desolate  your 

World,  and  make  it  in  sad  truth  his  own. 

Here  saw  Frederick  fall  his  bravest  warriors : 

Master  of  thy  World,  thou  wert  too  great ! 
Heaven  had  need  to  establish  curbing-bar- 
riers 

'Gainst  thine  inroads  on  the  World  of  Fate. 
Oh,  could  all  thy  coronals  of  splendor 

Dupe  thy  memory  of  that  ghastly  day  ? 
Could  the  Graces,  could  the  Muses'  render 

Smooth    and    bright   a   corse-o'ercover'd 

way  ? 
No !  the  accusing  blood-beads  ever  trickle 

Down  each  red  leaf  of  thy  chaplet-crown : 
Men  fell  here  as  corn  before  the  sickle, 

Fell  to  aggrandize  thy  false  renown  ! 
Here  the  veteran  dropp'd  beside  the  spring 
aid; 

Here  sank  Strength  and  Symmetry  in  line : 
Here  crushed  Hope  and  gasping  Valor  min- 
gled ; 

And,  Destroyer,  the  wild  work  was  thine  ! 
Whence  is  then  this  destiny  funereal  ? 

What  this  tide  of  Being's  flow  and  ebb? 
Why  rends  Death  at  will  the  fine  material 

Of  Existence's  divinest  web  ? 
Vainly  ask  we  !    Dim  age  calls  to  dim  age ; 

Answer,  save  an  echo,  cometh  none : 
Here  stands  Man,  of  Life-in-Death  an  image, 

There,  invisibly,  the  LIVING  ONE  1 

Storm-clouds  lower  and  muster  in  the  Dis- 
tance ; 
Girt  with  wrecks  by  sea  and  wrecks  by 

land, 

Time,  upon  the  far  Shore  of  Existence, 
Counts  each  wave-drop  swallow'd  by  the 

sand. 
Generation  chases  generation, 

Down-bow'd   by    the    all-worn,    t/»won> 
yoke :' 


•  An  allnsion  to  Frederick's  literary  pumnlts. 
'  The  yoke  which  all  wear.  >ut  none  wear  ouL 


362 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


No  cessation  and  no  explication ! — 

Birth — I^ife—Deaih ! — the  Silence,  Flash, 
and  Smoke. 

Here,  then,  Frederick,  formidable  sovereign ! 

Here,  in  presence  of  these  whiten'd  bones, 
Swear  at  length  to  cherish  Peace,  and  govern 

So    that    men    may    learn    to   reverence 

thrones ! 

Oh,    repudiate     blood-bought    fame,    and 
hearken 

To  the  myriad  witness-voiced  Dead, 
Ere  the  Sternness  shall  lay  down,  to  darken 

In  the  Silentness,  thy  crownless  head  ! ' 
Shudder  at  the  dire  phantasmagory 

Of  the  slain,  who  perish'd  here   through 

thee; 
And  abhor  all  future  wreaths  of  glory 

Gather' d  from  the  baleful  cypress-tree  ! 

Lofty  souls  disdain  or  dread  the  laurel : 

Hero  is  a  mad  exchange  for  Man : 
Adders  lurk  in  green  spots :  such  the  moral 

Taught  by  History  since  her  schools  began. 
Caesar  slain,  the  victim  of  his  trophies, 

Bajazet  expiring  in  his  cage, 
All  the  Caesars,  all  the  sabre-Sophies,1 

Preach  the  self-same  homily  each  age. 
One  drugg'd  wine-cup  dealt  with  Alexander, 

And  his  satraps  scarce  had  shared  afresh 
Half  the  empires  of  the  World-commander, 

Ere  the  charn el- worms  had  shared  his  flesh. 


Though  the  rill  roll  down  from  Life's  green 

Mountain, 
Bright  through  festal   dells   of  youthful 

days, 

Soon  the  water  of  that  glancing  fountain 
In  the  vale  of  years  must  moult  its  rays. 


»  Vor  dcm  Ernste,  der  dein  Hanpt,  entfflretet, 
In  die  Stille  niederlcgen  wird. 

Before  to  the  Solemn  who  thy  head,  nnprinccd,  in  the  Stilly 
beneath  lay  shall,  viz.,  Before  the  [coming  of  the]  solemn 
[hour]  which  shall  lay  thy  head,  stripped  of  its  royalty,  in  the 
•till  [ness  of  the  grave.]  I  have  adhered  to  the  metonymy, 
•»ve  that  I  have  chosen  to  make  der  Ernste  represent  Death 
himself  rather  than  the  time  of  death  ;  the  Sternness,  there- 
fore, is  Death,  and  the  Silcntness  the  grave. 
»  Sophi,  a  title  of  the  Khan  of  Persia. 

By  this  scymitar 

That  «lew  the  Sophy  aud  a  Persian  prince, 
A  Ad  won  three  fields  of  Sultan  Solyman. 

Mtrch.  of  Yen.  Act.  11.  tc.    . 


There  the  pilgrim  on  the  bridge  that,  bound- 
ing 

Life's  domain,  frontiers  the  wold  of  Death, 
Startled,  for  the  first  time  hears  resounding 

From  Eternity,  a  voice  that  saith, — 

ALL  WHICH  IS  NOT  PURE  SHALL  MELT  AND 
WITHER. 

Lo  !  THE  DESOLATOR'S  ARM  is  BARE, 
AND  WHERE  MAN  is,  TRUTH  SHALL  TRACK 

HIM  THITHER, 
BE  HE  CURTAIN'D  ROUND  WITH  GLOOM  OK 

GLARE.' 


dnridt  CflhrisfogJi  gocltg. 


THE  AGED  LANDMAN'S  ADVICE  TO  HIS 

SON. 

On !  cherish  Faith  and  Truth,  tiU  Death 

Shall  claim  thy  forfeit  clay, 
And  wander  not  one  finger's  breadth 

From  GOD'S  appointed  way ; 
So  shall  thy  pilgrim  pathway  be 

O'er  flowers  that  brightly  bloom  ; 
So  shalt  thou,  rich  in  hope  and  free 

From  terror  face  the  tomb ; 
Then  wilt  thou  handle  spade  and  scythe, 

With  joyous  heart  and  soul ; 
Thy  water-jug  shall  make  thee  blithe 

As  brimming  purple  bowl. 

All  things  but  work  the  sinner  woe, 

For,  do  his  worst  or  best, 
The  devil  drives  him  to  and  fro, 

And  never  lets  him  rest. 
Him  glads  no  Spring,  no  sky  outroll'd, 

No  mellow,  yellow  field  ; 
His  one  sole  good  and  god  is  gold ; 

His  heart  is  warp'd  and  steel'd ; 
The  winds  that  blow,  the  streams  that  flow 

Affright  the  craven  slave  ; 
Peace  flies  him,  and  he  does  not  know 

Rest  even  in  his  grave ! 


1  WAS  NICDT  REIN  1ST,  WIKD  IN  NACHT  VERSCIIW1NDEN  ; 
DEB  VEKUESTEKS  HAND  IST  AUSGESTRECKT  ; 
UNO  DIB  WAHBHEIT  WIRD  DEN  MENSCHEN  FINDEN, 
OB  IHN  DUNKEL  ODER  GtiANZ  VER8TECKT  ! 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


363 


For  lie  when  spectral  midnight  reigns, 

Must  burst  each  coffin-band, 
And  as  a  pitch-black  dog  in  chains 

Before  his  house-door  stand. 
The  spinners,  who  with  wheel  on  arm 

Belated  home  repair, 
Will  quake,  and  cross  themselves  from  harm 

To  see  the  monster  there  ; 
And  every  spinning  crone  of  this 

Terrific  sight  will  tell, 
And  wish  the  villain  in  the  abyss 

And  fire  of  hottest  hell. 

Old  Grimes  was  all  his  life  a  hound, 

A  genuine  devil's  brand  ; 
He  counter-plough'd  his  neighbors'  ground ; 

And  robb'd  them  of  their  land  : 
Now,  fire-clad,  see  him  plough  with  toil 

The  same  land  everywhere, 
Upturning  all  night  long  the  soil, 

With  white-hot  burning  share  : 
Himself  like  blazing  straw-sheaf  burns 

Behind  the  glowing  plough ; 
And  so  he  burns  and  so  upturns, 

Till  Morning  bares  her  bi'ow. 

The  bailie  who,  without  remorse, 

Shot  stags  and  fleeced  the  poor, 
With  one  grim  dog,  on  fiery  horse, 

Hunts  nightly  o'er  the  moor; 
Oft,  as  a  rugged-coated  bear, 

He  climbs  a  gnarled  pole  ; 
Oft,  as  a  goat,  must  leave  his  lair, 

And  through  the  hamlet  stroll. 

The  riot-loving  priest  who  cramm'd 

His  chests  with  ill-got  gold, 
Still  haunts  the  chancel,  black  and  damn'd, 

Each  night  when  twelve  has  toll'd  ; 
He  howls  aloud  with  dismal  yells, 

That  startle  aisle  and  fanes, 
Or  in  the  vestry  darkly  tells 

His  church-accursed  gains. 

The  squire  who  drank  and  gamed  pell-mell 

The  helpless  widow's  all, 
Now  driven  along  by  blasts  from  Hell, 

Goes  coach'd  to  Satan's  ball ; 
His  blue  frock,  dipp'd  in  Hell's  foul  font, 

With  sulphur-flames  is  lined  ; 
One  devil  holds  the  reins  in  front, 

Two  devils  ride  behind. 


Then,  Son !  be  just  and  true  till  Death 

Shall  claim  thy  forfeit  clay; 
And  wander  not  one  finger's  breadth 

From  GOD'S  rcvealdd  way. 
3o  shall  warm  tears  bedew  in  showers 

The  grass  above  thy  head, 
And  lilies  and  all  odorous  flowers 

O'erarch  thy  last  low  bed. 


AND  THEN  NO  MORE. 

I  SAW  her  once,  one  little  while,  and  then  no 
more : 

'Twas  Eden's  light  on  Earth  awhile,  and 
then  no  more. 

Amid  the  throng  she  pass'd  along  the  mea- 
dow-floor : 

Spring  seem'd  to  smile  on  Earth  awhile,  and 
then  no  more. 

But  whence  she  came,  which  way  she  went, 
what  garb  she  wore, 

I  noted  not;  I  gazed  awhile,  and  then  no 
more. 

I  saw  her  once,  one  little  while,  and  then  no 
more: 

'Twas  Paradise  on  Earth  awhile,  and  then  no 
more : 

Ah  !  what  avail  my  vigils  pale,  my  magic 
lore  ? 

She  shone  before  mine  eyes  awhile,  and  then 
no  more. 

The  shallop  of  my  peace  is  wreck'd  on  Beau- 
ty's shore ; 

Near  Hope's  fair  isle  it  rode  awhile,  and 
then  no  more ! 

I  saw  her  once,  one  little  while,  and  then  no 

more : 
Earth  look'd  like  Heaven  a  little  while,  And 

then  no  more. 
Her  presence  thrill'd  and  lighted  to  its  inner 

core 
My  desert  breast  a  little  while,  and  then  no 

more. 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


So  may,  perchance,  a  meteor  glance  at  mid- 
night o'er 

Some  ruin'd  pile  a  little  while,  and  then  no 
more  ! 

I  saw  her  once,  one  little  while,  and  then  no 
more, 

The  earth  was  Peri-land  awhile,  and  then  no 
more. 

Oh,  might  I  see  but  once  again,  as  once  be- 
fore, 

Through  chance  or  wile,  that  shape  awhile, 
and  then  no  more  ! 

Death  soon  would  heal  my  griefs !  This 
heart,  now  sad  and  sore, 

Would  beat  anew  a  little  while,  and  then  no 
more ! 


THE  CATHEDRAL  OF  COLOGNE. 

THE  Dome,  the  Dome  of  Cologne ! 

Antique,  unique,  sublime — 

Rare  monument  from  the  elder  time, 
Begun  so  long  agone, 

Yet  never  finish'd,  though  wrought  at 

oft- 
Yonder  it  soars  alone, 

Alone,  aloft, 

Blending  the  weird,  and  stern,  and  soft, 
The  Cathedral-dome  of  Cologne ! 

The  Dome,  the  Dome  of  Cologne  ! 

Whence  came  its  Meister's  plan  ? 

Before  or  since  to  the  eye  of  man 
Was  never  aught  like  it  shown  ! 

Alas !  the  matchless  Meister  died  ! 
Alas !  he  died  ! — and  none 

Thereafter  tried 

To  fathom  the  mystery  typified 
By  the  marvellous  Dome  of  Cologne ! 

The  Dome,  the  Dome  of  Cologne ! 

In  the  troublesome  times  of  old 

The  soldier  alone  won  fame  and  gold — 
The  artist  pass'd  for  a  drone ! 

War's  hurricanes    rock'd    and   wasted 

earth ; 
Men  battled  for  shrine  or  throne ; 

None  sat  by  his  hearth 

To  ponder  the  means  of  a  second  birth 
For  the  holy  Dome  of  Cologne ! 


The  Dome,  the  Dome  of  Cologne ! 

To  God  be  immortal  praise 

That  now  at  length,  in  our  own  bright 

days, 
THE  MEISTER'S  PLAN  is  KNOWN! 

Research  hath  brought  the  relic  to  light 
From  its  mausoleum  of  stone — 

We  hail  with  delight 

A  treasure  so  long  conceal'd  from  sight, 
THE  ORIGINAL,  DOME  OF  COLOGNE! 

The  Dome,  the  Dome  of  Cologne ! 

'  O 

Its  hour  of  glory  is  nigh  ! 

Build  ye  it  high  as  the  sapphire  sky ! . 
As  the  moonlight  never  hath  shone 

On  Temple  of  such  a  magnificent 
Ideal  from  zone  to  zone, 

So,  aid  its  ascent 

To  the  sapphire  blue  of  the  firmament, 
The  Cathedral-dome  of  Cologne  ! 


aron  ge  In  Jftott^  JJouque, 


DALE  AND  HIGH- WAY. 

IN  a  shady  dell  a  Shepherd  sate, 
And  by  his  side  was  the  fairest   mate  ! 
The  hearts  of  both  the  youth  and  maiden 
With  love  were  laden  and  oveiiaden. 

And,  as  they  spake  with  tongue  and  eye, 
A  weary  wandering  man  rode  by  ; 
A  swarthy  wayfarer,  worn  with  travel, 
Rode  wearily  over  the  burning  gravel. 

"  Down  hither,  and  rest  thee,  thou  Weary 

One! 

Why  ride  at  noon  in  the  scorching  sun  ? 
Rest  oere  iu  this  dell,  so  cool  and  darkling 
That  even  the  rivulets  run  unsparkling. 

"  And  I  and  the  maiden  thou  seest  with  me 
Will  gather  the  palest  flowers  for  thee, 
And  weave  them  into  as  pale  a  garland 
As  wreathes  the  brow  of  a  fay  from   Star- 
land." 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MAN  CAN. 


365 


So  spake  the  Shepherd,  all  cool  in  the  shade, 
And  thus  the  Wanderer  answer  made : 
'  Though  the  way  be  long  and  the  noon  be 

burning, 
I  ride  unresting  and  unreturning: 

"  For  I  was  false  to  ray  vows,  and  sold 
The  early  love  of  my  heart  for  gold ; 
So  dare  I  seek  Rest  and  Happiness  never, 
But  only  Geld  for  ever  and  ever ! 

"  No  flowers  for  me,  until  Pity's  tears 

Bedew  the  few  that  in  after-years 

May  droop  where  the  winds  shall  be  nightly 

telling 
How  low  I  lie  in  my  last  dark  dwelling ! " 


A  SIGH. 

FARE-THEE-SWEETLY,  Youthhood's  time, 
Golden  time  of  Love  and  Singing  ! 

Hope  and  Joy  were  in  their  prime 

Only  when  thy  flowers  were  springing. 

All  thy  voiceful  soul  is  mute, 

Thou  hast  dream'd  thy  dream  of  glory : 
Scarcely  now  can  lyre  or  lute 

Wake  one  echo  of  thy  story ! 

Ah  !  the  heart  is  but  a  grave, 
Late  or  soon,  for  young  Affection. 

There  the  Love  that  Nature  gave 
Sleeps,  to  know  no  resurrection. 

This  our  sons  will  echo  long ; 

This  our  sires  have  sung  before  us ; 
Join,  then,  we  the  shadowy  throng ! 

Swell,  then,  we  the  spectral  chorus  ! 


Jfordinand 


THE  SHEIK  OF  MOUNT  SINAI. 

A  NAnnATFVE  OF  OCTOBER,  1830. 

"  How  sayest  thou  ?    Came  to-day  the  Car- 


avun 


From  Africa  ?    And  is  it  here !— 'Tis  well  1 
bear  me  beyond  the  tent,  me  and  mine  otto- 
man ! 


I  would  myself  behold  it.     I  feel  eager 
To  learn  the  youngest  news.     As  the  Ga- 
zelle 

Rushes  to   drink  will   I  to   hear,  and 
gather  thence  fresh  vigor." 

So  spake  the  Sheik.     They  bore  him  forth ; 

and  thus  began  the  Moor — 
"Old  man!     Upon  Algeria's  towers  the 

Tricouleur  is  flying ! 
Bright  silks  of  Lyons  rustle  at  each  balcony 

and  door ; 
In  the  streets  the  loud  Reveil  resounds 

at  break  of  day  : 
Steeds    prance    to    the  Marseillaise  o'er 

heaps  of  Dead  and  Dying. 
The  Franks  came  from  Toulon,  men  say. 


"  Southward  their  legions  march'd  through 

burning  lands; 
The  Barbary  sun  flash'd  on  their  arms — 

about 
Their  chargers'  manes  were  blown  clouds  ol 

Tunisian  sands. 
Knowest  where  the  Giant  Atlas  rises 

dim  in 

The  hot  sky?    Thither,  in  disastrous  rout, 
The  wild  Kabyles  fled  with  their  herds 
and  women. 


"The  Franks  pursued.      Hu  Allah! — each 

defile 
Grew  a  very  hell-gulf,  then,  with  smoke, 

and  fire,  and  bomb  1 

The  Lion  left  the  Deer's  half-cranch'd   re- 
mains the  while ; 
He  snuflPd    upon  the  winds  a  daintier 

prey! 

Hark !  the  shout,  En  avantf    To  the  top- 
most peak  upclomb 
The  conquerors  in  that  bloody  fray ! 


"  Circles  of  glittering  bayonets  crown'd  the 

mountain's  height. 

The  hundred  Cities  of  the  Plain,  from  At- 
las to  the  sea  afar, 

From  Tunis  forth  to  Fez,  shone  in  the  noon- 
day light. 


bOG 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


The  spearmen  rested  by  their  steeds,  or 

slaked  their  thirst  at  rivulets : 
And  round   them  through  dark  myrtles 
burn'd,^-each  like  a  star, — 

The  slender  golden  minarets. 

u  But  in  the  valley  blooms  the  odorous  Al- 
mond-tree, 

And  the  Aloe  blossoms  on  the  rock,  defy- 
ing storms  and  suns. 
Here  was  their  conquest  seal'd.      Look! — 

yonder  heaves  the  sea, 
And  far  to  the   left   lies   Franquistan. 

The  banners  flouted  the  blue  skies. 
The   artillerymen   came   up.     Mashallah ! 

how  the  guns 
Did  roar  to  sanctify  their  prize !" 

"  'Tis  they !"  the  Sheik  exclaim' d :  "  I  fought 

among  them,  I, 
At  the  Battle  of  the  Pyramids !     Red  all 

the  long  day  ran, 

Red  as  thy  turban-folds,  the  Nile's  high  bil- 
lows by ! 
But  their  Sultaun? — Speak! — He   was 

once  my  guest. 
His    lineaments, — gait, — garb  ?       Sawest 

thou  the  Man  *?"— 

The  Moor's  hand  slowly  felt  its  way  in- 
to his  breast. 

" N~o"  he  replied:   "he  bode  in  his  warm 

palace-halls. 
A  Pasha  led  his  warriors  through  the  fire 

of  hostile  ranks ; 
An  Aga   thunder'd   for  him    before  Atlas' 

iron  walls ! 
His  lineaments,  thou  sayest  ?     On  gold, 

at  least,  they  1-ack 
The  kingly  stamp.     See  here !     A  Spahi1 

of  the  Franks 

Gave  me  this  coin  in  chaffering  some 
days  back." 

The  Kashef "  took  the  gold :  he  gazed  upon 

the  head  and  face. 
Was  this  the  great  Sultaun  he  had  known 

long  years  ago  ? 
It  seem'd  not ;  for  he  sigh'd  as  all  in  vain 

he  strove  to  trace 


1  Horae-ioldier. 


*  Governor. 


The   still-remember'd   features.       "  Ah, 

no  ! — this,"  he  said,  "  is 
Not  his  broad   brow  and  piercing  eye: 

who  this  man  is  I  do  not  know. 
How  very  like  a  Pear  his  head  is  !" 


GRABBE. 

THERE  stood  I  in  the  Camp.     'Twas  when 

the  setting  sun 

Was  crimsoning  the  tents  of  the  Hussars. 
The  booming  of  the  Evening-gun 

Broke  on  mine  ear.     A  few  stray  stars 
Shone  out,  like  silver-blank  medallions 
Paving  a  sapphire  floor.      Then  flow'd  in 

unison  the  tones 

Of  many  hautboys,  bugles,  drums,  trom- 
bones 
And  fifes,  from  twenty-two  battalions. 

They  play'd,  "  Give   glory  unto   GOD    our 

Lord ! " 

A  solemn  strain  of  music  and  sublime, 
That  bade  Imagination  hail  a  coming  time 
When  universal  Mind  shall  break  the  slaying 

sword, 
And  Sin,  and  Wrong,  and  Suffering  shall 

depart 
An  Earth  which  Christian  love  shall  turn  to 

Heaven. 
A  dream ! — yet  still   I   listen'd,  and   my 

heart 
Grew  tranquil  as  that  Summer-even. 

But    soon   uprose    pale    Hecate — she    who 

trances 
The  skies  with  deathly  light.     Her  beams 

fell  wan,  but  mild, 
On  the  long  lines  of  tents,  on  swords  and 

lances, 

And  on  the  pyramids  of  musquets  piled 
Around.     Then  sped  from  rank  to  rank 
The   signal   order,   "  Tzako   ab  I "      The 

music  ceased  to  play. 
The  stillness  of  the  grave  ensued.    I  tamed 

away. 

Again  my  memory's  tablets  show'd  a  sad 
dening  blank  ! 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANCi AN. 


307 


Meanwhile  another  sort  of  scene 
Was  acted  at  the  Outposts.     Carelessly  I 

stroll'd, 
Ir.  quest  of  certain  faces,  into  the  Canteen. 

Here  wine  and  brandy,  hot  or  cold, 
Pass'd  round.     At  one  long  table  Freder- 

icks-d'or 

Glitter'd  d  qui  mieux  mieux  with  epau- 
lettes, 
And,  heedless  of  the  constant  call,  "  W7io 

sets  ?  " 

Harpwomen  play'd  and  sang  old  ballads  by 
the  score. 


I  sought  an  inner  chamber.     Here  sat  some 
Dragoons  and  Yagers,  who  conversed,  or 

gambled, 

Or  drank.      The  dice-box  rattled  on  a  drum. 
I  chose  a  seat  apart.     My  speculations 

rambled. 
Scarce  even  a  passive  listener  or  beholder, 

I  mused  :    "  Give  glory "    "  Qid  en 

veiit  f  " — the  sound 
Came  from  the  drum-head.     I  had   half 

turn'd  round 
When  some  one  toiich'd  me  on  the  shoulder. 


"  Ha !— is  it  you  ?  "     "  None  other."  "  Well 

— what  news  ? 
How  goes   it   in   Mulhausen  ? "     Queries 

without  end 

Succeed,  and  I  reply  as  briefly  as  I  choose. 
An  hour  flies  by.     "  Now  then,  adieu,  my 
friend!"— 

"  Stay !— tell  me "     "  Quick !     I  am  off 

to  llouye  et  JVbz'r." — 
"  Well — one  short  word,  and  then  Good- 
Night  !— 
Grabbe  ?  "— "  Grabbe  ?     He  is  dead.  Wait : 

let  me  see.     Ay,  right  1 
We  buried  him  on  Friday  last.    Bon  soirf" 


An  icy  thrill  ran  through  my  veins. 
Dead  !  Buried  !     Friday  last ! — and  here ! 

— His  grave 
Profaned  by  vulgar  feet !      Oh,  Noble, 

Gifted,  Brave  I 


Bard  of  The  Hundred  Days  /' — was  this  to 

be  thy  fate  indeed  ? 
I  wept;  yet  not  because  Life's  galling  chains 
No  longer  bound  thy  spirit  to  this  barren 

earth ; 

I  wept  to  think  of  thy  transcendent  worth 
And  genius — and  of  what   had  been   their 
meed. 

I  wander'd  forth  into  the  spacious  Night, 
Till  the  first  feelings  of  my  heart  had  spent 
Their  bitterness.     Hours  pass'd.      There 

was  an  Uhlan  tent 
At  hand.     I  enter'd.      By  the  moon's  blue 

light 

I  saw  some  arms  and  baggage  and  a  heap 
Of  straw.     Upon  this  last  I  threw 
My  weary  limbs.      In  vain  !     The  moanful 

night-winds  blew 

About  my  head   and  face,  and  Memory 
banish'd  Sleep. 

All  night  he  stood,  as  I  had  seen  him  last, 
Beside  my  couch.  Had  he  indeed  forsaken 
The  tomb  ?    Or,  did  I  dream,  and  should 
I  waken? 

My  thoughts  flow'd  like  a  river,  dark  and  fast. 
Again  I  ga/ed  on  that  columnar  brow : 

"  Deserted  House !    of  late  so  bricrht  with 

O 

vividest  flashes 
Of  Intellect  and  Passion,  can  it  be  that 

thou 
Art  now  a  mass  of  sparkless  ashes  ? 

"  Those    ashes    once  were  watch-fires,   by 

whose  gleams 

The  glories  of  the  Hohenstauffen  race,' 
And  Italy's  shrines,  and  Greece's  hallowed 

streams 
Stood  variously  reveal'd — now,  softly,  as 

the  face 

Of  Night  illumined  by  her  silver  Lamp — 
Now,   burning    with   a  deep  and    living 

lustre, 
Like  the  high  beacon-lights  that  stud  this 

Camp, 
Here,  far  apart — there,  in  a  circular  cluster. 


1  A  poem  by  Grabbe  thus  entitled. 

•The  allusion*  aro  to  Qr»ti>«'§  historical  And  Uliutntiv* 
work*. 


368 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


u  This  Camp !  Ah,  yes !  methinks  it  images 

well 

What  thou  hast  been,  thou  lonely  Tower ! 
Moonbeams    and    lamplight    mingled — the 

deep  choral  swell 

Of  Music  in  her  peals  of  proudest  power, 
And  then — the  tavern  dice-box  rattle ! 
The  Grand  and  the  Familiar  fought 
Within  thee   for  the  mastery;   and   thy 

depth  of  thought 

And  play  of  wit  made  every  conflict  a  drawn 
battle ! 

"  And,  oh  !   that    such  a  mind,  so   rich,  so 
overflowing 

O 

With  ancient  lore  and  modern  phantasy, 
And  prodigal  of  its  treasures  as  a  tree 
Of  golden  leaves  when  Autumn-winds  are 

blowing, 

That  such  a  mind,  made  to  illume  and  glad 
All  minds,  all  hearts,  should  have  itself  be- 
come 

Affliction's  chosen  Sanctuary  and  Home ! — 
This  is  in  truth  most  marvellous  and  sad  ! 


"  Alone  the  Poet  lives — alone  he  dies. 

Cain-like,  he  bears  the  isolating  brand 

Upon  his  brow  of  sorrow.  True,  his  hand 
Is  pure  from  blood-guilt,  but  in  human  eyes 

His  is  a  darker  crime  than  that  of  Cain, — 
Rebellion  against  Social  Wrong  and  Law ! " 
Groaning,  at  length  I  slept,  and  in  my 
dreams  I  saw 

The  ruins  of  a  Temple  on  a  desolate  plain. 


FREEDOM  AND  RIGHT. 

OH  !  think  not  the  Twain  have  gone  down  to 

their  graves ! 
Oh !  say  not  that  Mankind  should  basely 

despair, 
Because  Earth  is  yet  trodden  by  tyrants  and 

slaves, 
And  the  sighs  of  the  Noble  are  spent  on 

the  air ! 
Oh,  no  !  though  the  Pole,  from  the  swamps 

of  the  North, 


Sees  trampled  in  shreds  the  bright  banner 

he  bore ; 

Though  Italy's  heroes  in  frenzy  pour  forth 
The  rich  blood  of  their  hearts  on  the  dark 
dungeon-floor, 
Still  live- 
Ever  live  in  their  might 
Both  Freedom  and  Right ! 

Who  fight  in  the  van  of  the  battle  must  fall ; 
All  honor  be  theirs ! — 'tis  for  Us  to  press  on ! 
They  have  struck  the  first  links  from  the 

gyves  that  enthral 
Men's  minds  ;  and  the  half  of  our  triumph 

is  won — 
The  swift-coming  triumph  of  Freedom  and 

Right ! 
Yes !  tremble,  ye  Despots !  the  hour  will 

have  birth 
When,  as  vampires  and  bats,  by  the  arrows 

of  Light, 

Your  nature,  your  names,  will  be  blasted 
from  Earth ! 
For  still — 

Still  live  in  their  might 
Fair  Freedom  and  Right ! 

Gone  down  to  the  grave  ?    No !  if  ever  their 

breath 

Gave  life  to  the  paralyzed  nations,  'tis  now, 
When  the  serf  at  length  wakes,  as  from  tor- 
por or  death, 
And  the  sunshine  of  Hope  gleams  anew 

on  his  brow  ! 
They  traverse  the  globe  in  a  whirlwind  of 

fire — 
They  sound  their  deep  trumpet  o'er  Ocean 

and  Land, 

Enkindling  in  myriads  the  quenchless  desire 
To  arm  as  one  man  for  the  Conflict  at  hand  1 
Oh!  still- 
Still  live  in  their  might 
Both  Freedom  and  Right ! 

They  rouse  even  dastards  to  combat  and  dare, 
Till  the  last  of  oppression's    bastiles   be 

o'erthrown ; 
When  they  conquer  not  here,  they  are  con 

quering  elsewhere, 

And  ere  long  they  will  conquer  all  Earth 
for  their  own. 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MAN  (JAN. 


300 


Then  first  will  be  born  the  Millennium  of 

Peace — - 
And,  O  God !  what  a  garland  will  bloom 

in  the  sun, 
When  the  oak-leaf  of  Deutschland,  the  olive 

of  Greece, 

And  the  trefoil  of  Ireland  are  blended  in 
one  ' 

As  they  will ; 

For  still  in  their  might 

Live  Freedom  and  Right ! 

And  what,  though  before  that  Millennium 

can  dawn, 
The  bones  of  our  Bravest  must  bleach  on 

the  plain  ? 
Thank  Heaven  !  they  will  feel  that  the  swords 

they  have  drawn 
Will  be  sheath'cl  by  the  victors,  undimm'd 

by  a  stain  ! 
And  their  names  through  all  time  will  be 

shrined  in  each  heart 
As  the  moral  Columbuses — they  who  un- 

furl'd 
That  sunbeamy  standard   that  shone  as  a 

chart 

To  illumine  our  way  to  the  better  New 
World ! 


TO  THE  BELOVED  ONE. 

THROUGH  pine-grove    and  greenwood,  o'er 

hills  and  by  hollows, 

Thine  image  my  footsteps  incessantly  follows, 
And  sweetly  thou  smilest,  or  veilest  thine 

eye, 
While  floats  the  white  moon  up  the  wastes 

of  the  sky. 

In  the  sheen  of  the  fire  and  the  purple  of 

dawn 
I  see  thy  light  figure  in  bower  and  on  lawn. 


1  U,  Gott,  welch  ein  Kranz  wird  sle  glorrelch  dann  Zleren  1 
Die  Olive  dcs  Griechcn,  dan  KUtbiatt  des  IREN, 
Und  Tor  Allcm  germanicchen  Eichengeflccht, 
-Die  Freiheit  I  dM  Recbt  I 


By  mountain   and   woodland    it   dazes   my 

vision 
Like  some  brilliant  shadow  nom   regions 

Elysian. 

Oft  has  it,  in  dreamings,  been  mine  to  behold 
Thee,  fairy-like,  seated  on  throne  of  red  gold ; 
Oft  have  I,  upborne  through  Olympus's  por- 
tals, 
Beheld  thee  as  Hebe  among  the  Immortals. 

A  tone  from  the  valley,  a  voice  from  the 

height, 

Re-echoes  thy  name  like  the  Spirit  of  Night ; 
The  zephyrs  that  woo  the  wild  flowers  on 

the  heath 
Are  warm  with  the  odorous  life  of  thy  breath. 

And  oft  when  in  stilliest  midnight  my  soul 
Is  borne  through  the  stars  to  its  infinite  goal, 
I  long  to  meet  thee,  my  Beloved,  on   that 

shore 
Where  hearts  reunite  to  be  sunder'd  no  more. 

Joy  swiftly  departeth;  soon  vanisheth  Sor- 
row ; 

Time  wheels  in  a  circle  of  morrow  and 
morrow ; 

The  sun  shall  be  ashes,  the  earth  waste  away, 

But  Love  shall  reign  king  in  his  glory  for  aye. 


3ohann   (Bauden*  garon  0.  £alis 


CHEERFULNESS. 

SEE  how  the  day  beameth  brightly  before  us! 

Blue  is  the  firmament — green  is  the  earth; 
Grief  hath  no  voice  in  the  Universe-chorus — 

Nature  is  ringing  with  music  and  mirth. 
Lift  up  the  looks  that  are  sinking  in  sadness. 

Gaze !  and  if  Beauty  can  capture  thy  soul, 
Virtue  herself  will  allure  thee  to  gladness — 

Gladness,  Philosophy's  guerdon  and  goal 


370 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


Enter  the  treasuries  Pleasure  uncloses — 

List !  how  she  thrills  in  the  nightingale's  lay ! 
Breathe !  she  is  wafting  thee  sweets  from  the 

roses  ; 

Feel !  she  is  cool  in  the  rivulet's  play ; 
Taste !   from  the   grape   and  the   nectarine 

gushing 

Flows  the  red  rill  in  the  beams  of  the  sun ; 
Green  in  the  hills,  in  the  flower-groves  blush- 
ing, 
Look !  she  is  always  and  everywhere  one. 

Banish,  then,  mourner,  the   tears   that  are 
trickling 

Over  the  cheeks  that  should  rosily  bloom ; 
Why  should  a  man,  like  a  girl  or  a  sickling, 

Suffer  his  lamp  to  be  quench'd  in  the  tomb  ? 
Still  may  we  battle  for  Goodness  and  Beauty; 

Still  hath  Philanthropy  much  to  essay  : 
Glory  rewards  the  fulfilment  of  Duty  ; 

Rest  will  pavilion  the  end  of  our  way. 

What,  though  corroding  and  multiplied  sor- 
rows, 

Legion-like,  darken  this  planet  of  ours, 
Hope  is  a  balsam  the  wounded  heart  borrows, 
Ever    when    Anguish    hath    palsied    its 

powers ; 
Wherefore,  though  Fate  play  the  part  of  a 

traitor, 

Soar  o'er  the  stars  on  the  pinions  of  Hope, 
Fearlessly  certain  that  sooner  or  later 

Over  the  stars  thy  desires  shall  have  scope. 

Look  round  about  on  the  face  of  Creation ! 
Still    is    GOD'S    Earth    undistorted    and 

bright ; 

Comfort  the  captives  to  long  tribulation, 
Thus  shalt  thou   reap  the   more   perfect 

delight. 
Love  ! — but  if  Love  be  a  hallow'd  emotion, 

Purity  only  its  rapture  should  share ; 
Love,  then,  with  willing  and  deathless  emo- 
tion, 
All  that  is  just  and  exalted  and  fair. 

Act ! — for  in  Action  are  Wisdom  and  Glory ; 

Fame,  Immortality — these  are  its  crown ; 
Wouldst  thou  illumine  the  tablets  of  Story, 

Build  on  ACHIEVEMENTS  thy  Dome  of  Re- 
nown. 


Honor  and  Feeling  were  given  thee  to  cher- 
ish,— 
Cherish  them,  then,  though  all  else  should 

decay : 

Landmarks  be  these  that  are  never  to  perish, 
Stars  that  will  shine  on  thy  duskiest  day. 


Courage  ! — Disaster  and  Peril,  once  over, 

Freshen  the  spirit,  as  showers  the  grove: 
O'er  the  dim  graves  that  the  cypresses  cover 

Soon  the  Forget-Me-Not  rises  in  love. 
Courage,  then,  friends !  Though  the  universe 
crumble, 

Innocence,  dreadless  of  danger  beneath, 
Patient  and  trustful  and  joyous  and  humble, 

Smiles  through  the  ruin  on  Darkness  and 
Death. 


ituhutg 


FREEDOM. 

RING,  ring,  blithe  Freedom's  Song ! 
Roll  forth  as  water  strong 

Down  rocks  in  sheets  ! 
Pale  stands  the  Gallic  swarm — 
Our  hearts  beat  high  and  warm — 
Youth  nerves  the  Teuton's  arm 

For  glorious  feats ! 


GOD  !  Father !  to  thy  praise 
The  spirit  of  old  days 

In  Deutschland's  Youth 
Spreads  as  a  burning  brand ! 
We  hail  the  fourfold  band  ! 
GOD,  Freedom,  Fatherland, 

Old  German  Truth ! 


Pure-tongued  and  pious  be, 
Manful  and  chaste  and  free, 

Great  Hermann's  race ! 
And,  while  GOD'S  judgments  light 
On  Tyranny's  brute  might, 
Build  We  the  People's  Right 

On  Freedom's  base ! 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


371 


For  now  in  German  brt:i»ts 
Fair  Freedom  manifests 

Her  power  at  length  ; 
Her  worth  is  understood  ; 
We  vow  to  her  our  blood ; 
We  feel  that  Brotherhood 

Alone  is  Strength ! 

Ring,  then,  glad  Song  of  Zeal, 
Loud  as  the  thunder-peal 

That  rocks  the  sphere ! 
Our  hearts,  hopes,  objects,  One, 
Stand  we,  One  Starry  Zone, 
And  round  One  Sun,  the  Throne, 

Be  our  career ! 


i^crich  IfyopUl  (fymnt 


THE  GRAVE. 

LIFE'S  Day  is  dark'd  with  Storrn  and  HI ; 
The  Night  of  Death  is  mild  and  still ; 
The  consecrated  Grave  receives 
Our  frames  as  Earth  doth  wither'd  leaves. 

There  sunbeams  shine,  there  dewy  showers 
Fall  bright  as  on  the  garden-bowers ; 
And  Friendship's  tear-drops,  in  the  ray 
Of  Hope,  are  brighter  still  than  they. 

The  Mother1  from  her  lampless  dome 

Calls  out  to   all,    "Come    home!       Come 

home !" 

Oh  !  could  we  once  behold  her  face, 
We  ne'er  would  shun  her  dark  embrace. 


(Ernst  Poritz  Jmult. 


THE  GERMAN'S  FATHERLAND 
WHERE  is  the  German's  Fatherland  ? 
Is't  Prussia  ?    Swabia  ?    Is't  the  strand 
Where    grows    the   vine,   where  flows   the 

Rhine  ? 
Is't  where  the  gull  skims  Baltic's  brine  ? 


'    Ivirlh. 


— No ! — yet  more  great  and  far  more  grand 
Must  be  the  German's  Fatherland. 

How  call  they  then  the  German's  land  ? 
Bavaria?    Brunswick?     Hast  thou  scann'd 
It  where  the  Zuyder  Zee  extends? 
Where  Styrian  toil  the  iron  bends  ? 
— No,  brother,  no ! — thou  hast  not  epAtm'd 
The  German's  genuine  Fatherland  f 

Is  then  the  German's  Fatherland 
Westphalia  ?     Pomerania  ?     Stand 
Where  Zurich's  waveless  water  sleeps  ; 
Where  Weser  winds,  where  Danube  sweeps 
Hast  found  it  now  ? — Not  yet !     Demand 
Elsewhere  the  German's  Fatherland  ' 

Then  say,  Where  lies  the  German's  land? 
How  call  they  that  unconquer'd  land  ? 
Is't  where  Tyr61's  green  mountains  r'ne  ? 
The  Switzer's  land  I  dearly  prize, 
By  Freedom's  purest  breezes  fann'd-  - 
But  no !  'tis  not  the  German's  land  ! 

Where,  therefore,  lies  the  German's  la.*>d  * 
Baptize  that  great,  that  ancient  land  ! 
'Tis  surely  Austria,  proud  and  bold, 
In  wealth  unmatch'd,  in  glory  old? 
Oh  !  none  shall  write  her  name  on  sand  ; 
But  she  is  not  the  German's  land  ? 

Say  then,  Where  lies  the  German's  land  ? 
Baptize  that  great,  that  ancient  land ! 
Is't  Alsace  ?    Or  Lorraine — that  gem 
Wrench'd  from  the  Imperial  Diadem 
By  wiles  which  princely  treachery  plann'd  f 
No !  these  are  not  the  German's  land ! 

Where,  therefore,  lies  the  German's  land  ? 
Name  now  at  last  that  mighty  land  ! 
Where'er  resounds  the  German  tongue — 
Where  German  hymns  to  GOD  are  sung — 
There,  gallant  brother,  take  thy  stand ! 
That  is  the  German's  Fatherland ! 

That  is  his  land,  the  land  of  lands, 
Where  vows  bind  less  than  claspe'd  hands, 
Where  Valor  lights  the  flashing  rye, 
Where  Love  and  Truth  in  deep  hearts  lie, 
And  Zeal  enkindles  Freedom's  bracd, — 
That  is  the  German's  Fatherland  ! 


372 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


That  is  the  German's  Fatherland 
Where  Hate  pursues  each  foreign  band — 
Where  German  is  the  name  for  friend, 
Where  Frenchman  is  the  name  for  fiend, 
And  France's  yoke  is  spurn'd  and  bann'd — 
That  is  the  German's  Fatherland  ! 

That  is  the  German's  Fatherland  ! 

Great  GOD  !  look  down  and  bless  that  land  ! 

And  give  her  noble  childi'en  souls 

To  cherish  while  Existence  rolls, 

And  love  with  heart,  and  aid  with  hand, 

Their  Universal  Fatherland  ! 


BE  MERRY  AND  WISE. 

No  beauty,  no  glory,  remaineth 

Below  the  unbribable  skies : 
All  Beauty  but  winneth  and  waneth — 

All  Glory  but  dazzles  and  dies. 

Since  multitudes  cast  in  a  gay  mould 
Before  us  have  lived  and  have  laugh'd, 

To  the  slumberers  under  the  clay-mould 
Let  goblet  on  goblet  be  quaff'd ! 

For  millions  in  centuries  after 

Decay  shall  have  crumbled  our  bones, 

As  lightly  with  revel  and  laughter 
Will  fill  their  progenitors'  thi-ones. 

Here  banded  together  in  union 
Our  bosoms  are  joyous  and  gay. 

How  blest,  could  our  festive  communion 
Remain  to  enchant  us  for  aye ! 

But  Change  is  omnipotent  ever ; 

Thus  knitted  we  cannot  remain ; 
Wide  waves  and  high  hills  will  soon  sever 

The  links  of  our  brotherly  chain. 

Yet,  even  though  far  disunited, 
Our  hearts  are  in  fellowship  still, 

And  all,  if  but  one  be  delighted, 
Will  hear  it  with  Sympathy's  thrill 


And  if,  after  years  have  gone  o'er  us, 
Fate  bring  us  together  once  more, 

Who  knows  but  the  mirth  of  our  chorus 
May  yet  be  as  loud  as  before » 


Sari  <%on  (Kbert. 


THE  REVENGE  OF  DUKE  SWERTING. 

["  Swerting,  Duke  of  the  Saxons,  was  conquered  in  435  by 
Frotho  IV.,  King  of  the  Danes,  who  imposed  upon  the  Saxons 
a  heavy  yearly  poll-tax.  The  Saxons  in  vain  attempted  to  re- 
cover their  independence ;  and  Frotho  humbled  them  stiL 
more  by  making  them  pay  a  tax  for  every  one  of  their  limbs 
that  was  two  feet  long.  To  keep  the  Saxons  better  in  sub- 
jection, Frotho  had  thought  it  prudent  to  make  his  son  Ingel 
marry  the  daughter  of  Swertiug,  in  the  hope  of  binding  the 
latter  to  his  interests  by  this  alliance.  But  Swerting  did  not 
desert  his  own  nation— he  planned  the  destruction  of  the  con- 
queror and  oppressor  of  his  country,  and  accomplished  it 
nearly  in  the  manner  related  in  Ebert's  ballad." — M.  KLATJEK- 
KLATTOWSKI,  German  Ballads  and  Romances,  p.  303.] 

OH,  a  warrior's  feast  was  Swerting's  in  his 

Burg  beside  the  Rhine ; 
There  from  gloomy  iron  bell-cups  they  drank 

the  Saxon  wine, 
And  the  viands  were  served  in  iron  up,  in 

coldest  iron  all, 
And  the  sullen  clash  of  iron  arms  resounded 

through  the  hall. 


Uneasily  sat  Frotho  there,  the  Tyrant  of  the 

Danes ; 
With  lowering  brow  he  quaff'd  his  cup,  then 

eyed  the  iron  chains 
That  hung   and   clank'd   like   manacles   at 

Swerting's  arms  and  breast, 
And  the   iron   studs  and  linked  rings  that 

boss'd  his  ducal  vest. 


"  What  may  this  bode,  this  chilling  gloom, 

Sir  Duke  and  Brother  Knights  ? 
Why  meet  I  here  such  wintry  cheer,  such 

sorry  sounds  and  sights  ? 
Out  on  your  shirts  of  iron !    Will  ye  bear  to 

have  it  told 
That  I  found  ye  thus  when  Danish  knight? 

go  clad  in  silks  and  gold  ?  "— 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCK  M  A  MIAN. 


373 


*  King  !     Gold  befits  the  freeman,  the  Iron 

marks  tin-  slave ; 
So  thought  and  spake  our  fathers,  and  their 

sons  are  just  and  brave : 
Thyself  hast  bound  the  iron  round  thy  proud 

but  conquer'd  foe ; 
If  thy  chains  had  been  but  golden  we  had 

burst  them  long  ago. 

"  But  I  came  not  here  to  hold  a  parle,  or  tell 

a  tristful  tale, 
But  to  bid  the  dastard  tremble  and  to  make 

the  tyrant  quail. 
Oh,  strong,  Sir  King,  is  iron,  but  the  heart 

is  stronger  still, 
Nor   Earth    nor   Hell   can   cast  in  thrall  a 

People's  mighty  Will ! " 

While  his  words  yet  rang  like  cymbals,  there 

strode  into  the  hall 
Twelve    swarthy   Saxon    Rittersmen,    with 

flaming  torches  tall ; 
They  stood  to   catch  a  signal-glance  from 

Swerting's  eagle  eye, 
Then  again  they  rushed  out,  waving  their 

pitchy  brands  on  high. 

The  Danish  King  grows  paler,  yet  he  brims 
his  goblet  higher ; 

But  the  sultry  hall  is  dark  with  smoke ;  he 
hears  the  hiss  of  h'rc  ! 

Yes  !  the  Red  Avenger  marches  on  his  fierce 
and  swift  career, 

And  from  man  to  man  goes  round  the  whis- 
per, "  Brother,  it  is  near  !  " 


Up  starts  the  King ;  he  turns  to  fly ;  Duke 

Swerting  holds  him  fast. 
"  Nay,  Golden  King,  the  dice  are  down,  and 

thou  must  bide  the  cast. 
If  thy  chains  can  fetter  THIS  fell  foe,  the 

glory  be  thine  own, 
Thine  be  the  Saxon  Land  for  aye,  and  thine 

the  Saxon  throne ! " 

But  hotter,  hotter  burns  the  air  all  through 

that  lurid  hall, 
And  louder  groan  the  blacken'd  beams;  the 

crackling  rafters  fall, 


And  ampler  waxes  momently  the  glare,  the 

volumed  flash, 
Till  at  last  the  roof-tree  topples  down  with 

stunning  thunder-crash. 

Then  in  solemn  prayer  that  gallant  band  of 

Self-devoted  kneel— 
"Just  GOD!  assoil  our  souls,  thus  driven  to 

Freedom's  last  appeal ! " 
And  Frotho  writhes  and  rages,  fire  stifling 

his  quick  gasp, 
But,  strong  and  terrible  as  Death,  his  foe 

maintains  his  grasp. 

"  Behold,  thou  haughty  tyrant,  behold  what 

MEN  can  dare! 
So  triumph  such, — so  perish,  too,  enslavers 

everywhere ! " 
And  the  billowy  flames,  while  yet  he  speaks, 

come  roaring  down  the  hall, 
And  the  Fatherland  is  loosed  for  aye  from 

Denmark's  iron  thrall ! 


mmmnamu 


THE  STUDENT  OF  PRAGUE.1 

WHAT  riotous  din  is  ringing  ? 

What  wassailers  throng  the  house? 
The  student  of  Prague  is  singing 

The  praise  of  his  wild  carouse. 
With  bloodshot  eyes  and  glowing, 

He  shouts  like  one  possess'd, 
His  goblet  overflowing, 

His  head  on  his  leman's  bi 


i  This  ballad  Is  founded  on  fact.  In  a  note  at  Vne  end 
of  M.  Klaaer's  volume  we  have  the  genuine  history  of  the 
hero,  (riven  in  a  narrative  transcribed  from  Fesxler  and 
Fischer's  Eunomia,  for  July,  180Q.  The  student  was  the  son 
of  a  Pomeranian  country  clergyman,  «nd  was  sent  to  Prague 
for  the  completion  of  his  education.  There  his  youth,  tem- 
perament, and  freedom  from  restraint,  soon  led  mm  into  ex- 
cesses, which  increased  until  he  became  a  confirmed  liliortine. 
He  ceased  to  correspond  with  his  kindred;  and  his  father, 
preyed  on  by  anxiety  and  grief,  at  length  fell  mortally  ill.  Hit 
mother  now  wrote  to  him,  adjuring  him  to  return  and  it*cclre 
the  dying  benediction  of  the  parent  who  had  reared  him  in  the 
love  and  fear  of  God;  but  in  vain.  The  student.  considmn;; 
her  story  an  invention  to  wile  htm  home,  refused  to  attach 
credit  to  it,  an'  pursued  his  career  of  dissipation  at  Prague 
Time  wheeleo  4n  ;  at  last,  one-  lui-ln.  aa  the  niiulont  Jiv  .1  bed 


374 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


As  pallid  as  alabaster, 

The  servant  ventures  in: 
K  'Tis  midnight,  O  my  master ! 

Cease  now,  at  least,  from  sin  !" — 
"  Avaunt,  thou  croaking  booby ! 

I  brook  no  babble  from  thee ; 
As  long  as  the  wine  looks  ruby 

Right  jovial  I  swear  to  be !" 

He  drinks  from  his  goblet  faster; 

Within  lies  a  coiled  worm  : 
"  GOD  gives  thee  a  sign,  my  master ! 

It  saith,  Repent !  Reform !" 
"  Truce,  dolt,  to  thy  coffin-faces ! 

Go,  preach  to  the  fools  that  will  hear; 
Thus  lock'd  in  my  leman's  embraces, 

What  accident  have  I  to  fear  ?" 


He  plays  with  her  night-black  tresses ; 

She  breaks  from  his  arms  by  force  ; 
Her  hand  on  her  heart  she  presses; 

She  shrieks,  and  drops  down  a  corse ! 
Then  steps  the  servant  past  her, 

And  falls  upon  his  knee : 
"  GOD  shows  thee  a  sign,  O  master, 

A  fearful  sign  to  thee !" — 


he  was  startled  by  a  rustling  sound  nigh  him,  and  in  the  same 
moment  a  gentle  current  of  air  passed  over  his  face.  Turning 
round  with  an  involuntary  shudder,  he  beheld  a  phantom 
leaning  over  the  bedside,  and  contemplating  him  with  looks 
of  the  tenderest  pity.  It  was  the  apparition  of  his  dying 
father  I  Terror  mastered  him  at  the  sight ;  he  seized  a  sword 
that  hung  against  the  wall,  and  made  a  thrust  at  the  spectre, 
which  immediately  disappeared.  The  student  was  now 
seriously  alarmed,  as  all  his  dependence  was  upon  his  father, 
and  next  day  he  set  out  for  Pomerania.  But  before  he  had 
accomplished  more  than  half  his  journey  homeward,  a  black 
letter  met  him,  and,  opening  it,  he  found  that  it  announced 
the  death  of  his  father.  After  a  number  of  preliminary  de- 
tails, the  following  account  was  given  of  the  last  moments  of 
the  deceased :  "  The  desire  of  the  sick  man  to  see  his  child 
once  more,  the  father's  anguish  at  the  thought  of  his  son's 
depravity  and  obduracy,  augmented  hourly.  On  the  last  even- 
ing of  his  life,  never  a  minute  elapsed  that  he  did  not  inquire, 
on  the  occasion  of  the  slightest  noise  or  movement  near  him, 
'Has  he  come  yet?  Is  he  there?'  And  when  answered, 
'  Alas,  no  !'  he  would  break  forth  into  piteous  lamentations 
over  the  wretched  state  of  his  lost  son.  Midnight  came, 
passed;  he  grew  fainter  and  fainter.  At  one  o'clock  he  had. 
sunk  into  a  state  of  strange  calmness.  It  was  thought  that 
he  slept.  His  family  surrounded  his  bed.  On  a  sudden  a 
trembling  came  over  him;  he  turned  himself  round,  and  lift- 
ing his  eyes  to  his  daughter,  who  was  affectionately  watching 
by  him,  he  exclaimed,  in  a  hollow  voice,  "All  is  over!  My 
reprobate  son  has  just  struck  at  me  with  his  sword !'  Speech 
and  consciousness  then  deserted  him.  Toward  the  dawning 
of  day  he  gave  up  the  ghost."  M.  Klauer's  narrative,  of 
which  this  is  an  abstract,  closes  here:  the  ballad,  it  will  be 
perceived,  carries  the  story  further,  but  whether  according  to 
the  strict  truth  or  not,  we  cannot  pretend  to  say. 


"  Away,  thou  hound,  to  the  devil ! 

Red  gold  have  I  still  in  store 
To  win  me  wherewith  to  revel, 

And  fairer  lemans  a  score. 
So  long  as  my  dotard  father 

Takes  care  of  this  purse  of  mine, 
So  long,  by  hell,  will  I  gather 

The  roses  of  Love  and  wine." 

The  servant,  shuddering,  fetches 

Away  the  accusing  Dead ; 
And  the  wild  young  Student  stretches 

His  wasted  limbs  in  bed. 
The  lurid  lamp  is  shooting 

A  bluer  glare  anon ; 
The  owls  without  are  hooting ; 

The  hollow  bell  tolls  "  One !" 

When  lo  !  a  charnel  vapor 

Pervades  the  Student's  room  ; 
Then  dies  the  darkening  taper ; 

And,  shimmering  through  the  gloom, 
'A  shadow  with  look  of  sorrow 

Bends  over  the  reckless  boy, 
Who  dreams  of  new  pleasures  to-morrow, 

And  laughs  his  libertine  joy. 

The  Pitying  Phantom  raises 

Its  warning  hand  on  high  ; 
The  Student  starts ;  he  gazes ; 

He  grasps  his  bed-sword  nigh ; 
He  strikes  at  what  resembles 

His  father's  features  pale ! 
And  the  stricken  Phantom  trembles, 

And  vanishes  with  a  wail. 

The  wintry  morn  is  dawning 

In  ashy-gray  and  red  ; 
The  servant  undraws  the  awning 

That  screens  his  master's  bed ; 
And  a  black-edged  letter,  weeping, 

He  gives  the  startled  youth  ;' 
And  the  Student's  flesh  is  creeping, 

For  he  fears  the  dreadful  truth. 

"  From  thy  mother,  broken-hearted, 
And  widow'd  now  by  thee — 

Thy  father  has  departed 
This  life  in  agony. 


1  The  rapid  conveyance  of  this  letter  is  of  course  a  poetical 
license. 


I'oK.MS  |JV  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


Whole  nights  I  saw  him  languish; 

And  still  he  call'd  in  wild 
And  ceaseless  tones  of  anguish 

For  thee,  his  ruin'd  child. 

"  At  last  he  lay  as  tranc6d ; 

His  struggles  appear'd  to  cease, 
And  I  fondly  hoped  and  fancied 

His  spirit  was  now  at  peace ; 
But  soon  I  heard  him  crying, 

'He  strikes  me  with  his  sword !' 
And  his  bitter  curse  in  dying 

On  his  harden'd  son  was  pour'd." 

The  parricide  Student  ponders, 

But  word  he  utters  not ; 
He  leaves  the  house  and  wanders 

To  a  lone  and  desolate  spot. 
With  scissors  he  there  divests  his 

Proud  head  of  its  clustering  hair, 
And  low- on  his  hands  he  rests  his 

Shorn  skull  and  temples  bare.1 

And  now  what  chant  funereal, 

What  feasters  fill  the  house  ? 
Their  chant  is  a  dirge  of  burial, 

Their  feast  a  death-carouse. 
They  drain  the  funeral-bowl  off, 

And  chorus  in  accents  vague 
A  hymn  to  the  rest  of  the  soul  of 

The  penitent  Student  of  Prague. 


Jcrdhromt  (Sottfrid 


ghen- 


ANDREAS  HOFER 
"VICTORY!     Victory!     Inspruck's  taken 

By  the  Vintner  of  Passayer  !  "  ' 
What  wild  joy  the  sounds  awaken  ? 

Hearts  grow  bolder,  faces  gayer  ; 


1  Und  nimint  ID  bcide  Hilndc 
Den  kald^cTluinirii  Kopf, 
"a-nd  takes  tho  bnld-clmm  lu-ud  in  both  handu."    This  pas- 
sage appear*  to  us  incoimff/uent. 

*  Hofer  kept  an  Inn  at  I'awcler,  hlu  birth-place;  and  even 
•fti T  he  had  taken  up  arm*,  he  always  wont  among  the  peas- 
antry by  the  title  of  dtr  Saiilivirth.  the  Publican. 


Maidens,  leaving  duller  lab 

Weave  the  wreaths  they  mean  to  proffer ; 
All  the  students,  all  the  neighbors, 

March  with  music  out  to  Hofer. 

Till  the  Chief,  commanding  silence, 

Speaks,  with  tone  and  aspect  sternest- - 
"  Men  !  lay  down  your  trumpery  vi'lins ! 

Death  and  GOD  are  both  in  earnest ! 
Not  for  Music,  not  for   Glory, 

Leave  I  wives  and  orphans  weeping  / 
Perish  Hofer's  name  in  story !  . 

He  but  seeks  one  goal  unsleeping. 

"Kneel  in  prayer,  and  chant  your  ros'ries  . 

Theirs  is  music  meet  to  cheer  ye. 
When  your  hearts  in  speech  that  glows  rise, 

GOD  the  LORD  may  deign  to  hear  ye. 
Pray  for  me  a  sinner,  lowly, 

Pray  for  our  gre  at  Kaiser  loudly ; ' 
GOD  keep  Prince  and  People  holy ! 

May  both  guard  the  sceptre  proudly  ! 

Me,  my  time  is  short  for  suing  ; 

Shew  GOD  what  and  how  the  case  is ; 
Count  Him  up  what  Dead  are  strewing 

Level  plains  and  lofty  places  ; 
State  what  hosts  yet  shield  the  Wronger,4 

And  what  clans  of  Austrian  bowmen 
Speed  the  shout  and  shaft  no  longer : — 

GOD  alone  can  crush,  our  foemen." 


Julius  gftosen. 


THE  DEATH  OF  HOFER. 

Ax  Mantua  long  had  lain  in  chains 
The  gallant  Hofer  bound  ; 

But  now  his  day  of  doom  was  come— 
At  morn  the  deep  roll  of  the  drum 


1  Betet  MM  CQr  mlch  Arnn-n. 

Betct  taut  fUr  unscrn  Kuii-cr. 
Fl*:— Pray  »oftly  for  me  [a]  poor  [dinner] 

Prmy  aloud  for  our  Kmperor. 

I  quote  these  lines  because,  upon  carting  my  eye  over  tb« 
translation,  "a  sinner  lowly  "  strikes  me  as  tome  what  of  t« 
ambiguity. 
4  Bonaparte. 


376 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


Resounded  o'er  the  soldier'd  plains. 

O  Heaven  !  with  what  a  deed  of  dole 
The     hundred     thousand     wrongs     were 

crown'd 
Of  trodden-down  Tyrol ! ' 


With  iron-fetter' d  arms  and  hands 
The  hero  moved  along. 

His  heart  was  calm,  his  eye  was  clear, 
Death  was  for  traitor  slaves  to  fear  ! 
He  oft  amid  his  mountain  bands, 

Where  Inn's  dark  wintry  waters  roll, 
Had  faced  it  with  his  battle-song, 
The  Sandwirth  of  Tyrol. 


Anon  he  pass'd  the  fortress-wall, 
And  heard  the  wail  that  broke 

From  many  a  brother  thrall  within. 
"  Farewell !  "  he  cried.     "  Soon  may 

you  win 
Your  liberty  !     GOD  shield  you  all ! 

Lament  not  me !     I  see  my  goal. 
Lament  the  land  that  wears  the  yoke, 
Your  land  and  mine,  Tyrol !  " 


So  through  the  files  of  musqueteers 
Undauntedly  he  pass'd, 

And  stood  within  the  hollow  square. 
Well   might  he   glance   around  him 

there, 
And  proudly  think  on  by-gone  years  ! 

Amid  such  serfs  his  bannerol, 
Thank  GOD  !  had  never  braved  the  blast 
On  thy  green  hills,  Tyrol ! 


They  bade  him  kneel ;  but  he  with  all 
A  patriot's  truth  replied — 

"  I  kneel  alone  to  God  on  high — 
As  thus  I  stand  so  dare  I  die, 
As  oft  I  fought  so  let  me  fall ! 

Farewell" — his  bi-east  a  moment  swoM 
With  agony  he  strove  to  hide — 
"  My  Kaiser  and  Tyrol ! " 


*  I  suppose  I  need  scarcely  remark  that  this  word  is  properly 
accented  on  the  second  syllable. 


No  more  emotion  he  betray'd. 
Again  he  bade  farewell 

To  Francis  and  the  faithful  men 
Who  girt  his  throne.     His  hands  were 

then 
Unbound  for  prayer,  and  thus  he  pray'd : — 

"  GOD  of  the  Free,  receive  my  soul ! 
And  you,  slaves,  Fire ! "     So  bravely  fell 
Thy  foremost  man,  Tyrol ! 


atpst 


THE  BEREAVED  ONE. 

THERE  comes  a  Wanderer,  worn  and  weary, 

To  a  cottage  on  the  wold — 
"  Mother  dear  ! — the  night  is  dreary, 

And  I  am  wet  and  cold, 
For  1  have  been  through  rain  and  mire ; 

Mother  dear,  it  blows  a  storm  ! 

Let  me  in,  I  pray,  to  warm 
My  fingers  by  the  fire  !  " 


The  door  is  open'd — not  by  her — 

A  little  boy,  well-nigh  a  child, 
Looks  up  into  the  Wanderer's  face 

With  a  look  so  soft  and  mild  ! — 
He  was  like  a  messenger 

Sent  from  some  pure  sphere  above, 
Unto  Man's  unhappy  race, 

On  an  embassy  of  love  ! 


"  Come  in,  good  man,"  he  said ;  "  what  dost 
Thou  out  on  such  a  night  as  this  ? 

Oh,  I  was  dreaming  wondrous  things ! 
Me  dreamt  that  I  had  left  and  lost 

My  happy  home  and  all  my  bliss  ; 
So  I  wept  and  could  not  rest, — 
Then  came  one  with  golden  wings, 
And  took  me  to  my  father's  breast." 

The  Wanderer's  tears  are  flowing  fast ; 

He  doth  not  speak,  he  clasps  his  hands, 
But  grief  breaks  forth  in  speech  at  last — 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


371 


"  And,  dearest  child,where  is  thy  father?" 
"Amid  a  shadowy  group  he  stands, 

And  a  moony  light  reposes 
On  his  face,  but  I  would  rather 

Be  with  him  than  pulling  roses ! " 

u  And  thy  mother, — what  of  her?" 

"  Oh  !  often  when  the  night  is  falling, 
When  the  wind  moans  through  the  fir, 
I  can  hear  her  dear  voice  calling 

From  her  far-off  home  to  me : 
I  think  this  cottage  was  too  small 
For  father,  sister,  her  and  all, 

And  so  they  left  it,  all  the  three." 

"  Ha !  what !— thy  sister  also  ?— Speak  !  "— 
"  Good  man,  I  see  thou  knewest  her,  then. 
The  bloom  soon  faded  from  her  cheek, 

But  now  she  dwells  beyond  the  moon ; 
She  could  not  stay,  she  told  me,  when 
Our  mother  and  our  father  went ; 
Down  in  the  vale,  to-morrow  noon, 
They'll  point  thee  out  her  monument." 

"  And,  tell  me,  darling  child  !  who  sleeps 
Within  the  grave  beside  the  stream, 
vVhere  the  sun  can  seldom  beam, 
And  the  willow  ever  weeps  ? 

The  burial-stone  rose  blank  and  bare." 
Here  wept  the  child,  and  then  he  said, 
"  They  say  my  brother's  wife  is  dead, 
Because  she  slumbers  there. 

"  My  brother  Walter  went  abroad, 
And  never  more  came  back, 

And  then  his  wife  grew  pale  and  wan, 
She  said  her  heart  was  on  the  rack, 
And  Life  was  now  a  weary  load  ; 

And  so  she  linger'd,  linger'd  on, 
Until  a  year  or  two  ago, 
When  Death  released  her  from  her  woe.** 

Thus  far  will  Walter  hear — no  more  : 

He  presses  once  his  brother's  hand, 

Then,  wandering  forth  amid  the  roar 

Of  wind  and  rain  he  seeks  the  river, 
And,  having  one  brief  minute  scann'd, 
Silently,  and  calm  of  eye, 
The  broad  black  mass  of  cloud  on  high, 
He  plunges  in  the  waves  forever ! 


Conrad  IS&tiztl 


SONG. 

WHEN  the  roses  blow 
Man  looks  out  for  brighter  hours ; 

When  the  roses  glow 
Hope  relights  her  lampless  bowers. 
Much  that  seem'd  in  Winter's  gloom 

Dark  with  heavy  woe, 
Wears  a  gladsome  hue  and  bloom 

When  the  roses  blow — 

When  the  roses  blow — 
Wears  a  gladsome  hue  and  bloom 

When  the  roses  blow. 


When  the  roses  blow, 
Love,  that  slept,  shall  wake  anew : 

Merrier  blood  shall  flow 
Through  the  springald's  veins  of  blue; 
And  if  Sorrow  wrung  the  heart, 

Even  that  shall  go ; — 
Pain  and  Mourning  must  depart 

When  the  roses  blow — 

When  the  roses  blow — 
Pain  and  Mourning  must  depart 

When  the  roses  blow. 


When  the  roses  blow 
Look  to  heaven,  my  fainting  soul ! 

There,  in  stainless  show, 
Spreads  the  veil  that  hides  thy  goal. 
Not  while  Winter  breathes  his  blight 

Burst  thy  bonds  below! 
Let  the  Earth  look  proud  and  bright, 

Let  the  roses  blow  ! 

Let  the  roses  blow ! 
Oh,  let  Earth  look  proud  and  bright  t 

Let  the  roses  blow ! 


GOOD-NIGHT. 

GOOD-NIGHT,  Good-night,  my  Lyre! 

A  long,  a  last  Good-night ! 
In  ashes  lies  the  fire 

That  lent  me  Warmth  and  Light 


178 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


With  Love,  Life  too  is  fled  ; 

My  bosom's  blood  is  cold ; 
My  mind  is  all  but  dead ; 

My  heart  is  growing  old. 

Soon  will  my  sad  eyes  close, 
O  Lyre,  on  Earth  and  Thee ! 

I  go  to  woo  Repose 
In  GOD'S  Etei-nity. 


iaron  ran 


THE  MIDNIGHT  REVIEW. 

I. 
WHEN  midnight  hour  is  come, 

The  drummer  forsakes  his  tomb, 
And  marches,  beating  his  phantom-drum 
To  and  fro  through  the  ghastly  gloom. 

He  plies  the  drumsticks  twain 

With  fleshless  fingers  pale, 
And  beats,  and  beats  again  and  again, 

A  long  and  dreary  reveil ! 

Like  the  voice  of  abysmal  waves 

Resounds  its  unearthly  tone, 
Till  the  dead  old  soldiers,  long  in  their 
graves, 

Awaken  through  every  zone. 

And  the  slain  in  the  land  of  the  Hun, 
And  the  frozen  in  the  icy  North, 

And  those  who  under  the  burning  sun 
Of  Italy  sleep,  come  forth. 

And  they  whose  bones  long  while 
Lie  bleaching  in  Syrian  sands, 

And  the  slumberers  under  the  reeds  of  the 

Nile, 
Arise,  with  arms  in  their  hands. 

n. 

And  at  midnight,  in  his  shroud, 
The  trumpeter  leaves  his  tomb, 

And  blows  a  blast  long,  deep,  arid  loud, 
As  he  rides  through  the  ghastly  gloom. 


And  the  yellow  moonlight  shines 
On  the  old  Imperial  Dragoons ; 

And  the  Cuirassiers  they  form  in  lines 
And  the  Carabineers  in  platoons. 

At  a  signal  the  ranks  unsheathe 
Their  weapons  in  rear  and  van ; 

But    they   scarcely   appear  to    speak   or 

breathe, 
And  their  features  are  sad  and  wan. 


in. 

And  when  midnight  robes  the  sky, 
The  Emperor  leaves  his  tomb, 

And  rides  along,  surrounded  by 

His  shadowy  staff,  through  the  gloom. 

A  silver  star  so  bright 

Is  glittering  on  his  breast ; 
In  a  uniform  of  blue  and  white 

And  a  gray  camp-frock  he  is  dress'd. 

The  moonbeams  shine  afar 

On  the  various  marshall'd  groups, 

As  the  Man  with  the  glittering  silver  star 
Proceeds  to  review  his  troops. 

And  the  dead  battalions  all 

Go  again  through  their  exercise, 

Till  the  moon  withdraws,  and  a  gloomier 

pall 
Of  blackness  wraps  the  skies. 

Then  around  their  chief  once  more 
The  Generals  and  Marshals  throng ; 

And  he  whispers  a  word  oft  heard  before 
In  the  ear  of  his  aide-de-camp. 

In  files  the  troops  advance, 

And  then  are  no  longer  seen. 
The     challenging    watchword    given    it 
"  France  !" 

The  answer  is  "  St.  Helene !"       • 


And  this  is  the  Grand  Review, 
Which  at  midnight  on  the  wolds, 

If  popular  tales  may  pass  for  true, 
The  buried  Emperor  holds. 


IRISH    ANTHOLOGY. 


BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


DARK    ROSALEEN. 
(TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  IRISH.) 


[This  Impassioned  song,  entitled,  in  the  original,  Roisln 
Duh,  or  The  Black  Little  Rose,  was  written  in  the  reign  of 
Elizabeth  by  one  of  the  poets  of  the  celebrated  Tirconnellian 
chieftain,  Hugh  the  Red  O'Donnell.  It  purports  to  be  an  alle- 
gorical address  from  Hugh  to  Ireland  on  the  subject  of  his  love 
ftod  struggles  for  her,  and  his  resolve  to  raise  her  again  to  the 
glorious  position  she  held  as  a  nation  before  the  irruption  of 
the  Saxon  and  Norman  spoilers.  The  true  character  arid 
meaning  of  the  figurative  allusions  with  which  it  abounds, 
and  to  two  only  of  which  I  need  refer  here— viz.,  the  "  Roman 
wine  "  and  "  Spanish  ale  "  mentioned  in  the  first  stanza— the 
Intelligent  reader  will,  of  course,  find  no  difficulty  in  under- 
standing.] 


Ou,  my  Dark  Rosaleen, 

Do  not  sigh,  do  not  weep ! 
The  priests  are  on  the  ocean  green, 

They  march  along  the  Deep. 
There's  wine ....  from  the  royal  Pope, 

Upon  the  ocean  green  ; 
And  Spanish  ale  shall  give  you  hope, 

My  Dark  llosaleen ! 

My  own  Rosaleen ! 
Shall  glad   your  heart,  shall  give  you 

hope, 

Shall  give  you  health,  and  help,  and 
hope, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 


Over  hills,  and  through  dales, 

Have  I  roam'd  for  your  sake  ; 
All  yesterday  I  sail'd  with  sails 

On  river  and  on  lake. 
The  Erne,. . .  .a*  its  highest  flood, 

I  dashed  across  unseen, 
For  there  was  lightning  in  my  blood, 

My  Dark  Rosaleun  ! 

My  own  Rosftleen  t 


Oh !  there  was  lightning  in  my  blood, 
Red    lightning   lighten'd    through  my 

blood, 
My  Dark  Rosaleen ! 

All  day  long,  in  unrest, 

To  and  fro  do  I  move. 
The  very  soul  within  my  breast 

Is  wasted  for  you,  love ! 
The  heart. . .  .in  my  bosom  faints 

To  think  of  you,  my  Queen, 
My  life  of  life,  my  saint  of  saints, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen ! 

My  own  Rosaleen ! 

To  hear  your  sweet  and  sad  complaints 
My  life,  my  love,  my  saint  of  saints, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen ! 


Woe  and  pain,  pain  and  woe, 

Are  ray  lot,  night  and  noon, 
To  see  your  bright  face  clouded  so, 

Like  to  the  mournful  moon. 
But  yet. . .  .will  1  rear  your  throne 

Again  in  golden  sheen  ; 
'Tis  you  shall  reign,  shall  reign  alone, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen ! 

My  own  Rosaleen! 

'Tis  you  shall  have  the  golden  throne, 
'Tis  you  shall  reign,  and  reign  alone, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen! 


Over  dews,  over  sands. 

Will  I  fly,  for  your  weal : 
Your  holy  delicate  white  hands 

Shall  girdle  me  with  steel. 
At  home. . .  .in  your  emerald  bowers, 

From  morning's  «l:ivi-u  till  e'en, 
You'll  pray  for  me,  my  flower  of  flowers 

My  Dark  Ro^ilfi-n  ! 

My  f'oiitl  llosaleen  ! 


380 


POEMS  BY  JAMES   CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


You'll  think  of  rae  through  Daylight's 

hom-s, 

My  virgin  flower,  my  flower  of  flowers, 
My  Dark  Rosaleen ! 

I  could  scale  the  blue  air, 

I  could  plough  the  high  hills, 
Oh,  I  could  kneel  all  night  in  prayer, 

To  heal  your  many  ills ! 
And  one. . .  .beamy  smile  from  you 

Would  float  like  light  between 
My  toils  and  me,  my  own,  my  true, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 

My  fond  Rosaleen ! 
Would  give  me  life  and  soul  anew, 
A  second  life,  a  soul  anew, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen ! 

Oh !  the  Erne  shall  run  red 

With  redundance  of  blood, 
The  earth  shall  rock  beneath  our  tread, 

And  flames  wrap  hill  and  wood, 
And  gun-peal,  and  slogan  cry, 

Wake  many  a  glen  serene, 
Ere  you  shall  fade,  ere  you  shall  die, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 

My  own  Rosaleen ! 

The  Judgment  Hour  must  first  be  nigh, 
Ere  you  can  fade,  ere  you  can  die, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen ! 


SHANE  BWEE ;  OR,  THE  CAPTIVITY  OF 
THE  GAELS. 

Translation  of  the  Jacobite  Song,  called  "  Geibionn  na-n- 
Oaoideil,"  written  by  OWEN  ROE  O'SITLLIVAN,  a  Kerry 
poet,  who  flourished  about  the  middle  of  the  last  century. 


"  Ag  taisdiol  na  sleibte  dam  eealad  am  aonar." 


'TWAS  by  sunset. . .  .1  walk'd  and  wander'd 
Over  hill-sides. . .  .and  over  moors, 

With  a  many  sighs  and  tears. 
Sunk  in  sadness,. . .  .1  darkly  ponder'd 
All  the  wrongs  our ....  lost  land  endures 

In  these  latter  night-black  years. 
"  JIow,"  I  mused,  "  has  her  worth  departed ! 
What  a  ruin . . .  .her  fame  is  now  ! 
We,  once  freest  of  the  Free, 


We  are  trampled ....  and  broken-hearted ; 
Yea,  even  our  Princes . . .  .themselves  must 

bow 
Low  before  the  vile  Shane  Bwee !'" 


Nigh  a  stream,  in. . .  .a  grassy  hollow, 
Tired,  at  length,  I. . .  .lay  down  to  rest — 

There  the  birds  and  balmy  air 
Bade  new  reveries. . .  .and  cheerier  follow, 
Waking  newly ....  within  my  breast 
Thoughts  that  cheated  my  despair. 
Was  I  waking. . .  .or  was  I  dreaming ? 

I  glanced  up,  and behold !  there  shon» 

Such  a  vision  over  me  ! 
A  young  girl,  bright. . .  .as  Erin's  beaming 
Guardian  spirit — now  sad  and  lone, 
Through  the  Spoiling  of  Shane  Bwee  J 


Oh  for  pencil. . .  .to  paint  the  golden 
Locks  that  waved  in ....  luxuriant  sheen 

To  her  feet  of  stilly  light ! 
(Not  the  Fleece  that ...  .in  ages  olden 
Jason  bore  o'er ....  the  ocean  green 

Into  Hellas,  gleam'd  so  bright.) 
And  the  eyebrows. . .  .thin-arch'd  over 
Her  mild  eyes,  and. . .  .more,  even  more 

Beautiful,  methought,  to  see 
Than  those  rainbows. . .  .that  wont  to  hover 
O'er  our  blue  island-lakes  of  yore 
Ere  the  Spoiling  by  Shane  Bwee ! 


"  Bard !"  she  spake,  "  deem . . .  not  this  unreaL 
I  was  niece  of . ...  a  Pair  whose  peers 
None  shall  see  on  earth  agen — 

^EONGUS  CON,  and the  Dark  O'NiALL,* 

Rulers  over ....  lern  in  years 

When  her  sons  as  yet  were  Men. 
Times  have  darken'd;. . .  .and  now  our  holy 
Altars  crumble. ....  and  castles  fall ; 

Our  groans  ring  through  Christendee. 
Still,  despond  not !  HE  comes,  though  slowly, 
He,  the  Man,  who  shall  disenthral 
The    PROUD     CAPTIVE    of  Shane 
Bwee !" 


1  Seagan  Buldhe,  Yellow  John,  a  name  applied  firrt 
P-^nce  of  Orange,  and  afterward  to  his  adherents  generally. 
*  Niall  Dnbh. 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MAN  (JAN. 


381 


Here  she  vanish'd ; . . .  .and  I,  in  sorrow,- 
Blent  with  joy,  rose ....  and  went  my  way 

Homeward  over  moor  and  hill. 
O   Gr^at   God!    Thou.... from   whom    we 

borrow 
Life  and  strength,  unto  Thee  I  pray  I 

Thou,  who  swayest  at  Thytwill 
Hearts  and  councils, . . .  .thralls,  tyrants,  free- 
men, 
Wake  through  Europe. . .  .the  ancient  soul, 

And  on  every  shore  and  sea, 
From  the  Blackwater  to  the  Dniemen, 
Freedom's  Bell  will. . .  .ere  long  time  toll 
The  deep  death-knell  of  Shane  Bwce ! 


A  LAMENTATION 

FOR 

THE    DEATH    OF   SIR   MAURICE    FITZGERALD, 

KNIGHT    OF    KERRY.1 
'An  Abridged  Translation  from  the  Irish  of  Pierce  Femter.] 

THERE  was  lifted  up  one  voice  of  woe, 

One  lament  of  more  than  mortal  grief, 
Through  the  wide  South  to  and  fro, 

For  a  fallen  Chief. 

In  the  dead  of  night  that  cry  thrill'd  through 
me, 

I  look'd  out  upon  the  midnight  air ; 
Mine  own  soul  was  all  as  gloomy, 

And  I  knelt  in  prayer. 

O'er  Loch  Gur,  that  night,  once — twice — 
y«a,  thrice — 

Pass'd  a  wail  of  anguish  for  the  Brave 
That  half  curdled  into  ice 

Its  moon-mirroring  wave. 
Then  uprose  a  many-toned  wild  hymn  in 

Choral  swell  from  Ogra's  dark  ravine, 
And  Mogeely's  Phantom  Women1 

Mourn 'd  the  Geraldine! 

Far  on  Carah  Mona's  emera  d  plains 
Shrieks   and   sighs   were    blended    many 
hours, 

And  Ferraoy  in  fitfn!  strains 
AnswerV*  -''om  her  towers. 


1  Who  was  killed  in  Flaadera  in  1W2. 


*  Banshees. 


Youghal,  Keenalmoiiky,  Eemokilly, 

Mourn'd  in  concert,  and  their  piercing  keen 

Woke  to  wondering  life  the  stilly 
Glens  of  Inchiqueen. 

From  Loughmoe  to  yellow  Dunanore 
There  was  fear;  the  traders  of  Tralee 

Gather'd  up  their  golden  store, 
And  prepared  to  flee ; 

For,  in  ship  and  hall,  from  night  till  morning 
Show'd  the  first  faint  beamings  of  the  sun, 

O  * 

All  the  foreigners  heard  the  warning 
Of  the  dreaded  One ! 

"  This,"  they  spake,  "  portendeth  death  to  ?«, 

If  we  fly  not  swiftly  from  our  fate !" 
Self-conceited  idiots !  thus 

Ravingly  to  prate ! 
Not  for  base-born  higgling  Saxon  trucksters 

Ring  laments  like  those  by  shore  and  sea; 
Not  for  churls  with  souls  of  hucksters 

Waileth  our  Banshee ! 

For  the  high  Milesian  race  alone 

Ever  flows  the  music  of  her  woe ; 
For  slain  heir  to  bygone  throne, 

And  for  Chief  laid  low !        ' 
Hark ! . . .  .Again,  methinks,  I  hear  her  weep- 
ing 

Yonder !     Is  she  near  me  now,  as  then  ? 
Or  was  but  the  night-wind  sw«T|>iii<_j 

Down  the  hollow  glen  ? 


SARSFIELD. 
(FROM  THE  IRISH.) 

"  A  Phadrulg  Saireeal  I  elan  go  dti  tn  i 

PART  I. 

The  bard  apostrophizes  Sarzjield, 

FAREWELL,  O  Patrick  Sarsfield !     May  luck 

be  on  your  path ! 
Your  camp  is  broken  up — your  work  is 

marred  for  years — 
But  you  go  to  kindle  into  flame  the  King  of 

France's  wrath, 

Though  you  leave  sick  Erin  in  tears. 
Ohone!     Ullagone!' 


1  This  word  Is  a  corruption  of  the  phrase  Ok-ffbeoin,  literal- 
ly an  erU  noite,  viz.,  a  cry  raised  on  the  perputr-tion  of  MUM 
bad  action. 


382 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


And  invokes  blessings  on  him. 

May  the  white  sun  and  moon . . .  .rain  glory 

on  your  head, 

All  hero  as  you  are,  and  holy  Man  of  God ! 
To  you  the  Saxons  owe. . .  .a  many  an  hour 

of  dread 

In  the  land  you  have  often  trod. 
Ohone !     Ullasrone ! 


And  yet  more  blessings. 
The  Son  of  Mary  guard  you,  and  bless  you 

to  the  end  ! 
'Tis  alter'd  is  the  time   since  your  legions 

were  astir, 

When  at  Cullen  you  were  hail'd  as  the  Con- 
queror and  Friend, 
And  you  cross'd  the  river  near  Birr. 
Ohone !      Ullagone ! 

He  announces  his  design  of  revisiting  the 

North. 
I'll  journey  to  the  North,  over  mount,  moor, 

and  wave. 
'Twas  there  I  first  beheld,  drawn  up  in  file 

and  line, 
The  brilliant  Irish  hosts — they  were  bravest 

of  the  Brave, 

But,  alas !  they  scorn'd  to  combine ! 
Ohone !      Ullagone ! 

He  recounts  his  reminiscences  of  the  war. 

I  saw  the  royal  Boyne,   when   its   billows 

flash'd  with  blood. 
I  fought  at  Grana  Oge,  where  a  thousand 

marcachs1  fell. 
On  the  dark   empurpled  field  of  Aughrim, 

too,  I  stood, 

On  the  plain  by  Shanbally's  "Well. 
Ohone !     Ullagone ! 

He  gives  his  benison  to  Limerick. 

To  the  heroes  of  Limerick,  the  City  of  the 

Fights, 

Be  my  best  blessing  borne  on  the  wings 
of  the  air ! 


We  •  had  card-playing  there  o'er  our  camp- 
fires  at  night. 
And  the  Word  of  Life,  too,  and  prayer* 

And  bestows  his  malison  on  Londonderry. 

But,   for    you,    Londonderry,   may   Plague 

smite  and  slay 
Your  people  !     May  Ruin . . .  .desolate  you 

stone  by  stone ! 
Through   you  a  many  a  gallant  youth   lies 

coflvnless  to-day, 

With  the  winds  for  mourners  alone  ! 
Ohone !     Ullagone ! 

He  indulges  in  a  burst  of  sorrow  for  a  lost 
opportunity. 

I  clomb  the  high  hill  on  a  fair  summer  noon, 
And  saw  the  Saxon  Muster,  clad  in  armor 

blinding  bright, 
Oh,  Rage  withheld  my  hand,  or  gunsman 

and  dragoon 

Should  have  supped  with  Satan  that  night ! 
Ohone !      Ullagone ! 


PART  II. 

The  bard  mourns  for  the  valiant  Dead. 

How  many  a  noble  soldier,  how  many  a  cav- 
alier, 
Career'd  along  this  road ....  seven  fleeting 

weeks  ago, 
With  silver-hilted   sword,   with   matchlock 

and  with  spear, 

Who  now,   movrone,   lieth   low ! 
Ohone !     Ullagone ! 

And  pays  a  tribute  to  the  valor  of  one  of 

the  Living. 
All  hail  to  thee,  Ben  Hedir — But  ah,  on  thy 

brow 
I  see  a  limping  soldier,  who  battled  and 

who  bled 
Last  year  in  the  cause  of  the  Stuart,  though 

now 

The  worthy  is  begging  his  bread  ! 
Ohone !     Ullasrone ! 


'  Cavaliers,  or  horsemen :  the  marcach.  of  the  middle  ages, 
however,  held  the  rank  of  a  knight. 


*  I  italicise  those  lines  to  invite  attention  to  their  peculiarly. 
Irish  character. 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


383 


tie  deplores  the  loss  of  a  friend. 

And  Jerome,  oh  Jerome ! '  he  perish'd  in  the 

strife — 

His  head  it  was  spiked  on  a  halbert  so  high  ; 
His  colors  they  were  trampled.     He  had  no 

chance  of  life, 
If  the  Lord  God  himself  stood  by.* 

And  of  others,  dear  friends  also. 

Bnt  most,  oh,  my  woe  !  I  lament  and  lament 
For  the  ten  valiant  heroes  who  dwelt  nigh 

the  Nore, 
And  my  three  blessed  brothers  !     They  left 

me,  and  they  went 
To  the  wars — and  return'd  no  more ! 
Ohone !     Ullagone ! 

He  reverts  to  the  calamities  of  the  Irish. 

On  the  Bridge  of  the  Boyne  was  our  first 

overthrow — 

By  Slaney  the  next,  for  we  battled  with- 
out rest : 
The   third  was  at  Aughrim.     Oh,  Erin,  thy 

woe 

Is  a  sword  in  my  bleeding  breast ! 
Ohone  !     Ullagone ! 

He  describes  in  vivid  terms  the  conflagration 

of  the  house  at  Ballytemple. 
Oh !  the  roof  above  our  heads  it  was  barba- 
rously fired, 
While  the  black  Orange  guns. . .  .blazed 

and  bellow'd  around, — 
And     as  volley    follow'd    volley,    Colonel 

Mitchell  inquired 

Whether  Lucan'  still  stood  his  ground. 
Ohone !     Ullagone ! 

Finally,  however,  he  takes  a  more  hopeful 
view  of  the  prospects  of  his  country. 

But  O'Kelly  still  remains,  to  defy  and  to 
toil; 


1  One  of  King  ,Tamc«'8  generals. 

1  ••  Agut  ni  riabhfaghail  cleasda  aige  da  bhfatcltach  te  Dia 
nan."— This  U  one  of  those  peculiarly  powerful  forms  of  ex- 
•  •II,  to  which  I  find  no  parallel  except  in  the  Arabic  Ian- 
tenant.'. 

*  Lord  LIU-AD,  i.  e.  General  Sarsfleld. 


He  has  memories  that  Hett  won't  perm  it 

him  to  forget, 
And  a  sword  that  will  make  the  blue  blood 

flow  like  oil 

Upon   many  an   Aughrim   yet ! 
Ohone  !    Ullagone ! 

And  concludes  most  cheeringly. 

And  I  never  shall  believe  that  my  Father- 
land can  fall 
With  the  Burkes  and  the  Decies,  and  the 

son  of  Royal  James, 
And  Talbot   the  Captain,   and    SARSFIELD 

above  all, 
The  beloved  of  damsels  and  dames.4 


LAMENT 

OVEI     THIE  RUINS  OF  THE  ABBEY  OF  TEACH   XOLAOA.* 

[Translated  from  the  original  Irish  of  John  O'Callen,  a  natir* 
of  Cork,  who  died  in  the  year  1816.] 


"Oidhche  dhamh  go  doilg,  diibhach." 


I  WANDER'D  forth  at  night  alone, 
Along    the   dreary,    shingly,   billow-beaten 

shore ; 
Sadness  that  night  was  in  my  bosom's  core 

My  soul  and  strength  lay  prone. 


The  thin  wan  moon,  half  overveil'd 
By  clouds,  shed  her  funereal  beams  upon  the 

scene  ; 

While  in  low  tones,  with  many  a  pause  be- 
tween, 
The  mournful  night-wind  wail'd. 


Musing  of  Life,  and  Death,  and  Fate, 
I  slowly   paced    along,  heedless  of  aught 

around, 
Till  on  the  hill,  now,  alas !  ruin-crown'd, 

Lo !  the  old  Abbey-gate ! 


4  "  Agvt  Padraig  Sairteal,  gradh  ban  Etrionn !  "— Foe  • 
vivid  account  of  these  battles  of  the  Williamltc  ware,  sei-  Hit 
verty's  History  of  Ireland,  Fan-ell's  Illu?tr<iicil  Edition,  pp. 
HMU. 

•  Literally  "The  House  of  [St.]  Molaga,"  and  now  cal'ari 
Timoleagne. 


184 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


Dim  in  the  pallid  moonlight  stood, 
Crumbling  to  slow  decay,  the  remnant  of 

that  pile 
Within  which  dwelt  so  many  saints  erewhile 

In  loving  brotherhood ! 


The  memory  of  the  men  who  slept 
Under  those  desolate  walls — the  solitude — 

the  hour — 
Mine  own  lorn  mood  of  mind — all  join'd  to 

o'erpower 
My  spirit — and  I  wept ! 


In  yonder  Goshen  once — I  thought — 
Reign'd  Piety  and  Peace  :  Virtue  and  Truth 

were  there ; 
With  Charity  and  the  blessed  spirit  of  Prayer 

Was  each  fleet  moment  fraught ! 


There,  unity  of  Walk  and  Will 
Blent    hundreds   into  one ;  no  jealousies  or 

jars 
Troubled  their  placid  lives ;  their  fortunate 

stars 
Had  triumph'd  o'er  all  111 ! 


There,  knoll'd  each  morn  and  even 
The  bell  for  Matin  and  Vesper :  Mass  was 

said  or  sung. — 
From  the  bright  silver  censer  as  it  swung, 

Rose  balsamy  clouds  to  heaven. 


Through     the    round-cloister'd    cor- 
ridors 
A  many  a  midnight  hour,  bareheaded  and 

unshod, 
Walk'd   the   Gray  Friars,  beseeching  from 

their  GOD 
Peace  for  these  western  shores  ! 


The  weary  pilgrim,  bow'd  by  Age, 
Oft  found  asylum  there — found  welcome,  and 

found  wine. 
Oft  rested  in  its  halls  the  Paladine, 

The  Poet  and  the  Sage ! 


Alas !  alas !  how  dark  the  change  ! 
Now  round  its  mouldering  walls,  over  its 

pillars  low, 
The  grass  grows  rank,  the  yellow  gowans 

blow, 
Looking  so  sad  and  strange  ! 


Unsightly  stones  choke  up  its  wells ; 
The  owl  hoots  all  night  long  under  the  altar- 
stairs  ; 
The  fox  and  badger  make  their  darksome 

lairs 
In  its  deserted  cells  ! 


Tempest     and    Time — the    drifting 

sands — 
The  lightnings  and  the  rains — the  seas  that 

sweep  around 
These  hills  in  winter-nights,   have   awfully 

crown'd 
The  work  of  impious  hands  ! 


The   sheltering,  smooth-stoned,  mas- 
sive wall — 
The  noble  figured  roof — the  glossy  marbl« 

piers — 

The  monumental  shapes  of  elder  years — 
Where  are  they  ?     Vanish'd  all ! 

Rite,   incense,    chant,   prayer,   mass, 

have  ceased — 
All,  all  have  ceased !     Only  the  whitening 

bones  half  sunk 
In  the  earth  now  tell  that  ever  here  dwelt 

monk, 
Friar,  acolyte,  or  priest. 


Oh !  woe,  that  Wrong  should  triumph 

thus! 
Woe  that  the  olden  right,  the  rule  and  the 

renown 
Of  the  Pure-soul'd  and  Meek  should  thus 

go  down 
Before  the  Tyrannous ! 

Where  wert    thou,  Justice,  in    thai 
hour  ? 


POEMS  IJY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MAN(;.V\. 


385 


Where  was  thy  smiting  sword  ?     What  had 

those  good  men  done, 
That  thou  shouldst  tamely  see  them  trampled 

on 
By  brutal  England's  Power? 

Alas,  I  rave  ! ...  .If  Change  is  here, 
Is  it  not  o'er  the  land  ?     Is  it  not  too  in  me  ? 
Yes !  I  am  changed  even  more  than  what  I 
see. 

Now  is  my  last  goal  near! 

My  worn  limbs  fail — my  blood  moves 

cold — 
Dimness  is  on  mine  eyes — I  have  seen  my 

children  die ; 
They  lie  where  I  too  in  brief  space  shall  lie — 

Under  the  grassy  mould  ! 
****** 

I  turn'd  away,  as  toward  my  grave, 
And,  all  my  dark  way  homeward  by  the  At- 
lantic's verore, 

O       ' 

Resounded  in  mine  ears  like  to  a  diree 

o 

The  roaring  of  the  wave. 


THE  DAWNING  OF  THE  DAY. 

[The  following  song,  translated  from  the  Irish  of  O'Doran, 
refers  to  a  singular  atmospherical  phenomenon  said  to  be 
sometimes  observed  atBlackrock,  near  Dundalk,  at  daybreak, 
by  the  fishermen  of  that  locality.  Many  similar  narratives  arc 
to  be  met  with  in  the  poetry  of  almost  all  countries ;  but 
O'Doran  has  endeavored  to  give  the  legend  a  political  coloring, 
of  which,  I  apprehend,  readers  in  general  will  hardly  deem  it 
•usceptible.] 


"  Maidin  chiuin  dham  chois  bruach  na  tragha." 


'TwAS  a  balmy  summer  morning, 
Warm  and  early, 

Such  as  only  June  bestows ; 
Everywhere  the  earth  adorning, 
Dews  lay  pearly 

In  the  lily-bell  and  rose. 
Up  from  each  green-leafy  bosk  and  hollow 

Rose  the  blackbird's  pleasant  lay, 
And  the  soft  cuckoo  was  sure  to  follow. 

Twas  the  Dawning  of  the  Day ! 

Through  the  perfumed  air  the  golden 

Bees  flew  round  me ; 
Bright  fish  dazzled  from  the  sea, 
Till  medreamt  some  fairy  olden- 


World  spell  bound  me 

In  a  trance  of  witcherio 
Steeds  pranced  round  anon  witn  stateliest 

housing! 

Bearing  riders  prankt  in  rich  array, 
Like  flush'd  revellers  after  wine-carousings, 
'Twas  the  Dawning  of  the  Day! 

Then  a  strain  of  song  was  chanted, 

And  the  lightly- 
Floating  sea-nymphs  drew  anear. 
Then  again  the  shore  seem'd  haunted 

By  hosts  brightly 

Clad,  and  wielding  shield  and  spear ! 
Then    came    battle    shouts — an    onward 

rushing — 
Swords,   and  chariots,  and  a  phantom 

fray. 

Then  all  vanish'd;  the  warm   skies  wen- 
blushing 
In  the  Dawning  of  the  Day ! 

Cities  girt  with  glorious  gardens, 

Whose  immortal 
Habitants  in  robes  of  li^ht 

0 

Stood,  methought,  as  angel-wardens 

Nigh  each  portal, 
Now  arose  to  daze  my  sight. 
Eden  spread  around,  revived  and  bloom- 

ing; 

When . . .  lo !  as  I  gazed,  nil  pass'd  away 
...  I  saw  but  black  rocks  and  billows  loom- 
ing 
In  the  dim  chill  Dawn  of  Day  ! 


THE  DREAM  OF  JOHN  MACDONNELL. 
(TRANSLATED  FHOM  THE  IRISH.) 

[John  MacDonncll,  usually  called  MacDonnell  Claragh,  from 
his  family  residence,  was  a  native  of  the  county  of  Cork,  and 
may  be  classed  among  the  first  of  the  purely  Iri-li  \»>--\-  of  the 
last  century,  lie  was  born  in  1C91,  and  died  in  1754.  His 
poems  are  remarkable  for  their  energy,  their  piety  of  tone 
and  the  patriotic  spirit  they  everywhere  manifest.  The  follow- 
ing is  one  of  them,  and  deserves  to  be  regarded  as  a  very  curl- 
oue  topographical  "  Jacobltu  relic.11] 

I  LAY  in  unrest — old  thoughts  of  pain, 
That  I  struggled  in  vain  to  smother, 

Like  midnight  spectres  haunted  my  brain; 
Dark  fantasies  chased  each  other; 


386 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


"When,  lo  !  a  Figure — who  might  it  be  ? — 
A  tall  fair  figure  stood  near  me  ! 

Who  might  it  be  ?    An  unreal  Banshee  ? 
Or  an  angel  sent  to  cheer  me  ? 

Though  years  have  roll'd  since  then,  yet 
now 

My  memory  thrillingly  lingers 
On  her  awful  charms,  her  waxen  brow, 

Her  pale  translucent  fingers, 
Her  eyes  that  mirror'd  a  wonder-world, 

Her  mien  of  unearthly  mildness, 
And  her  waving  raven  tresses  that  curl'd 

To  the  ground  in  beautiful  wildness. 

O 

" "Whence  conies fc  thou,  Spirit?"   I  ask'd, 
methougnt, 

"Thou  art  riot  one  of  the  Banish'd?" 
Alas,  for  me !  she  answer'd  nought, 

But  rose  aloft  and  evanish'd  ; 
And  a  radiance,  like  to  a  glory,  beam'd 

In  the  light  she  left  behind  her. 
Long  time  I  wept,  and  at  last  medream'd 

I  left  my  shieling  to  find  her. 


And    first  I    turn'd    to    the    thunderous 
North, 

To  Gruagach's  mansion  kingly  ; 
Untouching  the  earth,  I  then  sped  forth 

To  Inver-lough,  and  the  shingly 
And  shining  strand  of  the  fishful  Erne, 

And  thence  to  Cruachan  the  golden, 
Of  whose  resplendent  palace  ye  learn 

So  many  a  marvel  olden  ! 


I  saw  the  Mourna's  billows  flow — 
I  pass'd  the  walls  of  Shenady, 

And  stood  in  the  hero-throng'd  Ardroe, 
Embosk'd  amid  greenwoods  shady ; 

And  visited  that  proud  pile  that  stands 
Above  the  Boyne's  broad  waters, 

Where  ^Engus  dwells  with  his  warrior- 
bands 

And  the  fairest  of  Ulster's  daughters. 


To    the  halls  of  MacLir,    to  Creevroe's 

height, 
To  Tara,  the  glory  of  Erin, 


To  the  fairy  palace  that  glances  bright 
On  the  peak  of  the  blue  Cnocfeerin, 

I  vainly  hied.     I  went  west  and  east — 
I  travelled  seaward  and  shoreward — 

But  thus  was  I  greeted   at  field  and  at 

feast — 
"  Thy  way  lies  onward  and  forward  !" 


At  last  I  reach'd.  I  wist  not  how, 

The  royal  towers  of  Ival, 
Which  under  the  cliff's  gigantic  brow, 

Still  rise  without  a  rival  ; 
And  here  were  Thorriond's  chieftains  all, 

With  armor,  and  swords,  and  lances, 
And  here  sweet  music  fill'd  the  hall, 

And  damsels  charm'd  with  dances. 


And  here,  at  length,  on  a  silvery  throne, 

Half  seated,  half  reclining, 
With  forehead  white  as  the  marble  stone, 

And  garments  so  starrily  shining, 
And  features  beyond  the  poet's  pen — 

The  sweetest,  saddest  features — 
Appear'd  before  me  once  agen, 

That  fairest  of  Living  Creatures! 


"  Draw  near,  O  mortal !"  she  said  with  a 
sigh, 

"  And  hear  my  mournful  story  ! 
The  Guardian-Spirit  of  ERIN  am  I, 

But  dimm'd  is  mine  ancient  glory 
My  priests  are  banish'd,  my  warriors  wear 

No  longer  Victory's  garland  ; 
And  my  Child,1  my  Son,  my  beloved  Heir. 

Is  an  exile  in  a  far  land  !  " 


I  heard  no  more — I  saw  no  more — 

The  bans  of  slumber  were  broken  ; 
And  palace  and  hero,  and  river  and  shore, 

Had  vanish'd,  and  left  no  token. 
Dissolved  was  the  spell  that  had  bound 
my  will 

And  my  fancy  thus  for  a  season  ; 
But  a  sorrow  therefore  hangs  o'er  me  still, 

Despite  of  the  teachings  of  Reason ! 


>  Charles  Stuart. 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAK. 


387 


THE  SORROWS  OF  INNISFAIL. 
(FROM  THE  IRISH  OF  GEOFFRET  KEATING.) 


"  Om  tgeel  air  ard-mhagh  Fail  ni  chodlann  oldhche." 

TII BOUGH  the  long  drear  night  I  lie  awake, 

for  the  sorrows  of  Innisfail. 
My  bleeding  heart  is  ready  to  break  ;  I  can- 
not but  weep  and  wail. 
Oh,  shame  and  grief  and  wonder!  her  sons 

crouch  lowly  under 
The  footstool  of  the  paltriest  foe 
That  ever  yet  hath  wrought  them  woe  ! 

How  long,  O  Mother  of  Light  and  Song,  how 

long  will  they  fail  to  see 
That  men  must  be  bold,  no  less  than  strong, 

if  they  truly  will  to  be  free  ? 
They  sit  but  in  silent  sadness,  while  wrongs 

that  should  rouse  them  to  madness, 
Wrongs  that  might  wake  the  very  Dead, 
Are  piled  on  thy  devoted  head ! 

Thy  castles,  thy  towers,  thy  palaces  proud, 

thy  stately  mansions  all, 
Are  held  by  the  knaves  who  cross'd  the  waves 

to  lord  it  in  Brian's  hall. 
Britannia,  alas !  is  portress  in  Cobhthach's 

Golden  Fortress, 

And  Ulster's  and  Momonia's  lands 
Are  in  the  Robber-stranger's  hands. 

The  tribe  of  Eogan  is  worn  with  woe ;  the 

O'Donnel  reigns  no  more ; 
O'Neill's   remains   lie   mouldering   low,   on 

Italy's  far-off  shore ; 
And  the  youths  of  the  Pleasant  Valley  are 

scatter'd  and  cannot  rally, 
While  foreign  Despotism  unfurls 
Tts  flag  'mid  hordes  of  base-born  churls. 

'1  he  chieftains  of  Naas  were  valorous  lords, 

but  their  valor  was  c-rushM  by  Craft — 

They  fell  beneath  Envy's  butcherly  dagger, 

and  Calumny's  poison'd  shaft. 
A  few  of  their  mighty  legions  yet  languish 

in  alien  regions, 

But  most  of  them,  the  Frank,  the  Free, 
Were  slain  through  Saxon  perfidie! 


Oh  !  lived  the  Princes  of  Ainy's  plains,  and 

the  heroes  of  green  Domgole, 
And  the  chiefs  of  the  Mauige,  we  still  might 

hope  to  baffle  our  doom  and  dole. 
Well  then  might  the  dastards  shiver  who 

herd  by  the  blue  Bride  river, 
But  ah  !  those  great  and  glorious  men 
Shall  draw  no  glaive  on  Earth  agen  ! 

All-powerful  GOD  !  look  down  on  the  tribes 

who  mourn  throughout  the  land, 
And  raise  them  some  deliverer  up,  of  a  strong 

and  smiting  hand  ! 
Oh  !  suffer  them  not  to  perish,  the  race  Tho» 

wert  wont  to  cherish, 
But  soon  avenge  their  fathers'  graves, 
And  burst  the  bonds  that  keep  them  slavesi 


THE  TESTAMENT  OF  CATHAEIR  MOR. 

[One  of  the  most  interesting  archaeological  relics  connected 
wkh  Irish  literature  is  unquestionably  the  Testament  of  Cath- 
aeir  Mor,  King  of  Ireland  in  the  second  century.  (Haverty> 
History  of  Ireland,  Farrell's  Illustrated  Edition,  p.  37-9.)  It 
is  a  document  whose  general  authenticity  is  established  l>e- 
yond  question,  though  some  doubt  exists  as  to  whether  it  was 
originally  penned  in  the  precise  form  in  which  it  has  come 
down  to  modern  times.  Mention  of  it  is  made  by  many  writers 
on  Irish  history,  and  among  others,  by  O'Flaherty  in  his 
Ogygia—  (Part  III.,  c.  59).  But  in'the  LEABHAK  NA  O-CEAKT, 
or,  The  Book  of  Rights,  now  for  the  first  time  edited,  with 
Translation  and  notes,  by  Mr.  O'Donovan,  for  the  CKLTIC  SO- 
CIETY, we  have  it  entire.  The  learned  editor  is  of  opinion 
that  "  it  was  drawn  up  in  its  present  form  some  centuries 
after  the  death  of  Cathaeir  Mor.  when  the  race  of  his  more 
illustrious  sous  had  definite  territories  in  Leinster."  Be  the 
fact  as  it  may,  the  document  is  certainly  one  of  those  charac- 
teristic remains  of  an  earlier  age  which  most  markedly  bear 
tho  stamp  of  the  peculiarities  that  distinguish  native  Irish 
literary  productions.] 

3otrobnction. 

HERE   is  THE  WILL  OF  CATHAEIR  M6&, 

GOD  REST  HIM. 
AMONG  his  heirs  he  divided  his  store, 

His  treasures  and  lands, 

And,  first,  laying  hands 
On  his  son  Ross  Faly,  he  bless'd  him. 


"fUn  Sovereign  JJoujcr,  my  nobleness, 

My  wealth,  my  strength  to  curse  and  blt-aa, 

My  royal  privilege  of  protection, 

I  leave  to  the  son  of  my  best  affection, 

Ross  FALY,  Ross  of  the  Rii 

Worthy  descendant  of  Ireland's  Kings  . 

To  serve  as  memorials  of  succession 


S88 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MAXGAX. 


For  all  who  yet  shall  claim  their  possession 

In  after  ages. 
Clement  and  noble  and  bold 

Is  Ross,  my  son. 

Then,  let  him  not  hoard  up  silver  and  gold, 

But  give  unto  all  fair  measure  of  wages. 
Victorious  in  battle  lie  ever  hath  been; 

He  therefore  shall  yield  the  green 
And  glorious  plains  of  Tara  to  none, 
No,  not  to  his  brothers  ! 
Yet  these  shall  he  aid 
When  attack'd  or  bctray'd. 
This  blessing  of  mine  shall  outlast  the  tomb, 

O  ' 

And  live  till  the  Day  of  Doom, 

Telling  and  telling  daily, 
And  a  prosperous  man  beyond  all  others 
Shall  prove  Ross  Faly  !" 

Then  he  gave  him  ten  shields,  and  ten  rings, 

and  ten  swords, 
Aud  ten  drinking-horns ;  and  he  spake  him 

those  words. 

"Brightly  shall  shine  the  glory, 
0  Ross,  of  thy  sons  and  heirs, 
Never  shall  flourish  in  story 

Such  heroes  as  they  and  theirs  !" 

Then,  laying  his  royal  hand  on  the  head 
<Df  his  good  son,  DARBY/  he  bless'd  him 

and  said : — 

"  XHj}  valor,   my  daring,    my    mar- 
tial courage, 

My  skill  in  the  tield,  I  leave  to  DAREY, 

That  lie  be  a  guiding  Torch  and  starry 

Light  and  Lamp  to  the  hosts  of  our  age. 

A  hero  to  sway,  to  lead  and  command, 

Shall  be  every  son  of  his  tribes  in  the 

land ! 
O,  DARRY,  with  boldness  and  power 

Sit  thou  on  the  frontier  of  Tuath  Lann,* 
And  ravage  the  lands  of  Deas  Ghower.* 

Accept  no  gifts  for  thy  protection 

From  woman  or  man. 
So  shall  heaven  assuredly  bless 
Thy  many  daughters  with  fruitfulness, 


And  none  shall  stand  above  thee, — 
For  I,  thy  sire,  who  love  thee 

With  deep  and  warm  affection, 
I  prophesy  imto  thee  all  success 

Over  the  green  battalions 

Of  the  redoubtable  Galions."4 

And  he  gave  him,  thereon,  as  memorials  and 

meeds, 
Eight    bondsmen,   eight    handmaids,    eight 

cups,  and  eight  steeds. 

THE  noble  Monarch  of  Erin's  men 
Spake  thus  to  the  young  Prince  Brassal, 

then  : — 
"illi)  Sea,  with    all    its   wealth    ot 

streams, 

I  leave  to  my  sweetly-speaking  BRASSAL, 
To  serve  and  to  succor  him  as  a  vassal — 
And  the  lands  whereon  the  bright  sun 

beams 
Around  the  waves  of  Amero-in's  Bav* 

O  »• 

As  parcell'd  out  in  the  ancient  day : 
By  free  men  through  a  long,  long  time 
Shall  this  thy  heritage  be  enjoy'd — 
But  the  chieftaincy  shall  at  last  be 

destroy'd, 

Because  of  a  Prince's  crime. 
And  though  others  again  shall  regain  it, 
Yet  Heaven  shall  not  bless  it, 
For  power  shall  oppress  it, 
And  Weakness  and  Baseness  shall  stain 

it!" 
And  he  gave  him  six  ships,  and  six  steeds, 

and  six  shields, 

Six  mantles  and  six  coats  of  steel — 
And  the  six  royal  oxen  that  wrought  in  his 

fields, 

These  gave  he  to  Brassel  the  Prince  for 
his  weal. 

THEN  to  Catach  he  spake  : — 

"  illn  borbcr  lanbs 
Thou,  CATACH,  shalt  take, 
But  ere  long  they  shall  pass  from  thy  hands, 

And  by  thee  shall  none 
Be  ever  begotten,  daughter  or  son  !" 


BarracJi,.     Haverty's   Ireland  (Farrell's  edition), 

1  Tuath  Laighean,  viz.  North  Leinster. 
*  Dtas  Ghabhair,  viz.  South  Leinster. 


4  GaUians,  an  ancient  designation,  according  to  O'Dono 
van,  of  the  Laighnigh  or  Leinstermen. 

*  Inbhear  Aimherghin,  originally  the  estuary  of  the  Black 
water,  and  so  called  from  Aimherghin,  one  of  the  sons  of  Mi 
leBius,  to  whom  it  was  apportioned  by  lot. 


POEMS  J5V  JAMES  CLARENCE  MAXOAX. 


QTo  fcurghns  tuascnn  spake  IK-  thus: — 

"Thou  FEAIKJIIirs,  also,  art  one  of  us, 
But  over-simple  in  all  thy  ways, 

And  babblest  much  of  thy  childish  days. 
For  thee  have  I  nought,  but  if  lands  may  be 
bought 

Or  won  hereafter  by  sword  or  lance, 
Of  those,  perchance, 

I  may  leave  thee  a  part, 

All  simple  babbler  and  boy  as  thou  art !" 

Youxr,    Fearghus,   there-fore,    was   left   be- 

reaven, 
And  thus  the  Monarch  spake  to  CKKEVEN  — 

"  ®o  mn  bom'sl)  hero,  my  gentle  CKKEVEN, 

Who  loveth  in  Summer,  at  morn  and  even, 
To  snare  the  songful  birds  of  the  field, 
But  shunneth  to  look  on  spear  and  shield, 

I  have  little  to  give  of  all  that  I  share. 

His  fame  shall  fail,  his  battles  be  rare. 

And  of  all  the  Kings  that  shall  wear  his 
crown 

But  one  alone  shall  win  renown."  ' 

And  he  gave  him  six  cloaks,  and  six  cups, 

and  seven  steeds, 
And  six  harness'd  oxen,  all  fresh  from  the 

meads. 

BUT  on  Aenghus  Nic,  a  younger  child, 
Begotten  in  crime  and  born  in  woe, 

The  father  frown'd,  as  on  one  defiled, 

And  with  louring  brow  he  spake  him  so : — 

"  (Eo  Nic,  my  son,  that  base-born  youth, 
Shall  nought  be  given  of  land  or  gold  ; 
He  may  be  great,  and  good,  and  bold, 
But  his  birth  is  an  agony  all  untold, 
Which  gnaweth  him  like  a  serpent's  tooth. 
I  am  no  donor 

To  him  or  his  race — 
His  birth  was  dishonor; 
His  life  is  disgrace  !" 

AND  thus  he  spake  to  EOCHY  TIMIX, 
Deeming  him  tit  but  to  herd  with  women : — 

"  tDeak  son  of  mine,  thou  shalt  not  gain 
Waste  or  water,  valley  or  plain. 


1  The  text  adds  :  i.  e.  Colam  mac  Criomfithainn  ;  but  O'Don- 
»»»n  conjectnreH  that  thin  is  a  mere  scholium  of  some  scribe. 


From  thee  shall  none  descend  save  craven?, 
Sons  of  sluggish  sires  and  mothers, 

Who  shall  live  and  die, 
But  give  no  corpses  to  the  ravens  ! 

Mine  ill  thought  and  mine  evil  eye* 
On  thee  beyond  thy  brothers 
Shall  ever,  ever  lie  !" 

AXD  to  Oilioll  Cadach  his  words  were  th« 

"  CD  (Dilioll,  great  in  coming  years 
Shall  be  thy  fame  among  friends  and  foes 
As  the  first  of  llrity/Htid/ts'  and  Hospita- 
llers ! 
But  neither  noble  nor  warlike 

Shall  show  thy  renownless  dwelling ; 
Nevertheless 

Thou  shalt  daxxle  at  chess, 
Therein  supremely  excelling 
And  shining  like  somewhat  starlike  !" 

And  his  chess-board,  therefore,  and  chess- 
men eke, 
He  gave  to  Oilioll  Cadach  the  Meek. 

Now  Fiacha, — youngest  son  was  he, — 
Stood  up  by  the  bed. . .  .of  his  father, 

who  said, 

The  while,  caressing 
Him  tenderly : — 

"  My  son  !  I  have  only  for  thee  my  blessing, 
And  nought  beside — 
Hadst  best  abide 

With  thy  brothers  a  time,  as  thine  years  are 
r» 


Then  Fiacha  wept,  with  a  sorrowful  mien; 
So,  Cathaeir   spake,  to   encourage  him 

g*ttf, 

With  cheerful  speech — 
"  Abide  one  month  with  thy  brethren  each, 
And  aeven  years  long  with  my  son,  Ross  I" 
Do  this,  and  thy  sire,  in  sincerity, 
Prophesies  unto  thee   fame   and   pron- 
perity." 

A \i>  further  he  spake,  as  on«  inspired  : — 
"  A  Chieftain  nourishing,  feared  and  admired, 
Shall  Fiacha  prove  ! 


*  In  the  original—  "Mo  fair  tl  i 
weakness,  my  curee." 

•  1'ubllc  victuallers. 


Uu-rmlly,  "  My 


390 


POEMS  BY  JAMES   CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


The  gifted  Man  from  the  boiling  Berve.1 
Him  shall  his  brothers'  clansmen  serve. 
His  forts  shall  be  Aillin  and  proud  Almain, 

He  shall  reign  in  Carman  and  Allen  ;  * 
The  highest  renown  shall  his  palaces  gain 

When  others  have  crumbled  and  fallen. 
His  power  shall  broaden  and  lengthen, 

And  never  know  damage  or  loss ; 
The  impregnable  Naas  he  shall  strengthen, 

And  govern  in  Ailbhe  and  Arriged  Ross. 
Yes  !  O  Fiacha,  Foe  of  strangers, 
This  shall  be  thy  lot ! 
And  thou  shalt  pilot 

LaJhrann  and  Leeven  '  with  steady  and  even 
Heart  and  arm  through  storm  and  dangers ! 

O  O 

Overthrown  by  thy  mighty  hand 

Shall  the  Lords  of  Tara  lie. 
And  Taillte's 4  fair,  the  first  in  the  land, 

Thou,  son,  shalt  magnify ; 
And  many  a  country  thou  yet  shalt  bring 
TQ  own  thy  rule  as  Ceann  and  King. 
The  blessing  I  give  thee  shall  rest 
On  thee  and  thy  seed 

While  Time  shall  endure, 
Thou  grandson  of  Fiacha  the  Blest ! 
It  is  barely  thy  meed, 

For  thy  soul  is  childlike  and  pure  !" 

Here  ends  the  Will  of  Cathaeir  Mor,  who  was 
Kjng  of  Ireland. 


RURY  AND  DARVORGILLA. 

(FROM  THE  IRISH.) 

[Ruaghrt,  Prince  of  Oriel,  after  an  absence  of  two  days  and 
nights  from  his  own  territories  on  a  hunting  expedition,  sud- 
denly recollect*  that  he  has  forgotten  his  wedding-day.  He 
despairs  of  forgiveness  from  the  bride  whom  he  appears  to 
have  slighted.  Dearbhorgilla,  daughter  of  Prince  Cairtre,  but 
would  scorn  her  too  much  to  wed  her  if  she  could  forgive  him. 
He  accordingly  prepares  for  battle  with  her  and  her  father,  but 
unfortunately  intrusts  the  command  of  his  forces  to  one  of  his 
most  aged  Ceanns  or  Captains.  He  is  probably  incited  to  the 
selection  of  this  chieftain  by  a  wish  to  avoid  provoking  hostili- 
ties, which,  however,  if  they  occur,  he  will  meet  by  defiance 
and  conflict ;  but  his  choice  proves  to  have  been  a  fatal  one. 
His  Ceann  is  seized  with  a  strange  feeling  of  fear  in  the  midst 
of  the  fray ;  and  this,  being  communicated  to  his  troops,  en- 
larges into  a  panic,  and  Ruaghri's  followers  are  slaughtered. 
Ruaghri  himself  arrives  next  day  on  the  battle-plain,  and,  per- 
ceiving the  result  of  the  contest,  stabs  himself  to  the  heart. 
Dearbhorgilia  witnesses  this  sad  catastrophe  from  a  distance, 


1  Bearblia,  viz.,  the  river  Barrow. 

»  The  localities  mentioned  here  were  chiefly  residences  of 
the  ancient  kings  of  Leinster. 
*  Forts  upon  the  eastern  coasts  of  Ireland. 
4  TeuUte,  now  Teltown,  a  village  between  Kella  and  Navan 


and,  rushing  toward  the  scene  of  it,  clasps  her  lover  in  hei 
arms ;  but  her  stern  father,  following,  tears  her  away  from  the 
bleeding  corpse,  and  has  her  cast  in  his  wrath,  it  is  supposed, 
into  one  of  the  dungeons  of  his  castle.  But  of  her  fate  nothing 
certain  is  known  afterward ;  though,  from  subsequent  cir- 
cumstances, it  is  conjectured  than  she  perished,  the  victim  of 
her  lover's  thoughtlessness  and  her  father's  tyranny.] 

KNOW  ye  the  tale  of  the  Prince  of  Oriel, 
Of  Rury,  last  of  his  line  of  kings  ? 

I  pen  it  here  as  a  sad  memorial 

Of  how  much  woe  reckless  folly  brings. 

Of  a  time  that  Rury  rode  woodwards,  clothed 
In  silk  and  gold  on  a  hunting  chase, 

He  thought  like  thunder6  on  his  betroth'd, 
And  with  clinch'd  hand  he  smote  his  face. 

"  Foreer  f*  Mobhron!"  Princess  Darvonnlla ! 

O 

Forgive  she  will  not  a  slight  like  this; 
But  could  she,  dared  she,  I  should  be  still  a 
Base  wretch  to  wed  her  for  heaven's  best 
bliss ! 

"  Foreer  !    Foreer  !   Princess  Darvorgilla ! 

She  has  four  hundred  young  bowmen  bold  [ 
But  I — I  love  her,  and  would  not  spill  a 

Drop  of  their  blood  for  ten  torques'  of  gold. 


"  Still,  woe  to  all  who  provoke  to  slaughter ! 

I  count  as  nought,  weigh'd  with  fame  like 

mine, 
The  birth  and  beauty  of  Cairtre's  daughter ; 

So,  judge  the  sword  between  line  and  line ! 

"  Thou,  therefore,  Calbhach,"  go  call  a  mus- 
ter, 

And  wind  the  bugle  by  fort  and  dun  ! 
When  stain  shall  tarnish  our  house's  lustre, 

Then  sets  in  darkness  the  noon-day  sun  !" 

But  Calbhach  answer'd,  "  Light  need  to  do 
so ! 

Behold  the  noblest  of  hero's  here ! 
What  foe  confronts  us,  I  reck  not  whoso, 

Shall  fly  before  us  like  hunted  deer !" 


*H-saoilse  mar  teoirneacfi;  bethought  like  thunder;  i.  t 
the  thought  came  on  him  like  a  thunderbolt. 

•  Alas ! 

T  Pronounced  Mo  vrone,  and  means  My  grief  1 
8  Royal  neck-ornaments. 

•  Calbhach,— proper  name  of  a  man.— derived  from  Calb, 
bald-pated. 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


Spake    liury    then :   "  Calbhach,     as    thou 
wiliest ! 

But  see,  old  man,  there  be  brief  delay — 
For  this  chill  parle  is  of  all  things  dullest, 

And  my  fleet  courser  must  now  away  ! 

"  Yet,  though  thou  march  with  thy  legions 

townwards, 
Well   arm'd  for    ambush  or  treacherous 

fray, 
Still   show  they   point   their  bare  weapons 

downwards, 
As  those  of  warriors  averse  to  slay  !" 

Now,  when   the  clansmen  were  arm'd  and 
mounted, 

The  aged  Calbhach  gave  way  to  fears  ; 
For,  foot  and  horseman,  they  barely  counted 

A  hundred  cross-bows  and  forty  spears. 

And  thus  exclaim'd  he :  "  My  soul  is  shaken  ! 

We  die  the  death,  not  of  men  but  slaves  ; 
We  sleep  the  sleep  from  which  none  awaken, 

And  scorn  shall  point  at  our  tombless 
graves ! " 

Then    out    sp^ke    Fergal :  "  A    charge    so 

weighty 

As  this,  O  Rury,  thou  shouldst  not  throw 
On  a  drivelling  dotard  of  eight-and-eighty, 
Whose    arm    is    nerveless   for   spear    or 
bow ! " 

But  Rury  answer'd :  "  Away  !      To-morrow 

Myself  will  stand  in  Traghvally1  town  ; 
But,  come  what  may  come,  this  day  I  bor- 
row 

To  hunt  through  Glafna  the  brown  deer 
down  !' 

So,  through  the  nignt,  unto  gray  Traghvally, 
The  feeble  Ceann  led  his  hosts  along  ; 

But,  faint  and  heart-sore,  they  could  not  rally, 
So  deeply  Rury  had  wrought  them  wrong. 

Now,  when  the  Princess  beheld  advancing 
Her  lover's   troops  with   their   arms    re- 
versed, 

In  lieu  of  broadswords  and  chargers  prancing, 
She  felt  her  heart's  hopes  were  dead  and 
hearsed. 

>  Dnndalk. 


And  on  her  knees  to  her  ireful  father 
She  pray'd :  "  O  father,  let  this  pass  by ; 

War  not  against  the  brave  Rury  !  Rather 
Pierce  this  fond  bosom  and  let  me  die !" 

But  Cairtre  rose  in  volcanic  fury, 
And  so  he  spake  :  "  By  the  might  of  God; 

1  hold  no  terms  with  this  craven  Rury 
Till  he  or  I  lie  below  the  sod  ! 

"Thou  shameless   child!      Thou,  alike  un- 
worthy 

Of  him,  thy  father,  who  speaks  thee  thus, 
And  her,  my  Mhearb,*  who  in  sorrow  bore 

thee; 
Wilt  thou  dishonor  thyself  and  us  ? 

"  Behold  !  I  march  with  my  serried  bowmen 
— Four   hundred    thine    and    a   thousand 
mine  ; 

I  march  to  crush  these  degraded  foemen 
Who  gorge  the  ravens  ere  day  decline  !" 

Meet  now  both  armies  in  mortal  struggle, 
The  spears  are  shiver'd,  the  javelins  fly 

But,  what  strange  terror,  what  mental  juggle, 
Be  those  that  speak  out  of  Calbhach's  eye  ? 

It  is — it  must  be,  some  spell  Satanic, 
That  masters  him  and  his  gallant  host. 

Woe,  woe  the  day  !     An  inglorious  panic 
O'erpowers  the  legions — and  all  is  lost ! 

Woe,  woe  that  day,  and -that  hour  of  car 

nage! 

Too  well  they  witness  to  Fergal's  truth  ! 
Too  well  in  bloodiest  appeal  they  warn  Age 
Not  lightly  thus  to  match  swords  with 
Youth ! 

When  Rury  reach'd,  in  the  red  of  morning, 
The  battle-ground,  it  was  he  who  felt 

The  dreadful  weight  of  this  ghastly  warning, 
And  what  a  blow  had  o'ernight  been  dealt  1 

So,  glancing  round  him,  and  sadly  groaning, 
He  pierced  his  breast  with  his  noble  blade ; 

Thus  all  too  mournfully  mis-atoning 
For  that  black  ruin  his  word  had  made. 
•  Martha. 


392 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


But  hear  ye  further  !    When  Cairtre's  daugh- 
ter 

Saw  what  a  fate  had  o'erta'en  her  Brave, 
Her  eyes  became  as  twin  founts  of  water, 

Her  heart  again  as  a  darker  grave. 

Clasp  now  thy  lover,  unhappy  maiden  ! 

But,  see !  thy  sire  tears  thine  arms  away  ! 
And  in  a  dungeon,  all  anguish  laden, 

Shalt  thou  be  cast  ere  the  shut  of  day. 

But  what  shall  be  in  the  sad  years  coming 
Thy  doom  ?   I  know  not,  but  guess  too  well 

That  sunlight  never  shall  trace  thee  roaming 
Ayond  the  gloom  of  thy  sunken  cell ! 

This  is  the  tale  of  the  Prince  of  Oriel 

And  Darvorgilla,  both  sprung  of  Kings  ! 

I  trace  it  here  as  a  dark  memorial 

Of  how  much  woe  thoughtless  folly  brings. 


THE  EXPEDITION  AND  DEATH  OF  KING 
DATHY.1 

(FROM  THE  iiusn.) 

KING  DATHY  assembled  his  Druids  and  Sages, 
And  thus  he  spake  them :  "  Druids  and  Sages ! 

What  of  king  Dathy  ? 
What  is  revcal'd  in  Destiny's  pages 

Of  him  or  his  ?     Hath  he 
Aught  for  the  Future  to  dread  or  to  dree  ? 
Good  to  rejoice  in,  or  Evil  to  flee  ? 

Is  he  a  foe  of  the  Gall — 
Fitted  to  conquer  or  fated  to  fall  ?" 

And  Beirdra,  the  Druid,  made  answer  as  thus  : 

A  priest  of  a  hundred  years  was  he — 
"  Dathy  !  thy  fate  is  not  hidden  from  us  ! 

Hear  it  through  me  ! 
Thou  shalt  work  thine  own  will ! 

Thou  shalt  slay — thou  shalt  prey — 
And  be  conqueror  still ! 

Thee  the  Earth  shall  not  harm  ! 

Thee  we  charter  and  charm 

From  all  evil  and  ill ; 

Thee  the  laurel  shall  crown  ! 

Thee  the  wave  shall  not  drown  ! 


1  As  to  this  expedition  of  Dathy,  see  Haverty's  History  of 
rcland,  Farrell's  Edition,  p.  45. 


Thee  the  chain  shall  not  bind  ! 

Thee  the  spear  shall  not  find  ! 

Thee  the  sword  shall  not  slay  ! 

Thee  the  shaft  shall  not  pierce 
Thou,  therefore,  be  fearless  and  fierce, 
And  sail  with  thy  warriors  away 

To  the  lands  of  the  Gall, 

There  to  slaughter  and  sway, 

And  be  Victor  o'er  all !" 

So  Dathy  he  sail'd  away,  away, 

Over  the  deep  resounding  sen  ; 
Sail'd  with  his  hosts  in  armor  gray 

Over  the  deep  resounding  sea, 
Many  a  night  and  many  a  day  ; 

And  many  an  islet  conquer'J  lie — 
He  and  his  hosts  in  armor  gray. 

And  the  billow  drown'd  him  not, 

And  a  fetter  bound  him  not,    . 

And  the  blue  spear  found  him  not, 

And  the  red  sword  slew  him  not, 

And  the  swift  shaft  knew  him  not, 

And  the  foe  o'erthrew  aim  not. 
Till  one  bright  morn,  at  the  base 

Of  the  Alps,  in  rich  Ausonia's  regions, 
His  men  stood  marshall'd  face  to  face 

With  the  mighty  Roman  legions. 

Noble  foes  ! 
Christian  and  Heathen  stood  there  among 

those, 

Resolute  all  to  overcome, 
Or  die  for  the  Eagles  of  Ancient  Rome  ! 

When  behold  from  a  temple  anear 

Came  forth  an  aged  priest-like  man, 
Of  a  countenance  meek  and  clear, 

Who,  turning  to  Eire's  Ceann,4 
Spake  him  as  thus  :  "  King  Dathy,  hear ! 

Thee  would  I  warn  ! 
Retreat !  retire  !     Repent  in  time 

The  invader's  crime. 
Or  better  for   thee  thou  hadst  never  beea 

born  !" 
But  Dathy  replied:    "False  Nazarene! 

Dost  thou,  then,  menace  Dathy,  thou  ? 

And  dreamest  thou  that  he  will  bow 
To  one  unknown,  to  one  so  mean, 
So  powerless  as  a  priest  must  be  ? 
He  scorns  alike  thy  threats  and  thee ! 
On  !  on,"  my  men,  to  victory  !" 

*  Ceann— Head,  King. 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MAXGAX. 


393 


Ana  -vith  loud  shouts  for  Eire's  King, 
The  Irish  rush  to  meet  the  foe, 

And  faicnions  clash  and  bucklers  ring — 
When,  lo  ! 

Lo  !  a  mightv  earthquake's  shock  ! 

And  the  cleft  plains  reel  and  rock ; 

Clouds  of  darkness  pall  the  skies; 
Thunder  crashes, 
Lightning  flashes, 

And  in  an  instant  Dathy  lies 

On  the  earth  a  mass  of  blacken'd  ashes  ! 

Then  mournfully  and  dolefully, 
The  Irish  warriors  sail'd  away 
Over  the  deep  resounding  sea, 

Till,  wearily  and  mournfully, 

They  anchor'd  in  Eblana's  Bay. 

Thus  the  Seanachies '  and  Sages, 

Tell  this  tale  of  long-gone  ages. 


PRINCE  ALDFRID'S  ITINERARY 
THROUGH  IRELAND. 

(FROM  THE  IRISH.) 

[Amongst  the  Anglo-Saxon  students  resorting  to  Ireland, 
was  Prince  Aldfrid,  afterward  King  of  the  Northumbrian 
Saxons.  His  having  been  educated  there  about  tho  year  ti84, 
is  corroborated  by  venerable  Bcde  in  his  "  Life  of  St.  Cuth- 
bert."  The  o^ginal  poem,  of  which  this  is  a  translation,  at- 
tributed to  Alafrid,  is  still  extant  in  the  Irish  language.] 

I  FOUND  in  Innisfail  the  fair, 

In  Ireland,  while  in  exile  there, 

Women  of  worth,  both  grave  and  gay  men, 

Many  clerics  and  many  laymen. 

I  travell'd  its  fruitful  provinces  round, 
And  in  every  one  of  the  five  *  I  found, 
Alike  in  church  and  in  palace  hall, 
Abundant  apparel,  and  food  for  all. 

Gold  and  silver  I  found,  and  money, 
Plenty  of  wheat  and  plenty  of  honey  ; 
I  found  God's  people  rich  in  pity, 
Found  many  a  feast  and  many  a  city. 

I  also  found  in  Armagh,  the  splendid, 
Meekness,  wisdom,  and  prudence  blended, 
Fasting,  as  Christ  hath  recommended, 
And  noble  councillors  untranscended. 


1  Scanachies— historians. 

1  Yhe  two  Meaths  then  formed  a  dlminct  province. 


found  in  each  great  church  moreo'er, 
Whether  on  island  or  on  shore, 
Piety,  learning,  fond  affection, 
Holy  welcome  and  kind  protection. 

I  found  the  good  lay  monks  and  brothers 
Ever  beseeching  help  for  others, 
And  in  their  keeping  the  holy  word 
Pure  as  it  came  from  Jesus  the  Lord. 

I  found  in  Munster  unfetterM  of  any, 
Kings  and  queens,  and  poets  a  many — 
Poets  well  skill'd  in  music  and  measure, 
Prosperous  doings,  mirth  and  pleasure. 

I  found  in  Connaught  the  just,  redundance 
Of  riches,  milk  in  lavish  abundance  ; 
Hospitality,  vigor,  fame, 
In  Cruachan's '  land  of  heroic  name. 

I  found  in  the  country  of  Connall*  the  glorious 
Bravest  heroes,  ever  victorious ; 
Fair-complexion'd  men  and  warlike, 
Ireland's  lights,  the  high,  the  starlike  ! 

I  found  in  Ulster,  from  hill  to  glen, 
Hardy  warriors,  resolute  men  ; 
Beauty  that  bloom'd  when  youth  was  gone, 
And  strength  transmitted  from  sire  to  son. 

I  found  in  the  noble  district  of  Boyle 

(MS.  here  illegible.) 
Brehon's,*  Erenachs,  weapons  bright, 
And  horsemen  bold  and  sudden  in  fight, 

I  found  in  Leinster  the  smooth  and  sleek, 
From  Dublin  to  Slewmargy's  *  peak ; 
Flourishing  pastures,  valor,  health, 
Long-living  worthies,  commerce,  wealth. 


I  found  besides,  from  Ara  to  GU  n, 
In  the  broad  rich  country  of  Ossorie, 
Sweet  fruits,  good  laws  for  all  and  each, 
Great  chess-players,  men  of  truthful  speech. 


*  Cmachan,  or  Croghan,  was  the  name  of  the  royal  palace  of 
Connaughl. 

*  Tyrconnull,  the  present  Donegal. 

•  Brehon— a  law  Judge  ;  Erenach— a  ruler,  an  archdeacon. 

•  Slowmargy,  a  mountain  in  the  Queen'i  county,  near  tn« 
river  Barrow. 


394 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


I  found  in  Meath's  fair  principality, 
Virtue,  vigor,  and  hospitality ; 
Candor,  joyfulness,  bravery,  purity, 
Ireland's  bulwark  and  security. 

I  found  strict  morals  in  age  and  youth, 
I  found  historians  recording  truth  ; 
The  things  I  sing  of  in  verse  unsmooth, 
I  found  them  all — I  have  written  sooth.1 


KINKORA. 

(FROM  THE  IRISH.) 

[This  poem  is  ascribed  to  the  celebrated  poet  MacLiag,  the 
*ecretary  of  the  renowned  monarch  Brian  Bora,  who,  as  is  well 
known,  fell  at  the  battle  of  Clontarf,  in  1014,  and  the  subject 
of  it  is  a  lamentation  for  the  fallen  condition  of  Kinkora,  the 
palace  of  that  monarch,  consequent  on  his  death.  The  de- 
cease of  MacLiag  is  recorded  in  the  "Annals  of  the  Four  Mas- 
ters," as  having  taken  place  in  1015.  A  great  number  of  his 
poems  are  still  in  existence,  but  none  of  them  have  obtained 
a  popularity  so  widely  extended  as  his  "  Lament."  Kinkora 
(Ceann  Coradh,  i.  e.,  Head  of  the  Weir)  was  situated  on  the 
bank  of  the  Shannon :  its  site  is  occupied  by  the  present  town 
of  Killaloe,  but  no  vestiges  remain  of  the  fortress  and  palace 
of  Brian.  (See  Elaverty's  History  of  Ireland,  Parrell's  Edition, 
p.  132.) 

OH,  where,  Kinkora !  is  Brian  the  Great  ? 
And  where  is  the  beauty  that  once  was 

thine  ? 

Oh,  where  are  the  princes  and  nobles  that  sate 
At  the  feast  in  thy  halls,  and  drank  the 
red  wine ! 

Where,  O  Kinkora  ? 

Oh,  where,  Kinkora!  are  thy  valorous  lords? 
Oh,  whither,  thou   Hospitable !    are  they 

gone  ? 
Oh,  where  are  the  Dalcassians  of  the  golden 

swords  ? " 

And  where  are  the  warrioi's  Brian  led  on  ? 
Where,  O  Kinkora  ? 

And  where  is  Morrogh,  the  descendant  of 

kings ; 

The  defeater  of  a  hundred — the  daringly 
brave — 


1  "  Bede  assures  us  that  the  Irish  were  a  harmless  and  friend- 
ly people.  To  them  many  of  the  Angles  had  been  accustomed 
to  resort  in  search  of  knowledge,  and  on  all  occasions  had 
been  received  kindly  and  supported  gratuitously.  Aldfrid 
lived  in  spontaneous  exile  among  the  Scots  (Irish)  through  his 
desire  of  knowledge,  and  was  called  to  the  throne  of  North- 
umbria,  after  the  decease  of  his  brother  Egfrid,  in  685."  Lin 
fqrcf*  England,  vol.  1,  chap.  iii. 

^  Colg  n-or,  or  the  swords  of  Gold— i.  e.  of  the  Oold-hilted 
Swords. 


Who  set  but  slight  store  by  jewels  and  rings— 
Who  swam  down  the  torrent  and  laugh'd 
at  its  wave  ? 

Where,  0  Kinkora  ? 

And  where  is  Don'ogh,  King  Brian's  worthy 

son  ? 

And  where  is  Conaing,  the  beautiful  chief? 
And  Kian  and  Core  ?     Alas  !  they  are  gone ; 
They  have  left   me  this   night  alone  with 
my  grief! 

Left  me,  Kinkora  ! 

And  where  are  the  chiefs  with  whom  Brian 

went  forth, 
The   never-vanquish'd   sons  of   Erin   the 

brave, 
The  great  King  of  Onaght,  renown'd  for  his 

worth, 

And  the  hosts  of  Baskinn  from  the  western 
wave? 

Where,  O  Kinkora? 

Oh,  where  is  Duvlann   of  the  Swift-footed 

Steeds  ? 

And  where  is  Kian,who  was  son  of  Molloy  ? 
And  where  is  King  Lonergan,  the  fame  of 

whose  deeds 

In  the  red  battle-field  no  time  can  destroy  ? 
Where,  O  Kir.kora? 

And  where  is  that  youth  of  majestic  height, 
The    faith-keeping  Prince  of  the   Scots  ? 

Even  he, 
As  wide  as  his  fame  was,  as  great  as  was  his 

might, 
Was  tributary,  O  Kinkora,  to  thee  ! 

Thee,  O  Kinkora  ! 

They  are  gone,  those  heroes  of  royal  birth, 
Who  plunder' d   no   churches,  and  broke 

no  trust ; 

'Tis  weary  for  me  to  be  living  on  earth, 
When  they,  O  Kinkora,  lie  low  in  the  dust ! 
Low,  O  Kinkora  ! 

Oh,  never  again  will  Princes  appear, 

To  rival  the  Dalcassians8  of  the  Cleaving 
Swords ; 


1  JThe  Dalcassians  were  Brian's  body-guard. 


KING   BRIAN'  BEFORE  THE  BATTLE  OF  CLONTARF 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


395 


I  can  never  dream  of  meeting  afar  or  anear, 
In  the  east  or  the  west,  such  heroes  and 
lords ! 

Never,  Einkora ! 


Oh,  dear  are  the  images  my  memory  calls  up 

Of  Brian  Boru  ! — how  he  never  would  miss 

To  give  me,  at  the  banquet,  the  first  bright 

cup  ! 

Ah  !  why  did  he  heap  on  me  honor  like 
this? 

Why,  O  Kinkora? 


I  am  MacLiag,  and  my  home  is  on  the  Lake : 
Thither  often,  to  that  palace  whose  beauty 

is  fled, 
Came  Brian,  to  ask  me,  and  I  went  for  his 

sake  : 

Oh,  my  grief!  that  I  should  live,  and  Brian 
be  dead ! 

Dead,  O  Kinkora ! 


LAMENT  FOR  THE  PRINCES  OF  TYRONE 
AND  TYRCONNELL. 

(FKOM   THE  IHISH.) 

[This  is  an  Elegy  on  the  death  of  the  princes  of  Tyrone  and 
Tyrconnell,  who  having  fled  with  others  from  Ireland  in  the 
year  1607,  and  afterward  dying  at  Home  (O'Donnell  in  1608, 
O'Neill  In  1616.— Haverty's  Ireland.  Fan-ell's  Edition,  p.  459), 
were  interred  on  St.  Peter'?  Hill,  in  one  grave.  The  poem  is 
Ihe  production  of  O'Donnell's  bard,  Owen  Roe  Mac  an  Bhaird, 
or  Ward,  who  accompanied  the  family  in  their  exile,  and  is  ad- 
dressed to  Nuala,  O'Donnell's  sinter,  who  was  also  one  of  the 
fugitives.  As  the  circumstances  connected  with  the  flight  of 
the  Northern  Earls,  which  led  to  the  subsequent  confiscation 
of  the  six  Ulster  Counties  by  James  I.,  may  not  be  immediate- 
ly in  the  recollection  of  many  of  our  readers,  it  may  be  proper 
briefly  to  state,  that  it  was  caused  by  the  discovery  of  a  letter 
directed  to  Sir  William  Ussher,  Clerk  of  the  Council,  dropped 
in  the  Council-chamber  on  the  7th  of  May.  and  which  accused 
the  Northern  chieftains  generally  of  a  conspiracy  to  overthrow 
the  government.  The  charge  is  now  totally  disbelieved.  As 
an  Illustration  of  the  poem,  and  as  an  interesting  piece  of 
hitherto  unpublished  literature  In  itself,  we  extract  the  ac- 
count of  the  flight  as  recorded  in  the  Annals  of  the  Four  Mas- 
ters, and  translated  by  Mr.  O'Dnnovan :  "  Magulre  (Cucon- 
nanght)  and  Donogh,  son  of  Mahon,  who  was  son  of  the  Bishop 
O'Brien,  sailed  in  a  ship  to  Ireland,  and  put  in  at  the  harbor 
ofSwilly.  They  then  took  with!  hem  from  Ireland  She  Earl 
O'Neill  (Ilngh,  son  of  Fedoragh)  and  the  Earl  O'Domirll  (Rory, 
son  of  Hugh,  who  was  son  of  Magnus)  and  many  others  of  the 
cobles  of  the  province  of  Ulster.  These  are  the  persons  who 
went  with  O'Neill,  namely,  his  Connies*,  Catherina,  daughter 
ef  Magennls,  and  her  three  sons :  Hugh,  the  Baron,  John,  and 


Brian ;  Art  Oge,  son  of  Cormac,  who  was  son  of  the  Baron ; 
Ferdoragh,  son  of  Con,  who  wan  son  of  O'Neill:  Hugh  O«o, 
son  of  Brian,  who  was  son  of  Art  O'Neill ;  and  many  others  of 
his  most  intimate  friends.  These  were  they  who  went  with 
the  Earl  O'Donnell.  namely,  Caflcr,  hi*  brother,  with  hi*  sister 
Nuala  ;  Ilngh,  the  Earl's  child,  wanting  three  weeks  of  being 
one  year  old ;  Rose,  daughter  of  O'Doherty  and  wife  of  Caffcr, 
with  her  son  Hugh,  aged  two  years  and  three  months ;  hit 
(Rory's)  brother's  son  Donnell  Oge,  con  of  Dounel,  Naghtan. 
son  of  Calvach,  who  was  son  of  Donogh  Calrhrcach  O'Donnell, 
and  many  others  of  his  intimate  friends.  They  embarked  on 
the  festival  of  the  Holy  Cross  In  autumn.  This  was  a  dlstin 
gufshcd  company;  and  it  is  certain  that  the  sea  has  not  borne 
and  the  wind  has  not  wafted  in  modern  times  a  number  of  per- 
sons in  one  ship  more  eminent,  illustrious,  or  noble  in  point 
of  genealogy,  heroic  deed.*,  valor,  feats  of  arms,  and  brave 
achievements  than  they.  Would  that  God  had  but  permitted 
them  to  remain  In  their  patrimonial  Inheritances  until  the  chil- 
dren should  arrive  at  the  age  of  manhood  I  Woe  to  the  heart 
that  meditated,  woe  to  the  mind  that  conceived,  woe  to  the 
council  that  recommended  the  project  of  this  expedition,  with- 
out knowing  whether  they  should,  to  the  end  of  their  lives,  be 
able  to  return  to  their  native  principalities  or  patrimonies." 
The  Earl  of  Tyrone  was  the  illustrious  Hugh  O'Neill,  the  Irish 
leader  in  the  wars  against  Elizabeth.] 

O  WOMAN  of  the  Piercing  Wail, 

Who  mournest  o'er  yon  mound  of  clay 

With  sigh  and  groan, 
Would  God  thou  wert  among  the  Gael ! 
Thou  wouldst  not  then  from  day  to  day 

Weep  thus  alone. 

'Twere  long  before,  around  a  grave 
In  green  Tirconnell,  one  could  find 

This  loneliness; 

Near  where  Beann-Boirche's  banners  wave 
Such  grief  as  thine  could  ne'er  have  pined 
Compauionless. 

Beside  the  wave,  in  Donegal, 

In  Antrim's  glens,  or  fair  Dromore, 

Or  Killillee, 

Or  where  the  sunny  waters  fall, 
At  Assaroe,  near  Erna's  shore, 

This  could  not  be. 

On  Derry's  plains — in  rich  Drumclieff — 
Throughout  Armagh  the  Great,  renown'd 

O  ^ 

In  olden  years, 

No  day  could  pass  but  woman's  grief 
Would  rain  upon  the  burial-ground 
Fresh  floods  of  tears  ! 

Oh,  no  ! — from  Shannon,  Boyne,  and  Suir, 
From  high  Dunluce's  castle-walls, 

From  Lissadill, 
Would  flock  alike  both  rich  and  poor. 

One  wail  would  rise  from  Cruachan's  halls 

To  Tara's  hill ; 
And  some  would  come  from  Barrow-side, 


890 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


And  many  a  maid  would  leave  her  home 

On  Leitrim's  plains, 
And  by  melodious  Banna's  tide, 

And  by  the  Mourne  and  Erne,  to  come 
And  swell  thy  strains ! 

Oh,  horses'  hoofs  would  trample  down 
The  Mount  whereon  the  martyr-saint * 

Was  crucified. 

From  glen  and  hill,  from  plain  and  town, 
One  loud  lament,  one  thrilling  plaint, 

Would  echo  wide. 

There  would  not  soon  be  found,  I  ween, 
One  foot  of  ground  among  those  bands, 

For  museful  thought, 
So  many  shriekers  of  the  keen 2 

Would  cry  aloud,  and  clap  their  hands, 
All  woe-distraught ! 

Two  princes  of  the  line  of  Conn 
Sleep  in  their  cells  of  clay  beside 

O'Donnell  Roe: 

Three  royal  youths,  alas  !  are  gone, 
Who  lived  for  Erin's  weal,  but  died 

For  Erin's  woe ! 

Ah  !  could  the  men  of  Ireland  read 
The  names  these  noteless  burial-stones 

Display  to  view, 

Their  wounded  hearts  afresh  would  bleed, 
Their  tears  gush  forth  again,  their  groans 
Resound  anew  ! 


The  youths  whose  relics  moulder  here 

Were   sprung   from   Hugh,   high   Prince 

and  Lord 

Of  Aileach's  lands ; 
Thy  noble  brothers,  jxistly  dear, 
Thy  nephew,  long  to  be  deplored 

By  Ulster's  bands. 

Theirs  were  not  souls  wherein  dull  Time 
Could  domicile  Decay  or  house 

Decrepitude  ! 

They  pass'd  from  Earth  ere  Manhood's  prime, 
Ere  years  had  power  to  dim  their  brows 
Or  chill  their  blood. 


And  who  can  marvel  o'er  thy  grief, 
Or  who  can  blame  thy  flowing  tears, 

That  knows  their  source  ? 
O'Donnell,  Dtmnasava's  chief, 
Cut  off  amid  his  vernal  years, 

Lies  here  a  corse 
Beside  his  brother  Cathbar,  whom 
Tirconnell  of  the  Helmets  mourns 

In  deep  despair — 

For  valor,  truth,  and  comely  bloom, 
For  all  that  greatens  and  adorns, 
A  peerless  pair. 

Oh,  had  these  twain,  and  he,  the  third, 
The  Lord  of  Mourne,  O'Niall's  son, 

Their  mate  in  death — 
A  prince  in  look,  in  deed  and  word — 
Had  these  three  heroes  yielded  on 

The  field  their  breath, 
Oh,  had  they  fallen  on  Criffan's  plain, 
There  would  not  be  a  town  or  clan 

From  shore  to  sea, 

But  would  with  shrieks  bewail  the  Slain, 
Or  chant  aloud  the  exulting  rann* 
Of  jubilee ! 

|  When  high  the  shout  of  battle  rose, 

On    fields    where    Freedom's    torch    still 
burn'd 

Through  Erin's  gloom, 
If  one,  if  barely  one  of  those 

Were  slain,  all  Ulster  would  have  mourn'd 

The  hero's  doom  ! 

If  at  Athboy,  where  hosts  of  brave 

Ulidian  horsemen  sank  beneath 

The  shock  of  spears, 

Young  Hugh  O'Neill  had  found  a  grave, 
Long  must  the  north  have  wept  his  death 
With  heart-wrung  tears ! 


1  St.  Peter.  This  passage  is  not  exactly  a  blunder,  though 
at  first  it  may  seem  one  ;  the  poet  supposes  the  grave  itself 
transferred  to  Ireland,  and  he  naturally  includes  in  the  trans- 
ference the  whole  of  the  immediate  locality  around  the  grave. 
— TK. 

3  Keen  or  Caoine,  the  funeral -wail. 


If  on  the  day  of  Ballachmyre 

The  Lord  of  Mourne  had  met,  thus  young, 

A  warrior's  fate, 
In  vain  would  such  as  thou  desire 

To  mourn,  alone,  the  champion  sprung 

From  Niall  the  Great ! 
No  marvel  this — for  all  the  Dead, 
Ileap'd  on  the  field,  pile  over  pile, 
At  Mullach-brack, 


»  Song. 


POEMS  IIY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MAX<;.\N. 


397 


VvVre  scarce  an  eric1  for  his  liead, 
If  Death  had  stay'd  his  footsteps  while 
On  victory's  track ! 

If  on  the  Day  of  Hostages 
The  fruit  had  from  the  parent  bough 

Been  rudely  torn 

In  sight  of  Minister's  bands — MacNee's — 
Such  blow  the  blood  of  Conn,  I  trow, 

Could  ill  have  borne. 
If  on  the  day  of  Balloch-boy, 

Some  arm  had  lain,  by  foul  surprise, 

The  chieftain  low, 
Even  our  victorious  shout  of  joy 

Would  soon  give  place   to  rueful  cries 
And  groans  of  woe  ! 

If  on  the  day  the  Saxon  host 

Were  forced  to  fly — a  day  so  great 

For  Ashanee8 
The  Chief  had  been  untimely  lost, 

Our  conquering  troops  should  moderate 

Their  mirthful  glee. 
There  would  not  lack  on  Lifford's  day, 
From  Galway,  from  the  glens  of  Boyle, 

From  Limerick's  towers, 
A  marshall'd  file,  a  long  array, 
Of  mourners  to  bedew  the  soil 
With  tears  in  showers  ! 

[f  on  the  day  a  sterner  fate 
Compell'd  his  flight  from  Athenree, 

His  blood  had  flow'd, 
What  numbers  all  disconsolate 

Would  come  unask'd,  and  share  with  thee 

Affliction's  load  ! 
If  Derry's  crimson  field  had  seen 

His  life-blood  ofler'd  up,  though  'twere 

On  Victory's  shrine, 
A  thousand  cries  would  swell  the  keen, 
A  thousand  voices  of  despair 
Would  echo  thine  ! 

Oh,  had  the  fierce  Dalcassian  swarm 
That  bloody  night  on  Fergus'  banks 

But  slain  our  Chief, 
When  rose  his  camp  in  wild  alarm — 
How  would  the  triumph  of  his  ranks 

Be  dash'd  with  grief ! 
flow  would  the  troops  of  Murbach  mourn 


1  A  compensation  or  flue. 


*  Ballychannon. 


If  on  the  Curl<-w  Mountain?*'  day, 

Which  England  rued, 
Some  Saxon  hand  had  left  them  lorn, 
By  shedding  there,  amid  the  fray, 

Their  prince's  blood ! 

Red  would  have  been  our  warriors'  eyes 
Had  Roderick  found  on  Sligo's  field 

A  gory  grave, 

No  Northern  Chief  would  soon  arise 
So  sage  to  guide,  so  strong  to  shield, 

So  swift  to  save. 

Long  would  Leith-Cuinn  have  wept  if  Hugb 
Had  met  the  death  he  oft  had  dealt 

Among  the  foe ; 

But,  had  our  Roderick  fallen  too, 
All  Erin  must,  alas  !  have  felt 
The  deadly  blow  ! 

What  do  I  say  ?    Ah,  woe  is  me  ! 
Already  we  bewail  in  vain 

Their  fatal  fall  ! 

And  Erin,  once  the  Great  and  Free, 
Now  vainly  mourns  her  breakless  chaiu 

And  iron  thrall ! 

Then,  daughter  of  O'Donnell,  dry 
Thine  overflowing  eyes,  and  turn 

Thy  heart  aside, 
For  Adam's  race  is  born  to  die, 
And  sternly  the  sepulchral  urn 
Mocks  human  pride  ! 

Look  not,  nor  sigh,  for  earthly  throne, 
Nor  place  thy  trust  in  arm  of  clay, 

But  on  thy  knees 
Uplift  thy  soul  to  GOD  alone, 

For  all  things  go  their  destined  way 

As  He  decrees. 
Embrace  the  faithful  Crucifix, 

And  seek  the  path  of  pain  and  prayer 

Thy  Saviour  trod ; 
Nor  let  thy  spirit  intermix 

With  earthly  hope  and  worldly  care 
Its  groans  to  GOD  ! 

And  Thou,  O  mighty  Lord  !  whose  ways 
Arc  far  above  our  feeble  minds 

To  understand, 
Sustain  us  in  these  doleful  days, 

And  render  light  the  chain  that  binds 
Our  fallen  land  ! 


898 


POEMS  BY  JAMES   CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


Look  down  upon  our  dreary  state, 
And  through  the  ages  that  may  still 

Roll  sadly  on, 

Watch  Thou  o'er  hapless  Erin's  fate, 
And  shield  at  least  from  darker  ill 
The  blood  of  Conn  ! 

'  The  Saturday  before  the  flight,  the  Earl  of  Tyrone  was 
with  the  lord-deputy  at  Slane.  where  he  had  spoken  with  his 
lordship  of  his  journey  into  ERgland,  and  told  him  he  would 
be  there  about  the  beginning  of  Michaelmas  term,  according 
to  his  majesty's  directions.  He  took  leave  of  the  lord-deputy 
in  a  more  sad  and  passionate  manner  than  was  usual  with 
him.  From  thence  he  went  to  Mellifont  and  Garret  Moore's 
house,  wheie  he  wept  abundantly  when  he  took  his  leave,  giv- 
ing a  solemn  farewell  to  every  child  and  every  servant  in  the 
house,  which  made  them  all  marvel,  because  in  general  it  was 
not  his  manner  to  use  such  compliments.  On  Monday  he 
went  to  Dungarvan,  where  he  rested  two  whole  days,  and  on 
Wednesday  night,  they  say  he  travelled  all  night.  It  is  like- 
wise reported  that  the  countess,  his  wife,  being  exceedingly 
weary,  slipped  down  from  her  horse,  and  weeping,  said,  '  She 
could  go  no  further.'  Whereupon  the  earl  drew  his  sword, 
and  swore  a  great  oath  that '  he  would  kill  her  on  the  spot  if 
she  would  not  pass  on  with  him,  and  put  on  a  more  cheerful 
countenance.'  When  the  party,  which  consisted  (men,  wo- 
men, and  children)  of  fifty  or  sixty  persons,  arrived  at  Loch 
Foyle,  it  was  found  that  their  journey  had  not  been  so  secret 
but  that  the  governor  there  had  notice  of  it,  and  sent  to  invite 
Tyrone  and  his  son  to  dinner.  Their  haste,  however,  was 
such  that  they  accepted  not  his  courtesy,  but  hastened  on  to 
Rathmulla,  a  town  on  the  west  side  of  Lough  Swilly,  where 
the  Earl  Tyrconnell  and  his  company  met  with  them.  From 
thence  the  whole  party  embarked,  and,  landing  on  the  coast 
of  Normandy,  proceeded  through  France  to  Brussels.  Davies 
concludes  his  curious  narrative  with  a  few  pregnant  words, 
in  which  the  difficulties  that  England  had  to  contend  with  in 
conquering  Tyrone  are  thus  acknowledged  with  all  the  frank- 
ness of  a  generous  foe  :— '  As  for  us  that  are  here,'  he  says, 
'we  are  glad  to  see  the  day  wherein  the  countenance  and 
majesty  of  the  law  and  civil  government  hath  banished  Ty- 
rone out  of  Ireland,  which  the  best  army  in  Europe,  and  the 
expense  of  two  millions  of  sterling  pounds  had  not  been  able 
to  bring  to  pass.'  "—Moore's  Ireland. 


O'HUSSEY'S  ODE  TO  THE  MAGUIRE.1 

[O'Hussey,  the  last  hereditary  bard  of  the  great  sept  of  Ma- 
guire, of  Fermanagh,  who  nourished  about  1630,  possessed  a 
fine  genius.  He  commenced  his  vocation  when  quite  a  youth 
by  a  poem  celebrating  the  escape  of  the  famous  Hugh  Roe 
O'Donnell  from  Dublin  Castle,  in  1591,  into  which  he  hac 
been  treacherously  betrayed.  (Haverty's  History  of  Ireland, 
Farrell's  Edition,  p.  408.)  The  noble  ode  which  O'Husseyad 
dressed  to  Hugh  Maguire,  when  that  chief  had  gone  on  a  dan 
gerous  expedition,  in  the  depth  of  an  unusually  severe  winter 
is  as  interesting  an  example  of  the  devoted  affection  of  the 
bard  to  his  chief,  and  as  vivid  a  picture  of  intense  desolation 
as  could  be  well  conceived.] 

WHERE  is  my  Chief,  my  Master,  this  bleaL 

night,  mavrone! 
Oh,  cold,  cold,  miserably  cold  is  this  bleak 

night  for  Hugh, 


ts   showery,  arrowy,  speary  sleet  pierceth 

one  through  and  througt 
ierceth  one  to  the  very  bone  ! 
lolls  real  thunder  ?     Or  was  tha:  red,  livid 

light 
Only  a  meteor  ?   I  scarce  know ;  but  through 

the  midnight  dim 
The  pitiless  ice-wind  streams.     Except  the 

hate  that  persecutes  him 
Nothing  hath  crueler  venomy  might. 

An  awful,  a  tremendous  night  is  this,  nie- 
seems ! 

The  floodgates  of  the  rivers  of  heaven,  I  think, 
have  been  burst  wide — 

Down  from  the  overcharged  clouds,  like  un- 
to headlong  ocean's  tide, 

Descends  gray  rain  in  roaring  streams. 

Though  he  were  even  a  wolf  ranging  the  round 

green  woods, 
Though  he  were  even  a  pleasant  salmon  in 

the  unchainable  sea, 
Though  he  were  a  wild  mountain-eagle,  he 

could  scarce  bear,  he, 
This  sharp,  sore  sleet,  these  howling  floods. 

Oh,  mournful  is  my  soul  this  night  for  Hugh 
Maguire ! 

Darkly,  as  in  a  dream  he  strays  !  Before 
him  and  behind 

Triumphs  the  tyrannous  anger  of  the  wound- 
ing wind, 

The  wounding  wind,  that  burns  as  fire  ! 

It  is  my  bitter  grief — it  cuts  me  to  the  heart — 
That  in  the  country  of  Clan  Darry  this  should 

be  his  fate ! 
Oh,  woe  is   me,  where  is   he  ?     Wandering, 

houseless,  desolate, 
Alone,  without  or  guide  or  chart  1 


1  Mr.  Ferguson,  in  a  fine  piece  of  criticism  on  this  poem,  re- 
marks: "There  is  a  vivid  vigor  in  these  descriptions,  and  a 
MV  age  power  in  the  antithetical  climax,  which  claim  a  char- 
acter almost  approaching  to  sublimity.  Nothing  can  be  more 


graphic,  yet  more  diversified,  than  his  images  of  unmitigated 
horror— nothing  more  gpandly  startling  than  his  heroic  concep- 
tion of  the  glow  of  glory  triumphant  over  frozen  toil.  We 
have  never  read  this  poem  without  recurring,  and  that  by  no 
unworthy  association,  to  Napoleon  in  his  Russian  campaign. 
Yet,  perhaps  O'Hussey  has  conjured  up  a  picture  of  more 
inclement  desolation,  in  his  rude  idea  of  northern  horrors, 
than  could  be  legitimately  employed  by  a  poet  of  the  present 
day,  when  the  romance  of  geographical  obscurity  no  longer 
permits  us  to  imagine  the  Phlegrean  regions  of  endless  storm, 
where  the  snows  of  Hsemus  fall  mingled  with  the  lightnings 
of  Etna,  amid  Bistonian  wilds  or  Hyrcanian  forests."  --Dul> 
lin  University  Magazine,  vol.  iv. 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MAN CAN. 


39l> 


Mi-dreams'  I  see  just- now  his  face,  the  straw- 
berry-bright, 

Uplifted  to  the  blacken'd  heavens,  while  the 
tempestuous  winds 

Blow  fiercely  over  and  round  him,  and  the 
smiting  sleet-shower  blinds 

The  hero  of  Galang  to-night ! 

Large,  large  affliction  unto  me  and  mine  it  is, 
That  one  of  his  majestic  bearing,  his  fair, 

stately  form, 
Should  thus  be  tortured  and  o'erborne — that 

this  unsparing  storm 
Should  wreak  its  wrath  on  head  like  his  ! 

That  his  great  hand,  so  oft  the  avenger  of 

the  oppress'd, 
Should  this  chill,  churlish  night,  perchance, 

be  paralyzed  by  frost — 
While  through  some  icicle-hung  thicket — as 

one  lorn  and  lost — 
He  walks  and  wanders  without  rest. 

The     tempest-driven    torrent     deluges    the 

mead, 
It    overflows  the  low  banks  of  the  rivulets 

and  ponds — 
The  lawns  and  pasture-grounds  lie  lock'd  in 

icy  bonds, 
So  that  the  cattle  cannot  feed. 

The  pale  bright  margins  of  the  streams  are 
seen  by  none. 

Rushes  and  sweeps  along  the  untamable 
flood  on  every  side — 

It  penetrates  and  fills  the  cottagers'  dwell- 
ings far  and  wide — 

Water  and  land  are  blent  in  one. 

Through  some  dark  woods,  'mid  bones  of 
monsters,  Hugh  now  strays, 

As  he  confronts  the  storm  with  anguish'd 
heart,  but  manly  brow — 

Oh !  what  a  sword-wound  to  that  tender  heart 
of  his  were  now 

A  backward  glance  at  peaceful  days  ! 

But  other  thoughts  aw:  his — thoughts  that 

can  still  inspire 
With  joy  and  an  onward-bounding  hope  the 

bosom  of  MacNee — 


Thoughts  of  his  warriors  charging  like  bright 

billows  of  the  sea, 
Borne  on  the  wind's  wings,  flashing  fire ! 

And  though  frost  glaze  to-night  the  clear 

dew  of  his  eyes, 
And  white  ice-gauntlets  glove  his  noble  fine 

fair  fingers  o'er, 
A  warm  dress  is  to  him  that  lightning-garb 

he  ever  wore, 
The  lightning  of  the  soul,  not  skies. 

AVRAN.1 

Hugh  march'd  forth  to  the  fight — 1  grieved 

to  see  him  so  depart ; 
And  lo !   to-night  he  wanders  frozen,  rain- 

drench'd,  sad,  betray'd — 
Hut  the  memory  of  the  lime-white  mansion* 

his  right  hand  hath  laid 
In  ashes,  warms  the  hero's  heart  I 


KATHALEEN  NY-HOULAHAN.1 

(A  JACOBITE  RELIC — FROM  THE  IRISH.) 

LONG  they  pine  in  weary  woe,  the  nobles  of 

our  land, 
Long  they  wander  to  and  fro,  proscribed, 

alas !  and  bann'd ; 
Feastless,  houseless,  altarless,  they  bear  the 

exile's  brand ; 
But   their  hope   is   in  the   coming-to   of 

Kathaleen  Ny-Houlahan  ! 

Think  her  not  a  ghastly  hag,  too  hideous  to 

be  seen, 
Call  her  not  unseemly  names,  our  matchless 

Kathaleen  ; 
Young  she  is,  and  fair  she  is,  and  would  be 

crown'd  a  queen, 
Were  the  king's  son  at  home  here  with 

Kathaleen  Ny-Houlahan  ! 

Sweet  and  mild  would  look  her  face,  oh  none 
so  swcc't  and  mild, 


>  A  concluding  «tanza,  generally  Intended  a(  i  rccapvtu.*- 
tlon  of  the  entire  poem. 

*  Anglic*,  Catherine  Holohan,  a  name  by  which  Ireland  wat 
allegoricalljr  known. 


400 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


Could  she  crush  the  foes  by  whom  her  beauty 

is  reviled ; 
Woollen   plaids  would    grace    herself  and 

robes  of  eilk  her  child, 
If  the  king's  son  were   living   here  with 

Kathaleen  Ny-Houlahan ! 

Sore  disgrace  it  is  to  see  the  Arbitress  of 

thrones, 
Vassal  to  a  Saxoneen  of  cold   and   sapless 

bones ! 
Bitter  anguish  wrings  our  souls — with  heavy 

siffhs  and  groans 

O  C7 

We  wait  the  Young  Deliverer  of  Katha- 
leen Ny-Houlahan  ! 

Let  us  pray  to  Him  who  holds  Life's  issues 

in  his  hands — 
Him  who  form'd  the  mighty  globe,  with  all 

its  thousand  lands ; 
Girding  them  with  seas  and  mountains,  rivers 

deep,  and  strands, 
To  cast  a  look   of  pity  upon   Kathaleeu 

Ny-Houlahan ! 

He,  who  over   sands  and  waves  led  Israel 

along — 
He,   who  fed,    with    heavenly   bread,   that 

chosen  tribe  and  throng — 
He,  who  stood  by  Moses,  when  his  foes  were 

fierce  and  strong — 
May  He  show  forth  His  might  in  saving 

Kathaleen  Ny-Houlahan ! 


WELCOME  TO  THE  PRINCE. 

(A  JACOBITE  RELIC — FROM  THE   IRISH.) 

[This  was  written  about  the  period  of  the  battle  of  Culloden 
(87th  April,  1746),  by  William  Ileffernau,  surnamcd  Ball,  or 
the  Blind,  of  Shronehill,  county  Tippcrary.] 

LIFT  up  the  drooping  head, 

Meehal  Dubh  MacGiolla-Kierin!1 

Her  blood  yet  boundeth  red 

Through  the  myriad  veins  of  Erin. 

No !  no !  she  is  not  dead 

Meehal  Dubh  MacGiolla-Kierin ! 


ichael  M'QUla  Kerin,  prince  c5  Oeaory. 


Lo  !  she  redeems 
The  lost  years  of  bygone  ages — 

New  glory  beams 
Henceforth  on  her  History's  pages ! 
Her  long  penitential  Night  of  Sorrow 
Yields  at  length  before  the  reddening  mor- 
row! 

You  heard  the  thunder-shout, 

Meehal  Dubh  MacGiolla-Kierin ! 

Saw  the  lightning  streaming  out 
O'er  the  purple  hills  of  Erin  ! 

And,  bide  you  yet  in  doubt, 

Meehal  Dubh  MacGiolla-Kierin  ? 
Oh !  doubt  no  more  ! 

Through  Ulidia's  voiceful  valleys, 
On  Shannon's  shore, 

Freedom's  burning  spirit  rallies. 

Earth  and  Heaven  unite  in  sign  and  omen 

Bodeful  of  the  downfall  of  our  foemen. 


Thurot  commands  the  North, 

Meehal  Dubh  MacGiolla-Kierin  I 
Louth  sends  her  heroes  forth, 

To  hew  down  the  foes  of  Erin  ! 
Swords  gleam  in  field  and  gorth* 

Meehal  Dubh  MacGiolla-Kierin! 
Up  !  up !  my  friend  ! 
There's  a  glorious  goal  before  us ; 

Here  will  we  blend 
Speech  and  soul  in  this  grand  chorus : 
"  By  the  Heaven  that  gives  us   one  more 

token, 
We  will  die,  or  see  our  shackles  broken !" 


Charles  leaves  the  Grampian  hills, 
Meehal  Dubh  MacGiolla-Kierin ! 

Charles,  whose  appeal  yet  thrills, 

Like  a  clarion-blast,  through  Erin, 

Charles,  he  whose  image  fills 

Thy  soul,  too,  MacGiolla-Kierin  1 
Ten  thousand  strong, 

His  clans  move  in  brilliant  order, 
Sure  that  ere  long 

He  will  march  them  o'er  the  Border, 


*  This  is  an  allusion  to  that  well-known  atmospherical  pbe 
nomenon  of  f.he  "cloud  artnicp."  which  is  eaia  to  have  bcci 
so  common  about  this  period  in  Scotland. 

1  Oortli,  literally  means  Garden. 


I'nK.MS   IlV  .1. \.MKS  CLAUKNCK  MANGAN. 


401 


While    the    dark-hair'd    daughters    of   the 

Highlands 
Crown  with  wreaths  the  Monarch  of  three 

islands ! 

Fill,  then,  the  ale-cup  high, 

Mechal  Dubh  MacGiolla-Kierin ! 
Fill !  the  bright  hour  is  nigh 

That  shall  give  her  own  to  Erin ! 
Those  who  so  sadly  sigh, 

Even  as  you,  MacGiolla-Kierin, 
Henceforth  shall  sing. 
Hark  ! — O'er  heathery  hill  and  dell  come 

Shouts  for  the  King ! 
Welcome,  our  Deliverer !  Welcome  ! 
Thousands  this  glad  night,  ere  turning  bed- 
ward, 

Will  with  us   drink,   "Victory  to   Charles 
Edward !" 


LAMENT  FOR  BANBA.1 
(FUOM  THE  misn.) 

OH,  my  land  !  Oh,  my  love ! 

What  a  woe,  and  how  deep, 
Is  thy  death  to  my  long  mourning  soul ! 
God  alone,  God  above, 

Can  awake  thee  from  sleep, 
Can  release  thee  from  bondage  and  dole ! 
Alas,  alas,  and  alas, 

For  the  once  proud  people  of  Banba ! 

As  a  tree  in  its  prime, 

Which  the  axe  layeth  low, 
Didst  thou  fall,  oh  unfortunate  land ! 
Not  by  Time,  nor  thy  crime, 

Came  the  shock  and  the  blow, 
v^iey  were  given  by  a  false  felon  hand ! 
Alas,  alas,  and  alas, 

For  the  once  proud  people  of  Banba ! 

On,  .iiy  grief  of  all  griefs 

Is  to  ste  how  thy  throne 
Is  usurp'd,  wnilst  thyself  art  in  thrall ! 
Other  lands  Lave  their  chiefs, 

Have  their  kings,  thou  alone 
Art  a  wife,  yet  a  widow  withal ! 
Alas,  alas,  and  alas, 

For  the  once  proud  people  of  Banba ! 


1  Banba  (Banva)  was  one  of  the  mout  ancient  name*  given 
•7  the  Bards  to  Ireland. 


The  high  house  of  O'Neill 

Is  gone-  down  to  the  dust, 
The  O'Brien  is  clanless  and  bann'd ; 
And  the  steel,  the  red  steel, 
May  no  more  be  the  trust 
Ot  the  Faithful  and  Brave  in  the  land ! 
Alas,  alas,  and  alas, 

For  the  once  proud  people  of  Banba ! 

True,  alas  !  Wronj;  and  Wrath 

'  O 

Were  of  old  all  too  rife. 
Deeds  were  done  which  no  good  man  admires; 
And  perchance  Heaven  hath 
Chasten'd  us  for  the  strife 
And  the  blood-shedding  ways  of  our  sires ! 
Alas,  alas,  and  alas, 

For  the  once  proud  people  of  Banba  1 

But,  no  more !     This  our  doom, 

While  our  hearts  yet  are  warm, 
Let  us  not  over-weakly  deplore  ! 
For  the  hour  soon  may  loom 

When  the  Lord's  mighty  hand 
Shall  be  raised  for  our  rescue  once  more ! 

And  our  grief  shall  be  turn'd  into  joy 
For  the  still  proud  people  of  Banba ! 


ELLEN  BAVVN. 
(FROM  THE  nusn.) 

ELLEN  BAAVN,  oh,  Ellen  Bawn,  you  darling, 
darling  dear,  you 

Sit  awhile  beside  me  here,  I'll  die  unless  I'm 
near  you  ! 

'Tis  for  you  I'd  swim  the  Suir  and  breast  the 
Shannon's  waters  ; 

For,  Ellen  dear,  you've  not  your  peer  in  Gal- 
way's  blooming  daughters ! 


Had  I  Limerick's  gems  and  gold  at  will  to 

mete  and  measure, 
Were  Loughrea's  abundance  mine,  and  all 

Porturnna's  treasure, 
These  might  lure  me,  might  insure  me  many 

and  many  a  new  li.ve, 
But  oh  !    no  bribe  could  pay  your  tribe  foi 

one  like  you,  my  true  Icve  1 


402 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


Blessings  be  on  Connaught !  that's  the  place 

for  sport  and  raking  ! 
Blessings,  too,  my  love,  on  you,  a-sleeping 

and  a-waking  ! 
I'd  have  met  you,  dearest  Ellen,  when  the 

sun  went  under, 
But,  woe  !  the  flooding  Shannon  broke  across 

my  path  in  thunder  ! 

Ellen !  I'd  give  all  the  deer  in  Limerick's 
parks  and  arbors, 

Ay,  and  all  the  ships  that  rode  last  year  in 
Munster's  harbors, 

Could  I  blot  from  Time  the  hour  I  first  be- 
came your  lover, 

For,  oh  !  you've  given  my  heart  a  wound  it 
never  can  recover ! 


Would  to  God  that  in  the  sod  my  corpse  to- 
night were  lying, 

And  the  wild-birds  wheeling  o'er  it,  and  the 
winds  a-sighing, 

Since  your  cruel  mother  and  your  kindred 
choose  to  sever 

Two  hearts  that  Love  would  blend  in  one 
forever  and  forever. 


LOVE  BALLAD. 
(FROM  THE  IRISH.) 

LONELY  from  my  home  I  come, 

To  cast  myself  upon  your  tomb, 

And  to  weep. 
Lonely  from  my  lonesome  home, 

My  lonesome  house  of  grief  and  gloom, 

While  I  keep 
Vigil  often  all  night  long, 

For  your  dear,  dear  sake, 
Praying  many  a  prayer  so  wrong 

That  my  heart  would  break  ! 

Gladly,  oh  my  blighted  flower, 
Sweet  Apple  of  my  bosom's  Tree, 

Would  I  now 

Stretch  me  in  your  dark  death-bower 
Beside  your  corpse,  and  lovingly 
Kiss  your  brow. 


But  we'll  meet  ere  many  a  day, 

Never  more  to  part, 
For  even  now  1  feel  the  clay 

Gathering  round  my  heart. 

In  my  soul  doth  darkness  dwell, 

And  through  its  dreary  winding  cave& 

Ever  flows, 
Ever  flows  with  moaning  swell, 

One  ebbless  flood  of  many  Waves, 

Which  are  Woes. 
Death,  love,  has  me  in  his  lures, 

But  that  grieves  not  me, 
So  my  ghost  may  meet  with  yours 

On  yon  moon-loved  lea. 

When  the  neighbors  near  my  cot 

Believe  me  sunk  in  slumber  deep, 

I  arise — 
For,  oh !  'tis  a  weary  lot, 

This  watching  eye,  and  wooing  sleep 

With  hot  eyes — 
I  arise,  and  seek  your  grave, 

And  pour  forth  my  tears ; 
While  the  winds  that  nightly  rave, 

Whistle  in  mine  ears. 

Often  turns  my  memory  back 
To  that  dear  evening  in  the  dell, 

When  we  twain, 
Shelter'd  by  the  sloe-bush  black, 

Sat,  laugh'd,  and  talk'd,  while  thick  sleet 
fell, 

And  cold  rain. 
Thanks  to  God  !  no  guilty  leaven 

Dash'd  our  childish  mirth. 
You  rejoice  for  this  in  heaven, 
I  not  less  on  earth ! 

Love !  the  priests  feel  wroth  with  me, 

To  find  I  shrine  your  image  still 

In  my  breast. 
Since  you  are  gone  eternally, 

And  your  fair  frame  lies  in  the  chill 

Grave  at  rest ; 
But  true  Love  outlives  the  shroud, 

Knows  nor  check  nor  change, 
And  beyond  Time's  world  of  Cloud 

Still  must  reign  and  range. 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MAX<;  AN. 


409 


Well  may  now  your  kindred  mourn 

The  threats,  the  wiles,  the  cruel  arts, 

They  long  tried 
On  the  child  they  left  forlorn  ! 

They  broke  the  tenderest  heart  of  hearts, 

And  she  died. 
Curse  upon  the  love  of  show  ! 

Curse  on  Pride  and  Greed  ! 
They  would  wed  you  "  high" — and  woe  1 

Here  behold  their  meed  ! 


THE  VISION  OF  CONOR  O'SULLIVAN. 
(FROM  THE  IRISH.) 

LAST  night  amid  dreams  without  number,. 
I  beheld  a  bright  vision  in  slumber : 
A  maiden  with  rose-red  and  lily-white  fea- 
tures, 
Disrobed  of  all  earthly  cumber. 

Her  hair  o'er  her  shoulder  was  flowing, 
In  clusters  all  golden  and  glowing, 
Luxuriant  and  thick  as  in  meads  are  the 

grass-blades 
That  the  scythe  of  the  mower  is  mowing. 

With  hei  brilliant  eyes,  glancing  so  keenly, 
Her  lips  smiling  sweet  and  serenely, 
Her  pearly-white  teeth  and  her  high-arch6d 

eyebrows, 
She  look'd  most  commanding  and  queenly. 

Her  long  taper  fingers  might  dally 
With  the  harp  in  some  grove  or  green  alley ; 
And  her  ivory  neck  and  her  beautiful  bosom 
Were  white  as  the  snows  of  the  valley. 

Bowing  down  now,  before  her  so  lowly, 
With    words   that   came    trembling   and 

slowly, 
f  ask'd  what  her  name  was,  and  where  I 

might  worship 
At  the  shrine  of  a  being  so  holy  ! 

"  This  nation  is  thy  land  and  my  land," 

She  answer'd  me  with  a  sad  smile,  and 

The   sweetest  of  tones — "  I,  alas !   am  the 

spouse  of 
The  long-bamsh'd  chiefs  of  our  island  !" 


"  Ah  !  dimra'd  is  that  island's  fai-  glory, 
And   through   sorrow  her  children  grow 

hoary ; 
Yet,  seat  thee  beside  me,  O  Nurse  of  the 

Heroes, 
And  tell  me  thy  tragical  story  !" 

"  The  Druids  and  Sages  unfold  it — 
The  Prophets  and  Saints  have  foretold  it, 
That  the  Stuart  would   come  o'er  the  sea 

with  his  legions, 
And  that  all  Eire's  tribes  should  behold  it ! 

"  Away,  then,  with  sighing  and  mourning, 
The  hearts  in  men's  bosoms  are  burning 
To  free  this  green  land — oh !  be  sure  you 

will  soon  see 
The  days  of  her  greatness  returning  ! 

"  Up.  heroes,  ye  valiant  and  peerless  ! 
Up,  raise  the  loud  war-shout  so  fearless  ! 
While  bonfires  shall  blaze,  and  the  bagpipe 

and  trumpet 
Make  joyous  a  land  now  so  cheerless  ! 

"  For  the  troops  of  King  Louis  shall  aid 

us ; — 

The  chains  that  now  bind  us 
Shall  crumble  to  dust,  and  our  bright  swords 

shall  slaughter 
The  wretches  whose  wiles  have  betray'd 

us!" 


PATRICK  CONDON'S  VISION. 
(FROM  THE  IRISH.) 

[PATRICK  CONDON,  the  author  of  this  song,  was  a  native  of 
the  barony  of  Imokilly,  county  of  Cork,  and  resided  about  four 
miles  from  the  town  of  Yougha!.  About  thirty  years  ago  he 
emigrated  to  North  America,  and  located  himself  some  dia- 
tancc  from  Quebec.  The  Englishman,  who  has  ever  in  tho 
course  of  his  travels,  chanced  to  come  into  proximity  with  an 
Irish  "  hedge  school,"  will  be  at  no  loss  to  conjecture  the  or- 
igin of  the  frequent  allusions  to  heathen  mythology  in  the** 
songs.  They  are  to  be  traced,  we  may  say,  exclusively  to  that 
intimate  acquaintance  with  the  clastic*  which  the  Minister 
peasant  never  failed  to  acquire  from  the  instructions  of  the 
road-side  pedagogue.  The  Kerry  rustic,  it  is  known,  speaks 
Latin  like  a  citi/.vn  of  old  Rome,  and  has  frequently,  ihou^n 
ignorant  of  a  syllable  of  English,  conversed  in  the  laiigi. 
Cicero  and  Virgil  with  some  of  the  most  learned  and  intellec- 
tual of  English  tourists.  Alas  1  that  the  acuteness  of  in- 
tellect for  which  the  Irish  peasant  is  remarkable  should  net 
have  afforded  a  hint  to  our  rulers,  amid  their  many  and  fruit- 
less attempts  at  what  is  called  conciliation  1  Would  it  not  be 
a  policy  equally  worthy  of  their  judgment,  and  deserving  of 


40* 


POEMS   BY  JAMES   CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


praise  in  itself,  to  establish  schools  for  the  Irish  in  which  they 
might  be  taught,  at  least  the  elementary  principles  of  educa- 
tion through  the  medium  of  their  native  tongue  ?  This  course, 
Jong  advocated  by  the  most  enlightened  of  every  class  and 
creed,  has  been  lately  brought  forward  in  an  able  manner  by 
Mr.  Christopher  Anderson.— See  his  Sketches  of  Native  Irish.] 

THE  evening  was  waning :  long,  long  I  stood 

pondering 

Nigh  a  green  wood  on  my  desolate  lot. 
The  setting  sun's  glory  then  set  me  a-won- 

dering, 
And  the  deep  tone  of  the  stream  in  the 

grot. 
The  birds  on  the  boughs  were  melodiously 

singing,  toov 
Even   though   the   night   was  advancing 

apace  ; 
Voices  of  fox-hunters, — voices  were  ringing 

too, 

And  deep-mouth'd  hounds  follow'd  up  the 
long  chase. 

Nut-trees  around   me  grew  beauteous  and 

flourishing — 

Of  the  ripe  fruit  I  partook  without  fear — 
Sweet  was  their  flavor, — sweet,  healthful,  and 

nourishing ; 

Honey  I  too  found — the  best  of  good  cheer ! 
When,  lo !  I  beheld  a  fair  maiden  draw  near 

to  me  ; 

The  noblest  of  maidens  in  figure  and  mind- 
One  who  hath  been,  and  will  ever  be  dear  to 

me — 
Lovely  and  mild  above  all  of  her  kind  ! 

Long  were  her  locks,  hanging  down  in  rich 

•    tresses  all — 

Golden  and  plaited,  luxuriant  and  cui-l'd  ; 
Her  eyes  shone  like  stars  of  that  Heaven 

which  blesses  all : 

Swan-white  was  her  bosorn^  the  pride  of 
the  world. 

Her  marvellous  face  like  the  rose  and  the  lily 

shone ; 

Pearl-like  her  teeth  were  as  ever  were  seen ; 
In  her  calm  beauty  she  proudly,  yet  stilly 

shone — 
Meek  as  a  vestal,  yet  grand  as  a  Queen. 

Long-time  I  gazed  on  her,  keenly  and  si- 
lently— 


Who  might   she   be,  this  young  damsel 

sublime  ? 
Had  she  been  chased  from  a  foreign  land 

violently  ? 

Had  she  come  hither  to  wile  away  time  ? 
Was  she  Calypso  ?     I  question'd  her  pleas- 
antly— 

Ceres,  or  Hecate  the  bright  undefiled  ? 
Thetis,   who   sank  the   stout  vessels   inces- 
santly ? 
Bateia  the  tender,  or  Hebe  the  mild  ? 

"  None  of  all  those  whom  you  name,"  she 

replied  to  me : 

"  One  broken-hearted  by  strangers  am  I ; 
But  the  day  draweth  near  when  the  rights 

naw  denied  to  me 
All  shall  flame  forth  like  the  stars  in  the 

sky- 
Yet  twenty-five  years  and  you'll  witness  my 

gloriousness  : 
Doubt  me  not,  friend,  for  in  GOD  is  my 

trust ; 
And  they  who  exult  in  their  barren  victori- 

ousness 
Suddenly,  soon,  shall  go  down  to  the  dust !" 


SIGHILE  NI  GARA. 

(PROM  THE  IRISH.) 

[The  first  peculiarity  likely  to  strike  the  reader  is  the  re- 
markable sameness  pervading  those  Irish  pieces  which  assume 
a  narrative  form.  The  poet  usually  wanders  forth  of  a  sum- 
mer evening  over  moor  and  mountain,  mournfulry  meditating 
on  the  wrongs  and  sufferings  of  his  native  land,  until  at 
length,  sad  and  weary,  he  lies  down  to  repose  in  some  flowery 
vale,  or  on  the  slope  of  some  green  and  lonely  hill-side.  He 
sleeps,  and  in  a  dream  beholds  a  young  female  of  more  than 
mortal  beauty,  who  approaches  and  accosts  him.  She  is  al- 
ways represented  as  appearing  in  naked  loveliness.  Her  per 
son  is  described  with  a  minuteness  of  detail  bordering  upon 
tediousness— her  hands,  for  instance,  are  said  to  be  such  as 
would  execute  the  most  complicated  and  delicate  embroidery. 
The  enraptured  poet  inquires  whether  she  be  one  of  the  hero- 
ines of  ancient  story — Semiramis,  Helen,  or  Medea — or  one 
of  the  illustrious  women  of  his  own  country — Deirdre,  Blatli- 
naid,  or  Cearnuit,  or  some  Banshee,  like  Aoibhill,  Cliona,  or 
Aine,  and  the  answer  he  receives  is,  that  she  is  none  of  those 
eminent  personages,  but  EIRE,  once  a  queen,  and  now  a  slave 
— of  old  in  the  enjoyment  of  all  honor  and  dignity,  but  to-day 
in  thrall  to  the  foe  and  the  stranger.  Yet  wretched  as  is  her 
condition,  she  does  not  despair,  and  encourages  her  afflicted 
child  to  hope,  prophesying  that  speedy  relief  will  reach  him 
from  abroad.  The  song  then  concludes,  though  in  some  in 
stances  the  poet  appends  a  few  consolatory  reflections  of  hia 
own,  by  way  of  finale. 

The  present  song  is  one  of  the  class  which  we  have  de 
scribed,  and  Sighile  Ni  Ghadliaradh  (Celia  O'Gara),  in  the  Ian 
guage  of  allegory,  means  Ireland.] 


I'OKMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


405 


ALONE  as  I  wandcr'd  in  sad  meditation, 
And  ponder'd  my  sorrows  and  soul's  desola- 
tion, 

A  beautiful  vision — a  maiden  drew  near  me, 
An  angel  she  seem'd  sent  from  Heaven  to 

cheer  me. 

Let  none  dare  to  tell  me  I  acted  amiss 
Because  on  her  lips  I  imprinted  a  kiss — 
Oh !'  that  was  a  moment  of  exquisite  bliss  ! 
For  sweetness,  for  grace,  and  for  brightness 

of  feature, 

Earth  holds  not  the  match  of  this  loveliest 
creature  ! 

Her  eyes,  like  twin  stars,  shone  and  sparkled 

with  lustre ; 

Her  tresses  hung  waving  in  many  a  cluster, 
And  swept  the  long  grass  all  around  and  be- 
neath her ; 

She  moved  like  a  being  who  trod  upon  ether, 
And   seem'd   to  disdain  the  dominions   of 

space — 

Such  beauty  and  majesty,  glory  and  grace, 
So  faultless  a  form,  and  so  dazzling  a  face, 
And  ringlets  so  shining,  so  many  and  golden, 
Were  never  beheld  since  the  storied  years 
olden. 

Alas,  that  this  damsel,  so  noble  and  queenly, 
Who  spake,  and  who  look'd,  and  who  moved 

so  serenely, 
Should   languish   in   woe,   that   her   throne 

should  have  crumbled ; 
Her  haughty  oppressors  abiding  unhumbled. 
Oh  !  woe  that  she  cannot  with  horsemen  and 

swords, 
With  fleets  and  with  armies,  with  chieftains 

and  lords, 
Chase  forth  from  the  isle  the  vile  Sassenach 

hordes, 
"Who  too  long  in  their  hatred  have  trodden 

us  under, 
And  wasted  green  Eire  with  slaughter  and 

plunder ! 

She  hath  studied  God's  Gospels,  and  Truth's 
divine  pages — 

The  tales  of  the  Druids,  and  lays  of  old  sages ; 

She  hath  quaff 'd  the  pure  wave  of  the  foun- 
tain Pierian, 

And  is  versed  in  the  wars  of  the  Trojan  and 
Tyrian ; 


So  gentle,  so  modest,  so  artless  and  mild, 
The  wisest  of  women,  yet  meek  as  a  child ; 
She  pours  forth  her  spirit  in  speech  undefiled ; 
But  her  bosom  is  pierced,  and  her  soul  hath 

been  shaken, 
To  see  herself  left  so  forlorn  and  forsaken  ! 

"  Oh,  maiden  !"  so  spake  I,  "  thou  best  and 

divinest, 

Thou,  who  as  a  sun  in  thy  loveliness  shinest, 
Who  art  thou  and  whence  ? — and  what  land 

dost  thou  dwell  in  ? 
Say,  art  thou  fair  Deirdre,  or  canst  thou  be 

Helen  ?" 
And  thus  she  made  answer — "What!  dost 

thou  not  see 

The  nurse  of  the  Chieftains  of  Eire  in  me — 
The  heroes  of  Banba,  the  valiant  and  free  ? 
I  was  great  in  my  time,  ere  the  Gall1  becaim 

stronger 
Than  the  Gael,  and  my  sceptre  pass'd  o'er  to 

the  Wronger !" 

Thereafter  she  told  me,  with  bitter  lamenting, 
A  story  of  sorrow  beyond  all  inventing — 
Her  name  was  Fair  Eire,  the  mother  of  true 

hearts, 
The  daughter  of  Conn,  and  the  spouse  of  the 

Stewarts. 
She  had  suffer'd  all  woes,  had  been  tortured 

and  flay'd, 
Had  been  trodden  and  spoil'd,  been  deceived 

and  betray 'd  ; 
But   her  champion,  she   hoped,  would  s i 

come  to  her  aid, 
And  the  insolent  Tyrant  who  now  was  her 

master 
Would  then  be  o'erwhelm'd  by  defeat  and 

disaster ! 

Oh,  fear  not,  fair  mourner! — thy  lord  and 

thy  lover, 
Prince  Charles,  with  his  armies,  will  cross 

the  seas  ovar. 

Once  more,  lo  !  the  Spirit  of  Liberty  rallies 
Aloft  on  thy  mountains,  and  calls  irom  thy 

valleys. 
Thy  children  will  rise    and  will  take,  one 

and  all, 
Revenge  on  the  murderous  tribes  of  the  Gall, 

1  Gall,  the  rtmnger ;  Gaelt,  the  natire  Irish. 


406 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MAXGAN. 


And  to  thee  shall  return  each  renown'd  castle 

hall; 
And  again  thou  shalt  revel  in  plenty  and 

treasure, 
the  wealth  of  the  land  shall  be  thine 

without  measure. 


ST.  PATRICK'S  HYMN  BEFORE  TARAH. 

[The  original  Irish  of  this  hymn  was  published  by  Dr.  Petric, 
In  vol.  rviii.,  "  Transactions  of  the  Royal  Irish  Academy."  It 
is  in  the  Bearla  Feine,  the  most  ancient  dialect  of  the  Irish,  the 
same  in  which  the  Brehon  laws  were  written.  It  was  printed 
from  the  "Liber  Hymnornm,"  preserved  in  the  Library  of 
Trinity  College,  Dublin,  a  manuscript  which,  as  Dr.  Petrie 
proves  by  the  authority  of  Usher  and  others,  must  be  nearly 
1250  years  old.] 

AT  TARAH  TO-DAY,  in  this  awful  hour, 

I  call  on  the  Holy  Trinity  ! 
Glory  to  Him  who  reigneth  in  power, 
The  God  of  the  elements,  Father,  and  Son, 
And  Paraclete  Spirit,  which  Three  are  the 
One, 

The  ever-existing  Divinity  ! 

AT  TARAH  TO-DAY  I  call  on  the  Lord, 

On  Christ,  the  Omnipotent  Word, 

Who  came  to  redeem  from  Death  and  Sin 

Our  fallen  race ; 

And  I  put  and  I  place 
The  virtue  that  lieth  and  liveth  in 

His  Incarnation  lowly, 

His  Baptism  pure  and  holy, 
His  life  of  toil,  and  tears,  and  affliction, 
His  dolorous  Death — his  Crucifixion, 
His  Burial,  sacred  and  sad  and  lone, 

His  Resurrection  to  life  again, 
His  glorious  Ascension   to  Heaven's   high 

Throne, 
And,  lastly,  his  future  dread 

And  terrible  coming  to  judge  all  men — 
Both  the  Living  and  Dead 

AT  TARAH  TO-DAY  I  put  and  I  place 

The  virtue  that  dwells  in  the  Seraphim's 

love, 

And  the  virtue  and  grace 
That  are  in  the  obedience 
And  unshaken  allegiance 
Of  all  the  Archangels  and  angels  above, 
And  in  the  hope  of  the  Resurrection 


To  everlasting  reward  and  election, 
And  in  the  prayers  of  the  Fathers  of  old, 
And  in  the  truths  the  Prophets  foretold, 
And  in  the  Apostles'  manifold  preachings, 
And  in  the  Confessors'  faith  and  teachings, 

O     * 

And  in  the  purity  ever  dwelling 

Within  the  immaculate  Virgin's  breast, 

And  in  the  actions  bright  and  excelling 
Of  all  good  men,  the  just  and  the  blest-. . . 

AT  TARAH  TO-DAY,  in  this  fateful  hour, 

I  place  all  Heaven  with  its  power, 

And  the  sun  with  its  brightness, 

And  the  snow  with  its  whiteness, 

And  the  fire  with  all  the  strength  it  hath, 

And  lightning  with  its  rapid  wrath, 

And  the  winds  with  their  swiftness   along 

their  path, 

And  the  sea  with  its  deepness, 
And  the  rocks  with  their  steepness, 
And  the  earth  with  its  starkness,1 

All  these  I  place, 

By  GOD'S  almighty  help  and  grace, 
Between  myself  and  the  Powers  of  Darkness. 

AT  TARAH  TO-DAY 
May  GOD  be  my  stay  ! 
May  the  strength  of  GOD  now  nerve  me ! 
May  the  power  of  GOD  preserve  me ! 
May  GOD  the  Almighty  be  near  me  ! 
May  GOD  the  Almighty  espy  me  ! 
May  GOD  the  Almighty  hear  me ! 

May  GOD  give  me  eloquent  speech ! 
May  the  arm  of  GOD  protect  me  ! 
May  the  wisdom  of  GOD  direct  me ! 

May  GOD  give  me  power  to  teach  and  to 
preach ! 

May  the  shield  of  GOD  defend  me ! 
May  the  host  of  GOD  attend  me, 
And  ward  me, 
And  guard  me, 
Against  the  wiles  of  demons  and  devils, 
Against  the  temptations  of  vices  and  evils, 
Against  the  bad  passions  and  wrathful  will 

Of  the  reckless  mind  and  the  wicked  heart, 
Against  every  man  who  designs  me  ill, 
Whether  leagued  with  others  or  plotting 
apart ! 


1  Properly,  "  strensrth,"  "  firmness,"  from  the  Anglo-Swtoc 
ttark,  "  strong,"  "  stiff." 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MAXGAX. 


40; 


IN  THIS  HOUR  OP  HOURS, 

I  place  all  those  powers 
Between  myself  and  every  foe, 

Who  threaten  my  body  and  soul 

With  danger  or  dole, 
To  protect  me  against  the  evils  that  flow 
From  lying  soothsayers'  incantations, 
From  the  gloomy  laws  of  the  Gentile  nations, 
From  Heresy's  hateful  innovations, 
From  Idolatry's  rites  and  invocations, 
Be  those  my  defenders, 

My  guards  against  every  ban — 
And  spell  of  smiths,  and  Druids,  and  women; 
In  fine,  against  every  knowledge  that  renders 

The  li<jht  Heaven  sends  us  dim  in 

O 

The  spirit  and  soul  of  Man  ! 

MAY  CHRIST,  I  PRAY, 
Protect  me  to-day 
Against  poison  and  fire, 
Against  drowning  and  wounding, 
That  so,  in  His  grace  abounding, 
I  may  earn  the  Preacher's  hire  ! 

CHRIST,  as  a  light, 
Illumine  and  guide  me  1 


CHRIST,  as  a  shield,  o'ershadow  and  cover  me ' 
CHRIST  be  under  me  !     CHRIST  be  over  me  I 

CHRIST  be  beside  me 

On  left  hand  and  right ! 
CHRIST  be  before  me,  behind  me,  about  ma 
CHRIST  this  day  be  within  and  without  me  I 

CHRIST,  the  lowly  and  meek, 

CHRIST,  the  Ail-Powerful,  be 
In  the  heart  of  each  to  whom  I  speak, 
In  the  mouth  of  each  who  speaks  to  me  I 
In  all  who  draw  near  me, 
Or  see  me  or  hear  me ! 

AT  TARAH  TO-DAY,  in  this  awful  hour, 

I  call  on  the  Holy  Trinity ! 
Glory  to  Him  who  reigneth  in  power, 
The  GOD  of  the  Elements,  Father,  and  Son, 
And  Paraclete  Spirit,which  Three  are  the  One 

The  ever-existing  Divinity! 

Salvation  dwells  with  the  Lord, 

With  CHRIST,  the  Omnipotent  Word. 

From  generation  to  generation 

Grant  us,  O  Lord,  thy  grace  and  salvation  I 


APOCRYPHA. 


TUB  KARAMANIAN  EXILE. 
(FROM  THE  OTTOMAN.) 

I  SEE  tbee  ever  in  my  dreams, 

Karaman ! 
Thy  hundred  hills,  thy  thousand  streams, 

Karaman  !     O  Karaman  ! 
As  when  thy  gold-bright  morning  gleams, 
As  when  the  deepening  sunset  seams, 
With  lines  of  light  thy  hills  and  streams, 

Karaman ! 
So  thou  looniest  on  my  dreams, 

Karaman  !     0  Karaman  ! 


The  hot,  bright  plains,  the  sun,  the  skies, 

Karaman ! 
Seem  death-black  marble  to  mine  eyes, 

Karaman!     O  Karaman  ! 
I  turn  from  summer's  blooms  and  dyes; 
Yet  in  my  dreams  thou  dost  arise 
In  welcome  glory  to  my  eyes, 

Karaman  ! 
In  thee  my  life  of  life  yet  lies, 

Karaman  ! 
Thou  still  art  holy  in  mine  eyes. 

Karaman  !     O  Kuraman . 

Ere  ray  fighting  years  were  como, 

Karaman  ! 


403 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  HANG  AN. 


Troops  were  few  in  Erzerome, 

Karaman  !     O  Karaman  ! 
Their  fiercest  came  from  Erzerome, 
They  came  from  Ukhbar's  palace  dome, 
They  dragg'd  me  forth  from  thee,  my  home 

Karaman  ! 
Thee,  my  own,  my  mountain  home, 

Karaman  ! 
In  life  and  death,  my  spirit's  home, 

Karaman  !     O  Karaman  ! 

Oh,  none  of  all  my  sisters  ten, 

Karaman ! 
Loved  like  me  my  fellow-men, 

Karaman  !     O  Karaman  ! 
I  was  mild  as  milk  till  then, 
I  was  soft  as  silk  till  then  ; 
Now  my  breast  is  as  a  den, 

Karaman ! 
Foul  with  blood  and  bones  of  men, 

Karaman  ! 
With  blood  and  bones  of  slaughter'd  men, 

Karaman  !     O  Karaman  ! 

My  boyhood's  feelings  newly  born, 

Karaman ! 
Wither'd  like  young  flowers  uptorn, 

Karaman  !     O  Karaman  ! 
And  in  their  stead  sprang  weed  and  thorn ; 
What  once  I  loved  now  moves  my  scorn ; 
My  burning  eyes  are  dried  to  horn, 

Karaman  ! 
I  hate  the  blessed  light  of  morn 

Karaman  ! 
It  maddens  me,  the  face  of  morn, 

Karaman  !     O  Karaman  I 

The  Spahi  wears  a  tyrant's  chains, 

Karaman ! 
But  bondage  worse  than  this  remains, 

Karaman  5     O  Karaman  ! 
His  heart  is  black  with  million  stains  : 
Thereon,  as  on  Kaf 's  blasted  plains, 
Shall  never  more  fall  dews  and  rains, 

Karaman  ! 
Save  poison-dews  and  bloody  rains, 

Karaman  ! 
Hell's  poison-dews  and  bloody  rains, 

Karaman  !     O  Karaman  ! 

But  life  at  worst  must  end  ere  long, 
Karaman  ! 


Azreel1  avengeth  every  wrong, 

Karaman !     O  Karaman  ! 
Of  late  my  thoughts  rove  more  among 
Thy  fields  ;  o'ershadowing  fancies  throng 
My  mind,  and  texts  of  bodeful  song, 

Karaman  ! 
Azreel  is  terrible  and  strong, 

Karaman  ! 
His  lightning  sword  smites  all  ere  long, 

Karaman !     O  Karaman  ! 
There's  care  to-night  in  Ukhbar's  halls, 

Karaman ! 
There's  hope  too,  for  his  trodden  thralls, 

Karaman  !     O  Karaman  ! 
What  lights  flash  red  along  yon  walls  ? 
Hark !  hark ! — the  muster-trumpet  calls  ! — 
I  see  the  sheen  of  spears  and  shawls, 

Karaman ! 
The  foe  !  the  foe  ! — they  scale  the  walls, 

Karaman  ! 
To-night  Murad  or  Ukhbar  falls, 

Karaman  !     O  Karaman ! 


THE  WAIL  AND  WARNING  OF  THE  THREE 
KHALENDEERS. 

(FROM  THE  OTTOMAN:) 

LA'  LAHA,  il  Allah  !* 
Here  we  meet,  we  three,  at  length, 

Amrah,  Osman,  Perizad : 
Shorn  of  all  our  grace  and  strength, 

Poor,  and  old,  and  very  sad ! 
We  have  lived,  but  live  no  more  ; 

Life  has  lost  its  gloss  for  us, 
Since  the  days  we  spent  of  yore, 

Boating  down  the  Bosphorus ! 
La'  laha,  il  Allah  ! 

The  Bosphorus,  the  Bosphorus  ! 

Old  Time  brought  home  no  loss  lor  us. 
We  felt  full  of  health  and  heart 

Upon  the  foamy  Bosphorus  J 

La'  laha,  il  Allah  ! 
Days  indeed  !     A  shepherd's  tent 

Served  us  then  for  house  and  fold ; 
All  to  whom  we  gave  or  lent, 


*  The  angel  of  death.       *  God  alone  is  all-merciful ' 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


40& 


Paid  us  back  a  thousand  fold. 
Troublous  years  by  myriads  wail'd, 

Rarely  had  a  cross  for  us, 
Never  when  we  gayly  sail'd, 

Singing  down  the  Bosphorus. 
La'  laha,  il  Allah  ! 

The  Bosphorus,  the  Bosphorus  ! 

There  never  came  a  cross  for  us, 
While  we  daily,  gayly  sail'd 

Adown  the  meadowy  Bosphorus. 

La'  laha,  il  Allah ! 
Blithe  as  birds  we  flew  along, 

Laugh'd  and  quaff 'd  and  stared  about ; 
Wine  and  roses,  mirth  and  song, 

Were  what  most  we  cared  about. 
Fame  we  left  for  quacks  to  seek, 

Gold  was  dust  and  dross  for  us, 
While  we  lived  from  week  to  week, 

Boating  down  the  Bosphorus. 
La'  laha,  il  Allah  ! 

The  Bosphorus,  the  Bosphorus ! 

And  gold  was  dust  and  dross  for  us, 
While  we  lived  from  week  to  week, 

Aborting  down  the  Bosphorus. 

La'  laha,  il  Allah ! 
Friends  we  .were,  and  would  have  shared 

Purses,  had  we  twenty  full. 
If  we  spent,  or  if  we  spared, 

Still  our  funds  were  plentiful. 
Save  the  hours  we  pass'd  apart 

Time  brought  home  no  loss  for  us ; 
We  felt  full  of  hope  and  heart 

While  we  clove  the  Bospborus. 
La'  laha,  il  Allah  i 

The  Bosphorus,  the  Bosphorus  ! 

For  life  has  lost  its  gloss  for  us, 
Since  the  days  we  spent  of  yore 

Upon  the  pleasant  Bosphorus  ! 

La'  laha,  il  Allah ! 
Ah !  for  youth's  delirious  hours, 

Man  pays  well  in  after  days, 
When  quench'd  hopes  and  palsied  powers 

Mock  his  love-and-laughter  days. 
Thorns  and  thistles  on  our  path, 

Took  the  place  of  moss  for  us, 
Till  false  fortune's  tempest  wrath 

Drove  us  from  the  Bosphorus. 
La'  laha,  il  Allah ! 

The  Bosphorus,  the  Bosphorus  I 


When  thorns  took  place  of  moss  for  us, 
Gone  was  all !     Our  hearts  were  graves 
Deep,  deeper  than  the  Bosphorus ! 

La'  laha,  il  Allah ! 
Gone  is  all !     In  one  abyss 

Lie  Health,  Youth,  and  Merriment ! 
All  we've  learn'd  amounts  to  this — 

I/ife's  a  sad  experiment. 
What  it  is  we  trebly  feel 

Pondering  what  it  was  for  us, 
When  our  shallop's  bounding  keel 

Clove  the  joyous  Bosphorus. 
La'  laha,  il  Allah ! 

The  Bosphorus,  the  Bosphorus ! 

We  wail  for  what  life  was  for  us, 
When  our  shallop's  bounding  keel 

Clove  the  joyous  Bosphorus ! 

THE   WARNING. 

La1  laha,  il  Allah  ! 
Pleasure  tempts,  yet  man  has  none 

Save  himself  t'  accuse,  if  her 
Temptings  prove,  when  all  is  done, 

Lures  hung  out  by  Lucifer. 
Guard  your  fire  in  youth,  O  Friends ! 

Manhood's  is  but  Phosphorus, 
And  bad  luck  attends  and  ends 

Boatings  down  the  Bosphorus ! 
La'  laha,  il  Allah ! 

The  Bosphorus,  the  Bosphorus  ! 

Youth's  fire  soon  wanes  to  Phosphorus, 
And  slight  luck  or  grace  attends 

Your  boaters  down  the  Bosphorus  ! 


THE  TIME  OF  THE  BARMECIDES. 
(FROM  THE  ARABIC.) 

MY  eyes  are  film'd,  my  beard  is  gray, 

I  am  bow'd  with  the  weight  of  years ; 
I  would  I  were  stretch'd  in  my  bed  of  clay, 

With  my  long-lost  youth's  compeers  ! 
For  back  to  the  Past,  though  the  though \ 
brings  woe, 

My  memory  ever  glides — 
To  the  old,  old  time,  long,  long  ago, 

The  time  of  the  Barmecides  ! 
To  the  old,  old  time,  long,  long  ago, 

The  time  of  the  Barmecides. 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


Fhen  Youth  was  mine,  and  a  fierce  wild  will, 

And  an  iron  arm  in  war, 
And  a  fleet  foot  high  upon  Ishkar's  hill, 

When  the  watch-lights  glimmer'd  afar, 
And  a  barb  as  fiery  as  any  I  know 

That  Khoord  or  Beddaween  rides, 
Ere  my  friends  lay  low — long,  long  ago, 

In  the  time  of  the  Barmecides. 
Ere  my  friends  lay  low — long,  long  ago, 

In  the  time  of  the  Barmecides. 

One  golden  goblet  illumed  my  board, 

One  silver  dish  was  there  ; 
At  hand  my  tried  Karamanian  sword 

Lay  always  bright  and  bare, 
For  those  were  the  days  when  the  angry  blow 

Supplanted  the  word  that  chides — 
When  hearts  could  glow — long,  long  ago, 

In  the  time  of  the  Barmecides ; 
When  hearts  could  glow — long,  long  ago, 

In  the  time  of  the  Barmecides. 

Through  city  and  desert  my  mates  and  I 

Were  free  to  rove  and  roam, 
Our  diaper'd  canopy  the  deep  of  the  sky, 

Or  the  roof  of  the  palace  dome — 
Oh !  ours  was  that  vivid  life  to  and  fro 

Which  only  sloth  derides — 
Men  spent  Life  so,  long,  long  ago, 

In  the  time  of  the  Barmecides, 
Men  spent  Life  so,  long,  long  ago, 

In  the  time  of  the  Barmecides. 

I  see  rich  Bagdad  once  again, 

O  O  * 

With  its  turrets  of  Moorish  mould, 
And  the  Khalif 's  twice  five  hundred  men 

Whose  binishes  flamed  with  gold ; 
I  call  up  many  a  gorgeous  show 

Which  the  pall  of  Oblivion  hides — 
All  pass'd  like  snow,  long,  long  ago, 

With  the  time  of  the  Barmecides ; 
All  pass'd  like  snow,  long,  long  ago, 

With  the  time  of  the  Barmecides ! 

But  mine  eye  is  dim,  and  my  beard  is  gray, 
And  I  bend  with  the  weight  of  years — 

May  I  soon  go  down  to  the  House  of  Clay 
Where  slumber  my  Youth's  compeers ! 

For  with  them  and  the  Past,  though   the 

thought  wakes  woe, 
My  memory  ever  abides ; 


And  I  mourn  for  the  Times  gone  long  ago, 
For  the  Times  of  the  Barmecides  ! 

I  mourn  for  the  Times  gone  long  ago, 
For  the  Times  of  the  Barmecides ! 


THE  MARINER'S  BRIDE. 
(FROM  THE  SPANISH.) 

LOOK,  mother !  the  mariner's  rowing 

His  galley  adown  the  tide ; 
I'll  go  where  the  mariner's  going, 

And  be  the  mariner's  bride  ! 

I  saw  him  one  day  through  the  wicket, 
I  open'd  the  gate  and  we  met — 
As  a  bird  in  the  fowler's  net, 

Was  I  caught  in  my  own  green  thicket. 

O  mother,  my  tears  are  flowing, 
I've  lost  my  maidenly  pride — 

I'll  go  if  the  mariner's  going, 
And  be  the  mariner's  bride ! 

This  Love  the  tyrant  evinces, 
Alas  !  an  omnipotent  might, 
He  darkens  the  mind  like  Night. 

He  treads  on  the  necks  of  Princes ! 

O  mother,  my  bosom  is  glowing, 
I'll  go  whatever  betide, 

I'll  go  where  the  mariner's  going, 
And  be  the  mariner's  bride  ! 

Yes,  mother  !  the  spoiler  has  reft  me 

Of  reason  and  self-control ; 

Gone,  gone  is  my  wretched  soul, 
And  only  my  body  is  left  me  ! 
The  winds,  O  mother,  are  blowing, 

The  ocean  is  bright  and  wide ; 
I'll  go  where  the  mariner's  going, 

And  be  the  mariner's  bride. 


TO    THE   INGLEEZEE    KIIAFIR,    CALLING 
HIMSELF  DJAUN  BOOL  DJENKINZUN. 

(FROM  THE  PERSIAN.) 

Thus  writeth  Meer  Djafrit — 

I  hate  thee,  Djaun  Bool, 
Worse  than  Marid  or  Afrit, 

Or  corpse-eating  Ghool. 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


411 


I  hate  thee  like  Sin, 

For  thy  mop-head  of  hair, 
Thy  snub  nose  and  bald  chin, 

And  thy  turkeycock  ait. 
Thou  vile  Ferindjee ! 

That  thou  thus  shouldst  disturb  an 
Old  Moslim  like  me, 

With  my  Khizzilbash  turban ! 
Old  fogy  like  me, 

With  my  Khizzilbash  turban  1 

I  §pit  on  thy  clothing, 
That  garb  for  baboons  ! 


I  eye  with  deep  loathing 

Thy  tight  pantaloons ! 
I  curse  the  cravat 

That  encircles  thy  throat, 
And  thy  cooking-pot  hat, 

And  thy  swallow-tail'd  coat ! 
Go,  hide  thy  thick  sconce 

In  some  hovel  suburban ; 
Or  else  don  at  once 

The  red  Moosleman  turban. 
Thou  dog,  don  at  once 

The  grand  Khizzilbash  turban  I 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


SOUL  AND  COUNTRY. 

ARISE  !  my  slumbering  soul,  arise ! 
And  learn  what  yet  remains  for  thee 

To  dree  or  do ! 
The  signs  are  flaming  in  the  skies  : 

O  &  * 

A  struggling  world  would  yet  be  free, 

And  live  anew. 

The  earthquake  hath  not  yet  been  born, 
That  soon  shall  rock  the  lands  around, 

Beneath  their  base. 
Immortal  freedom's  thunder  horn, 
As  yet,  yields  but  a  doleful  sound 
To  Europe's  race. 

Look  round,  my  soul,  and  see  and  say 
If  those  about  thee  understand 

Their  mission  here; 

The  will  to  smite — the  power  to  slay — 
Abound  in  every  heart — and  hand 

Afar,  anear. 

But,  GOD  !  must  yet  the  conqueror's  sword 
Pierce  mind,  as  heart,  in  this  proud  year? 

Oh,  dream  it  not ! 
it  sounds  a  false,  blaspheming  word, 


Begot  and  born  of  moral  fear  - 
And  ill-begot ! 

To  leave  the  world  a  name  is  nought , 
To  leave  a  name  for  glorious  deeds 

And  works  of  love — 
A  name  to  waken  lightning  thought, 
And  fire  the  soul  of  him  who  reads, 

This  tells  above. 
Napoleon  sinks  to-day  before 

The  ungilded  shrine,  the  single  soul 

Of  Washington  ; 

TRUTH'S  name,  alone,  shall  man  adore, 
Long  as  the  waves  of  time  shall  roll 

O 

Henceforward  on ! 

My  countrymen!  my  words  are  weak, 
My  health  is  gone,  my  soul  is  dark, 

My  heart  is  chill — 
Yet  would  I  fain  and  fondly  seek 
To  see  you  borne  in  freedom's  bark 

O'er  ocean  still. 

Beseech  your  GOD,  and  bide  your  hour — 
He  cannot,  will  not,  long  be  dumb; 

Even  now  his  troa<l 

Is  heard  o'er  earth  with  coming  powrr  ; 
And  coming,  trust  me,  it  will  come, 
Else  were  he  dead  ! 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


SIBERIA. 

IN  Siberia's  wastes 

The  Ice-wind's  breath 
Woundeth  like  the  toothed  steel. 
Lost  Siberia  doth  reveal 

Only,  blight  and  death. 

Blight  and  death  alone. 

No  Summer  shines. 
Night  is  interblent  with  Day. 
In  Siberia's  wastes  alway 

The  blood  blackens,  the  heart  pines. 

In  Siberia's  wastes 

No  tears  are  shed, 
For  they  freeze  within  the  brain. 
Nought  is  felt  but  dullest  pain, 

Pain  acute,  yet  dead ; 

Pain  as  in  a  dream, 

When  years  go  by 
Funeral-paced,  yet  fugitive, 
When  man  lives,  and  doth  not  live, 

Doth  not  live — nor  die. 

In  Siberia's  wastes 

Are  sands  and  rocks. 
Nothing  blooms  of  green  or  soft, 
But  the  snow-peaks  rise  aloft 

And  the  gaunt  ice-blocks. 

And  the  exile  there 

Is  one  with  those ; 
They  are  part,  and  he  is  part, 
For  the  sands  are  in  his  heart, 

And  the  killing  snows. 

Therefore,  in  those  wastes 

None  curse  the  Czar. 
Each  man's  tongue  is  cloven  by 
The  North  Blast,  who  heweth  nigh 

With  sharp  scymitar. 

And  such  doom  each  drees, 

Till,  hunger-gnawn, 
And  cold-slain,  he  at  length  sinks  there 
Yet  scarce  more  a  corpse  than  ere 

His  last  breath  was  drawn. 


A  VISION  OF  CONNAUGBT  IN  THE  THIR- 
TEENTH CENTURY. 

Et  moi,  j'ai  e'te  anesi  en  Arcadie."  —  And  I,  I,  too,  h»Y«' 
been  a  dreamer.—  Inscription  on  a  Painting  by  Poussin. 


entranced 

Through  a  land  of  Morn  ; 
The  sun,  with  wondrous  excess  of  light, 
Shone  down  and  glanced 

Over  seas  of  corn 
And  lustrous  gardens  aleft  and  right. 
Even  in  the  clime 

Of  resplendent  Spain, 
Beams  no  such  sun  upon  such  a  land; 
But  it  was  the  time, 
JTwas  in  the  reign, 
Of  Cahal  M6r  of  the  Wine-red  Hand 

Anon  stood  nigh 

By  my  side  a  man 
Of  princely  aspect  and  port  sublime. 
Him  queried  I, 

"  Oh,  my  Lord  and  Khan,1 
What  clime  is  this,  and  what  golden  time  ?'* 
When  he—"  The  clime 

Is  a  clime  to  praise, 
The  clime  is  Erin's,  the  green  and  bland  ; 
And  it  is  the  time, 

These  be  the  days, 
Of  Cabal  Mor  of  the  Wine-red  Hand  !" 

Then  saw  1  thrones, 
And  circling  fires, 

And  a  Dome  rose  near  me,  as  by  a  spell, 
Whence  flow'd  the  tones 

Of  silver  lyres, 

And  many  voices  in  wreathed  .swell  ; 
And  their  thrilling  chime 

Fell  on  mine  ears 

As  the  heavenly  hymn  of  an  angel-band  — 
"  It  is  now  the  time, 

These  be  the  years, 
Of  Cahal  Mor  of  the  Wine-red  Hand  !" 

I  sought  the  hall, 

And,  behold  !  .  .  .  a  change 
From  light  to  dai-kness,  from  joy  to  woe  ! 

King,  nobles,  all, 

Look'd  aghast  and  strange  ; 


'Cfeann.  the  Gaelic  title  for  a  chief. 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


41) 


The  minstrel-group  sate  in  dumbest  show ! 
Had  some  great  crime 

Wrought  this  dread  amaze, 
This  terror  ?     None  seem'd  to  understand  ! 
'Twas  then  the  time, 

We  were  in  the  days, 
Of  Cahal  M6rof  the  Wine-red  Hand. 

I  again  walk'd  forth  ; 

But  lo !  the  sky 

Show'd  fleckt  with  blood,  and  an  alien  sun 
Glared  from  the  north, 

And  there  stood  on  high, 
Amid  his  shorn  beams,  A  SKELETON  ! 
It  was  by  the  stream 

Of  the  castled  Maine, 

One  Autumn  eve,  in  the  Teuton's  land, 

That  I  dream'd  this  dream 

Of  the  time  and  reign 
Of  Cahal  M6r  of  the  Wine-red  Hand  ! 


AN  INVITATION. 

FRIENDS  to  Freedom  !  is't  not  time 

That  your  course  were  shaped  at  length  ? 

Wherefore  stand  ye  loitering  here  ? 
Seek  some  healthier,  holier  clime, 

Where  your  souls  may  grow  in  strength, 
And  whence  Love  hath  exiled  Fear  ! 

Europe, — Southron,  Saxon,  Celt, — 
Sits  alone,  in  tatter'd  robe. 

In  our  days  she  burns  with  none 
Of  the  lightning-life  she  felt, 

When  Rome  shook  the  troubled  globe, 
Twenty  centuries  agone. 

Deutschland  sleeps :  her  star  hath  waned. 
France,  the  Thundress  whilome,  now 

Singeth  small,  with  bated  breath. 
Spain  is  bleeding,  Poland  chain'd  ; 
Italy  can  but  groan  and  vow. 
England  lieth  sick  to  death.1 

Cross  with  me  the  Atlantic's  foam, 
And  your  genuine  goal  is  won. 


Purely  Freedom's  breezes  blow, 
'Merrily  Freedom's  children  roam, 
By  the  dcedal  Amazon, 
And  the  glorious  Ohio ! 

Thither  take  not  gems  and  gold. 

Nought  from  Europe's  robber-hoards 

Must  profane  the  Western  Zones. 
Thither  take  ye  spirits  bold, 

Thither  take  ye  ploughs  and  swords, 
And  your  fathers'  buried  bones  ! 

Come ! — if  Liberty's  true  fires 
Burn  within  your  bosoms,  come ! 

If  ye  would  that  in  your  graves 
Your  free  sons  should  bless  their  sires, 
Make  the  Far  Green  West  your  home, 
Cross  with  me  the  Atlantic's  waves ! 


THE  WARNING  VOICE.1 

"H  me  semhle  qne  nous  eommes  &  la  vciUe  d'une  grand* 
bataille  humaine.  Lea  forces  sent  li ;  male  Je  u'y  vois  pas  de 
g6n6ral." — BALZAC:  Livre  Myr'.ique. 

YE  Faithful !— ye  Noble ! 

A  day  is  at  hand 
Of  trial  and  trouble, 

And  woe  in  the  land ! 
O'er  a  once  greenest  path, 

Now  blasted  and  sterile, 

Its  dusk  shadows  loom — 
It  cometh  with  Wrath, 

With  Conflict  and  Peril, 
With  Judgment  and  Doom ! 

False  bands  shall  be  broken, 
Dead  systems  shall  crumble, 

And  the  Haughty  shall  hear 
Truths  yet  never  spoken, 

Though  smouldering  like  flame 
Through  many  a  lost  yt':ir 
In  the  hearts  of  the  Humble; 
For,  Il6>pewill  expire 
As  the  Terror  draws  nigher, 

And,  with  it,  the  Shame 
Which  so  long  overawnl 
Men's  minds  by  its  might — 


'"England  letdet  von  clncr  todtllchcn  Krankhelt,  ohne 
SofTnung  wte  ohne  Heiliing."  Kngland  labor*  under  a  deadly 
tlcknens,  without  hope  and  without  remedy.— NIKBUHB. 


•Written  in  the  year  1847,  when  the  BritUh  Famine  WM 
wasting  Ireland,  and  when  the  Irish  Confederation  *a* 
formed. 


414 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


And  the  Powers  abroad 
Will  be  Panic  and  Blight, 

And  phrenetic  Sorrow — 
Black  Pest  all  the  night, 

And  Death  on  the  morrow ! 

Now,  therefore,  ye  True, 
Gird  your  loins  up  anew ! 
By  the  good  you  have  wrought ! 
By  all  you  have  thought, 
And  suffer'd,  and  done  ! 

By  your  souls  !  I  implore  you, 

Be  leal  to  your  mission — 
Remembering  that  one 

Of  the  tivo  path-s  before  you 
Slopes  down  to  Perdition ! 
To  you  have  been  given, 

Not  granaries  and  gold, 
But  the  Love  that  lives  long, 

O' 

And  waxes  not  cold  ; 
And  the  Zeal  that  hath  striven 

Against  Error  and  Wrong, 
And  in  fragments  hath  riven 

The  chains  of  the  Strong ! 
Bide  now,  by  your  sternest 
Conceptions  of  eai-nest 
Endurance  for  others, 
Your  weakcr-soul'd  brothers ! 
»Your  true  faith  and  worth 

Will  be  History  soon, 
And  their  stature  stand  forth 

In  the  unsparing  Noon  ! 

You  have  dream'd  of  an  era 
Of  Knowledge,  and  Truth, 

And  Peace — the  true  glory ! 
Was  this  a  chimera  ? 

Not   so! — but  the   childhood   and 

youth 

Of  our  days  will  grow  hoary, 
Before   such  a  marvel  shall  burst  on  their 

sight ! 

On  you  its  beams  glow  not — 
For  you  its  flowers  blow  not ! 
You  cannot  rejoice  in  its  light, 

But  in  darkness  and  suffering  instead, 
You  go  down  to  the  place  of  the  Dead ! 
To  this  generation 
The  sore  tribulation, 


The  stormy  commotion, 

And  foam  of  the  Popular  Ocean, 

The  struggle  of  class  against  class  ; 
The  Dearth  and  the  Sadness, 

The  Sword  and  the  War-vest ; 
To  the  next,  the  Repose  and  the  Glad 

ness, 

"  The  sea  of  clear  glass," 
And  the  rich  Golden  Harvest ! 

Know,  then,  your  true  lot, 
Ye  Faithful,  though  few ! 
Understand  your  position, 
Remember  your  mission, 
And  vacillate  not, 

Whatsoever  ensue ! 
Alter  not !  Falter  not ! 

Palter  not  now  with  your  own  living 

souls, 

When  each  moment  that  rolls 
May  see  Death  lay  his  hand 
On  some  new  victim's  brow  ! 
Oh  !  let  not  your  vow 

Have  been  written  in  sand  ! 
Leave  cold  calculations 
Of  Danger  and  Plague, 

To  the  slaves  and  the  traitors 
Who  cannot  dissemble 

The  dastard  sensations 
That  now  make  them  tremble 

With  phantasies  vague! — 
The  men  without  ruth — 
The  hypocrite  haters 
Of  Goodness  and  Truth, 
Who  at  heart  curse  the  race 

Of  the  sun  through  the  skies ; 
And  would  look  in  God's  face 

With  a  lie  in  their  eyes ! 
To  the  last  do  your  duty, 

Still  mindful  of  this — 
That  Virtue  is  Beauty, 

And  Wisdom,  and  Bliss ; 
So,  howe'er,  as  frail  men,  you  have  err'd  on; 

Your  way  along  Life's  thronged  road, 
Shall  your  consciences  prove  a  sure  guerdoit 
And  tower  of  defence, 
Until  Destiny  summon  you  hence 
To  the  Better  Abode  ! 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


41* 


THE  LOVELY  LAND. 
(On  A  LANDSCAPE,  PAINTED  nvM******.) 

GLORIOUS  birth  of  Mind  and  Color, 
Gazing  on  thy  radiant  face, 
The  most  lorn  of  Adam's  race 

Might  forget  all  dolor ! 

What  divinest  light  is  heaming 
Over  mountain,  mead,  and  grove  ! 
That  blue  noontide  sky  above, 

Seems  asleep  and  dreaming. 

Rich  Italia's  wild-birds  warble 
In  the  foliage  of  those  trees. 
I  can  trace  thee,  Veronese, 

In  these  rocks  of  marble ! 

Yet  no  !     Mark  I  not  where  quiver 
The  sun's  rays  on  yonder  stream  ? 
Only  a  Poussin  could  dream 

Such  a  sun  and  river ! 

What  bold  imaging  !     Stony  valley, 
And  fair  bower  of  eglantine ! 
Here  I  see  the  black  ravine, 

There  the  lilied  alley ! 

This  is  some  rare  clime  so  olden, 
Peopled,  not  by  men,  but  fays; 
Some  lone  land  of  genii  days, 

Storyful  and  golden ! 

Oh  for  magic  power  to  wander 

One  bright  year  through  such  a  land ! 
Might  I  even  one  hour  stand 

On  the  blest  hills  yonder! 

But — what  spy  I? . .  .O,  by  noonlight ! 
'Tis  the  same ! — the  pillar-tower 
I  have  oft  pass'd  thrice  an  hour, 

Twilight,  sunlight,  moonlight! 

Shame  to  me,  my  own,  my  sire-land, 
Not  to  know  thy  soil  and  skies! 
Shame,  that  through  Machse's  eyes 

I  first  see  thee,  IRELAND! 


No!  no  land  doth  rank  above  thoc 
Or  for  loveliness  or  worth  ! 
So  shall  I,  from  this  day  forth, 

Ever  sing  and  love  thee ! 


THE  SAW-MILL. 

MY  path  lay  toward  the  Mourne  agen, 
But  I  stopp'd  to  rest  by  the  hill-side 

That  glanced  adown  o'er  the  sunken  glen, 
Which  the  Saw-  and  Water-maYA?  hide, 

Which  now,  as  then, 
The  Saw-  and  Water-mills  hide. 

And  there,  as  I  lay  reclined  on  the  hill, 
Like  a  man  made  by  sudden  qualm  ill, 

I  heard  the  water  in  the  Water-mill, 
And  I  saw  the  saw  in  the  Saw-mill ! 

As  I  thus  lay  still, 
I  saw  the  saw  in  the  Saw-mill ! 

The  saw,  the  breeze,  and  the  humming  bees, 
Lull'd  me  into  a  dreamy  reverie, 

Till  the  objects  round  me,  hills,  mills,  trees, 
Seem'd  grown  alive  all  and  every, 

By  slow  degrees 
Took  life  as  it  were,  all  and  every ! 

Anon  the  sound  of  the  waters  grew 

To  a  Mourne-ful  ditty, 
And  the  song  of  the  tree  that  the  saw 

saw'd  through, 
Disturb'd  my  spirit  with  pity, 

Began  to  subdue 
My  spirit  with  tenderest  pity ! 

"  Oh,  wanderer !  the  hour  that   brings  thee 

back 

IB  of  all  meet  hours  the  meetest. 
Thou  now,  in  sooth,  art  on  the  Track, 
Art  nigher  to  Home  than  thou  weetest ; 
Thou  hast  thought  Time  slack, 
But  his  flight  has  been  of  the  fleetest ! 

"  For  thee  it  is  that  I  dree  such  pain 

As,  when  wounded,  even  a  plank  will ; 
My  bosom  is  pierced,  is  rent  in  twain, 


tie 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


That  thine  may  ever  bide  tranquil, 

May  ever  remain 
Henceforward  untroubled  and  tranquil. 

u  In  a  few  days  more,  most  Lonely  One ! 

Shall  I.  as  a  narrow  ark,  veil 
Thine  eyes  from  the  glare  of  the  world  and 

sun 
'Mong  the  urns  in  yonder  dark  vale, 

In  the  cold  and  dun 
Recesses  of  yonder  dark  vale  ! 

"For  this  grieve  not!     Thou  knowest  what 

thanks 

The  Weary-soul'd  and  Meek  owe 
To  Death !" — I  awoke,  and  heard  four  planks 
Fall  down  with  a  saddening  echo. 

I  heard  four  planks 
Fall  down  with  a  hollow  echo. 


CEAN-SALLA. 
THE  LAST  WORDS  OP  RED  HUGH  O'DONNELL  OK  HIS 

DEPARTURE  FROM  IRELAND  FOR  SPAIN. 

["After  this  defeat  at  Cean-Salla  (Kinsale),  it  was  remarked 
that  the  Irish  became  a  totally  changed  people,  for  they  now 
exchanged  their  valour  for  timidity,  their  energy  and  vigour  for 
indolence,  and  their  hopes  for  bitter  despondency." — Annals 
of  the  Four  Masters,  A.  v>.  1602.] 

WEEP  not  the  brave  Dead ! 
Weep  rather  the  Living — 

On  them  lies  the  curse 
Of  a  Doom  unforgiving  ! 
Each  dark  hour  that  rolls, 

Shall  the  memories  they  nurse, 
Like  molten  hot  lead, 
Burn  into  their  souls 

A  remorse  long  and  sore ! 

They  have  hclp'd  to  enthral  a 
Great  land  evermore, 

They  who  fled  from  Cean-Salla ! 

Alas,  for  thee,  slayer 

Of  the  kings  of  the  Norsemen  ! 

Thou  land  of  sharp  swords, 
And  strong  kerns  and  swift  horsemen ! 
Land  ringing  with  song ! 

Land,  whose  abbots  and  lords, 


Whose  Heroic  and  Fair, 
Through  centuries  long, 

Made  each  palace  of  thine 
A  new  western  Walhalla — 

Thus  to  die  without  sign 
On  the  field  of  Cean-Salla ; 

My  ship  cleaves  the  wave — 
I  depart  for  Iberia — 

But,  oh!  with  what  grief, 
With  how  heavy  and  dreary  a 

Sensation  of  ill ! 
•  I  could  welcome  a  grave : 

My  career  has  been  brief, 
But  I  bow  to  God's  will ! 
Not  if  now  all  forlorn, 

In  my  green  years,  I  fall,  a 
Lone  exile,  I  mourn — 

But  I  mourn  for  Cean-Salla ! 


IRISH  NATIONAL  HYMN. 

O  IRELAND  !     Ancient  Ireland ! 
Ancient !  yet  forever  young  ! 
Thou  our  mother,  home,  and  sire-land-  • 
Thou  at  length  hast  found  a  tongue- 
Proudly  thou,  at  length, 
Resistest  in  triumphant  strength. 
Thy  flag  of  freedom  floats  unfurl'd  ! 
And  as  that  mighty  God  existeth, 
Who  giveth  victory  when  and  where  tie 

listeth, 

Thou  yet  shalt  wake  and  shake  the  nationi 
of  the  world. 

For  this  dull  world  still  slumbers, 
Weetless  of  its  wants  or  loves, 
Though,  like  Galileo,  numbers 
Cry  aloud,  "  It  moves !  it  moves !" 
In  a  midnight  dream, 
Drifts  it  down  Time's  wreckful  stream. 
All  march,  but  few  descry  the  goal. 
O  Ireland  !  be  it  thy  high  duty 
To  teach  the  world  the   might  of  Moral 

Beauty, 

And  stamp  God's  image  truly  on  the  strug- 
gling soul. 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


41? 


Strong  in  thy  self-reliance, 

Not  in  idle  threat  or  boast, 
Hast  thou  hurl'd  thy  fierce  defiance 
At  the  haughty  Saxon  host — 
Thou  hast  cluim'd,  in  slight 
Of  high  Heaven,  thy  long-lost  right. 
Upon  thy  hills — along  thy  plains — 
In  the  green  bosom  of  thy  valleys, 
The  new-born  soul  of  holy  freedom  rallies, 
And  calls  on  thee  to  trample  down  in  dust 
thy  chains ! 

Deep,  saith  the  Eastern  story, 

Burns  in  Iran's  mines  a  gem, 
For  its  dazzling  hues  and  glory 
Worth  a  Sultan's  diadem. 
But  from  human  eyes 
Hidden  there  it  ever  lies  ! 
The  aye-travailing  Gnomes  alone, 

Who  toil  to  form  the  mountain's  treasure 
May  gaze  and  gloat  with  pleasure  without 

measure, 

Upon  the  lustrous  beauty  of  that  wonder- 
stone. 

So  is  it  with  a  nation 

Which  »vould  win  for  its  rich  dower 
That  bright  pearl,  Self-Liberation — 
It  must  labor  hour  by  hour. 
Strangers,  who  travail 
To  lay  bare  the  gem,  shall  fail ; 
Within  itself,  must  grow,  must  glow — 
Within  the  depths  of  its  own  bosom 
Must  flower  in  living  might,  must  broadly 

blossom, 

The  hopes  that  shall  be  born  ere  Freedom's 
Tree  can  blow. 

Go  on,  then,  all-rejoiceful ! 

March  on  thy  career  unbow'd  ! 
IRELAND!  let  thy  noble,  voiceful 
Spirit  cry  to  God  aloud ! 
Man  will  bid  thee  speed — 
God  will  aid  thee  in  thy  need — 
The  Time,  the  hour,  the  power  are  near — 
Be  sure  thou  soon  shalt  form  the  vanguard 
Of  that  illustrious   band,  whom  Heaven 

and  Man  guard  • 
And  these  words  come  horn  one  whom  some 
have  call 'e/  a  Seer. 


BROKEN-HEARTED  LAYS. 

BALLAD. 

WEEP  for  one  blank,  one  desert  epoch  in 
The  history  of  the  heart ;  it  is  the  time 
When  all  which  dazzled  us  no  more  can  win ; 
When   all   that   beam'd   of  starlike   and 

sublime 
Wanes,  and  we  stand  lone  mourners  o'er  the 

burial 

Of  perish'd  pleasure,  and  a  pall  funereal, 
Stretching  afar  across  the  hueless  heaven, 
Curtains  the  kingly  glory  of  the  sun, 
And  robes  the  melancholy  earth  in  c-ne 
Wide   gloom ;   when   friends  for  whom  we 

could  have  striven 
With  pain,  and   peril,  and  the  sword,  and 

given 
Myriads  of  lives,  had  such  been  merged 

in  ours, 
Requite   us  with   falseheartedness   and 

wrong ; 
When  sorrows  haunt   our  path  like  evil 

powers, 

Sweeping  and  countless  as  the  legion 
throng. 

Then,  when  the  upbrokcn   dreams  of  boy- 
hood's span, 

Ami  when  the  inanity  of  all  things  human, 
And  when  the  dark  ingratitude  of  man, 

And  when  the  hollower  perfidy  of  woman, 
Come   down   like   night   upon  the  feelings, 

turning 
This   rich,  bright   world,  so  redolent   of 

bloom, 

Into  a  lazar-house  of  tears  and  mourning — 
Into  the  semblance  of  a  living  tomb  1 

When,  yielding  to  the  might  she  cannot 

master, 

The  soul  forsakes  her  palace  halls  of  youth, 
And    (touch'd   by  the   Ithuriel   wand  of 

truth, 
Which  oft  in  one  brief  hour  works  wonders 

vaster 

Than  those  of  Egypt's  old  magician  host), 
Sees  at  a  single  glance  that  all  is  lost ! 
And  brooding  in  her  cold  and  desolate  lair 


418 


POEMS  BY  JAMES   CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


Over   the  phantom- wrecks   of   things   that 

were, 

And  asking  destiny  if  nought  remain  ? 
Is  answer' d — bitterness  and  lifelong  pain, 
Remembrance,  and  reflection,  and  despair, 
And  torturing  thoughts  that  will  not  be  for- 
bidden, 
And  agonies  that  cannot  all  be  hidden  ! 

Oh !  in  an  hour  like  this,  when  thousands  fix, 

In  headlong  desperation,  on  self-slaughter, 

Sit  down,  you  droning,  groaning  bore  !  and 

mix 

A  glorious  beaker  of  red  rum-and- water ! 
And  finally  give  Care  his  flooring  blow, 
By  one  large  roar  of  laughter,  or  guflfaw, 
As  in  the  Freischutz  chorus,  "  Haw !  haw ! 

haw !" 

L1  affaire  estfaite — you've  bamm'd  and  both- 
er'd  woe. 


THE  ONE  MYSTERY. 


Tis  idle !  we  exhaust  and  squander 

The  glittering  mine  of  thought  in  vain; 
All-baffled  reason  cannot  wander 

Beyond  her  chain. 
The  flood  of  life  runs  dark — dark  clouds 

Make  lampless  night  around  its  shore : 
The    dead,   where    are   they  ?     In   their 
shrouds — 

Man  knows  no  more. 

Evoke  the  ancient  and  the  past, 

Will  one  illumining  star  arise  ? 
Or  must  the  film,  from  first  to  last, 

O'erspread  thine  eyes  ? 
When  life,  love,  glory,  beauty,  wither, 

Will  wisdom's  page  or  science'  chart 
Map  out  for  thee  the  region  whither 

Their  shades  depart  ? 

Supposest  thou  the  wondrous  powers, 

To  high  imagination  given, 
Pale  types  of  what  shall  yet  be  ours, 

When  earth  is  heaven  ? 


When  this  decaying  shell  is  cold, 
Oh !  sayest  thou  the  soul  shall  climb 

That  magic  mount  she  trod  of  old. 
Ere  childhood's  time  ? 

And  shall  the  sacred  pulse  that  thrill'd, 

Thrill  once  again  to  glory's  name  ? 
And  shall  the  conquering  love  that  fill'd 

All  earth  with  flame, 
Reborn,  revived,  renew'd,  immortal, 

liesume  his  reign  in  prouder  might, 
A  sun  beyond  the  ebon  portal 

Of  death  and  night  ? 

No  more,  no  more — with  aching  brow, 

And  restless  heart,  and  burning  brain, 
We  ask  the  When,  the  Where,  the  How, 

And  ask  in  vain. 
And  all  philosophy,  all  faith, 

All  earthly — all  celestial  lore, 
Have  but  one  voice,  which  only  saith — 

Endure — adore ! 


THE  NAMELESS  ONE. 

BALLAD. 

ROLL  forth,  my  song,  like  the  rushing  river, 

That  sweeps  along  to  the  mighty  sea ; 
GOD  will  inspire  me  while  I  deliver 
My  soul  of  thee  ! 

Tell   thou   the   world,  when   my  bones  lie 

whitening 

Amid  the  last  homes  of  youth  and  eld, 
That  there  was  once  one  whose  veins  ran 
lightning 

No  eye  beheld. 

Tell  how  his  boyhood  was  one  drear  night 

hour, 
How  shone  for  him,  through  his  griefs  and 

gloom, 

No  star  of  all  heaven  sends  to  light  our 
Path  to  the  tomb. 

Roll  on,  my  song,  and  to  after  ages 
Tell  how,  disdaining  all  earth  can  give, 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


41t» 


lie  would  have  taught  men,  from  wisdom's 
pages, 

The  way  to  live. 

And  tell  how' trampled,  derided,  hated, 

And  worn  by  weakness,  disease,  and  wrong, 
lie  fled  for  shelter  to  GOD,  who  mated 
His  soul  with  song — 

With  song  which  alway,  sublime  or  vapid, 

Flow'd  like  a  rill  in  the  morning-beam, 
Perchance  not  deep,  but  intense  and  rapid — 
A  mountain  stream. 

Tell  hr  w  this  Nameless,  condemn'd  for  years 

long 

To  herd  with  demons  from  hell  beneath, 
Saw  things  that  made  him,  with  groans  and 
tears,  long 

For  even  death. 

Go  on  to  tell  how,  with  genius  wasted, 

Betray'd  in  friendship,  befool'd  in  love, 
With  spirit  shipwrecked,  and  young  hopes 
blasted, 

He  still,  still  strove. 

Till,  spent  with  toil,  dreeing  death  for  others, 
And     some    whose    hands    should    have 

wrought  for  him, 

(If  children  live  not  for  sires  and  mothers), 
His  mind  grew  dim. 

And  he  fell  far  through  that  pit  abysmal, 

The  gulf  and  grave  of  Maginn  and  Burns, 
And  pawn'd  his  soul  for  the  devil's  dismal 
Stock  of  returns. 

But  yet  redeeni'd  it  in  days  of  darkness, 

And  shapes  and  signs  of  the  final  wrath, 

When  death,  in  hideous  and  ghastly  starkness, 

Stood  on  his  path. 

And  tell  how  now,  amid  wreck  and  sorrow, 
And   want,  and    sickness,   and   houseless 

nights, 

He  bides  in  calmness  the  silent  morrow, 
That  no  ray  lights. 

And   lives  he  still,  theii?    Yes!     Old  and 
hoary 


At  thirty-nine,  from  despair  and  woe, 
He  lives,  enduring  what  future  story 
Will  never  know. 

Him  grant  a  grave  to,  ye  pitying  noble, 
Doep   in   your  bosoms  !     There   let   him 

dwell ! 

He,  too,  had  toars  for  all  souls  in  trouble, 
Here  and  in  hell. 


THE  DYING  ENTHUSIAST. 

BALLAD. 

SPEAK  no  more  of  life, 

What  can  life  bestow, 
In  this  amphitheatre  of  strife, 

All  times  dark  with  tragedy  and  woe? 
Knowest  thou  not  how  care  and  pain 
Build  their  lampless  dwelling  in  the  brain, 
Ever,  as  the  stern  intrusion 

Of  our  teachers,  time  and  truth, 
Turn  to  gloom  the  bright  illusion, 

Rainbow'd  on  the  soul  of  youth  f 
Could  I  live  to  find  that  this  is  so  ? 
Oh  !  no  !  no ! 

As  the  stream  of  time 

Sluggishly  doth  flow, 
Look  how  all  of  beaming  and  sublime, 

Sinks  into  the  black  abysm  below. 
Yea,  the  loftiest  intellect, 
Earliest  on  the  strand  of  life  is  wreck'd. 
Nought  of  lovely,  nothing  glorious, 

Lives  to  triumph  o'er  decay ; 
Desolation  reigns  victorious — 

Mind  is  dungeon  wall'd  by  clay : 
Could  I  bear  to  feel  mine  own  laid  low  ? 
Oh !  no !  no  ! 

Restless  o'er  the  earth, 

Thronging  millions  go : 
But  behold  how  genius,  love,  and  worth 
Move  like  lonely  phantoms  to  and  frc. 
Suns  are  quench'd,  and  kingdoms  fall, 
But  the  doom  of  these  outdarkens  all ! 
Die  they  then  ?     Yes,  love's  devofon, 
Stricken,  withers  in  its  bloom ; 


t20 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


Fond  affections,  deep  as  ocean, 

In  their  cradle  find  their  tomb  : 
Shall  I  linger,  then,  to  count  each  throe  ? 
Oh  !  no !  no ! 

Prison-bursting  death ! 

Welcome  be  thy  blow ! 
Thine  is  but  the  forfeit  of  my  breath, 

Not  the  spirit !  nor  the  spirit's  glow. 
Spheres  of  beauty — hallow'd  spheres, 

Undefaced  by  time,  undimm'd  by  tears, 
Henceforth  hail !  oh,  who  would  grovel 

In  a  world  impure  as  this  ? 
Who  would  weep,  in  cell  or  hovel, 

When  a  palace  might  be  his  ? 
Wouldst  thou  have  me  the  bright  lot  forego  ? 
Oh  !  no  !  no  ! 


TO  JOSEPH  BRENAN. 

BALLAD. 

FRIEND   and  brother,  and   yet   more   than 

brother, 

Thou  endow'd  with  all  of  Shelley's  soul ! 
Thou  whose  heart  so  burneth  for  thy  mother,1 
That,  like  his,  it  may  defy  all  other 

Flames,  while  time  shall  roll  ! 

Thou  of  language  bland,  and  manner  meekest, 

Gentle  bearing,  yet  unswerving  will — 
Gladly,  gladly,  list  I  when  thou  speakest, 
Honor'd  highly  is  the  man  thou  seekest 
To  redeem  from  ill ! 

Truly  showest  thou  me  the  one  thing  needful ! 

Thou  art  not,  nor  is  the  world  yet  blind. 
Truly  have  I  been  long  years  unheedful 
Of  the  thorns  and  tares,  that   choked   the 

weedful 
Garden  of  my  mind ! 

Thorns  and  tares,  which  rose  in  rank  pro- 
fusion, 

Round  my  scanty  fruitage  and  my  flowers, 
Till  1  almost  deem'd  it  self-delusion, 
Any  attempt  or  glance  at  their  extrusion 
From  their  midnight  bowers. 


Dream   and   waking    life    have    now   been 

blended 

Long  time  in  the  caverns  of  my  soul — 
Oft  in  daylight  have  my  steps  descended 
Down  to  that  dusk  realm  where  all  is  ended, 
Save  remeadless  dole  ! 

Oft,  with  tears,  I  have  groan'd  to  God  for 

pity- 
Oft  gone  wandering  till  my  way  grew  dim- 
Oft  sung  unto  Him  a  prayerful  ditty — 
Oft,  all  lonely  in  this  throngful  city, 
Raised  my  soul  to  Him  ! 

And  from  path  to  path  His  mercy  track'd  me— 

From  a  many  a  peril  snatch'd  He  me ; 
When   false   friends   pursued,   betray'd,  at 

tack'd  me, 
When  gloom  overdark'd,  and  sickness  rack'd 

me, 
lie  was  by  to  save  and  free  ! 

Friend  !  thou  warnest  me  in  truly  noble 
Thoughts  and  phrases !    I  will  heed  thee 

well — 

Well  will  I  obey  thy  mystic  double 
Counsel,   through   all    scenes   of   woe   and 

trouble, 
As  a  magic  spell ! 

Yes !  to  live  a  bard,  in  thought  and  feeling ! 

Yes !  to  act  my  rhyme,  by  self-restraint, 
This  is  truth's,  is  reason's  deep  revealing, 
Unto  me  from  thee,  as  God's  to  a  kneeling 
And  entranced  saint ! 

Fare  thee  well !  we  now  know  each  the  other, 
Each  has  struck  the  other's  inmost  chords- 
Fare   thee  well,  my  friend  and    more  than 

brother, 

And  may  scorn  pursue  me  if  I  smother 
In  my  soul  thy  words ! 


TWENTY  GOLDEN  YEARS  AGO. 

OH,  the  rain,  the  weary,  dreary  rain, 
How  it  plashes  on  the  window-sill ! 

Night,  I  guess  too,  must  be  on  the  wane, 
Strass  and  Gass1  around  are  grown  so  still 


'Earth. 


•  Sireet  and  lane. 


POEMS  BY  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


4 -.'I 


Here  I  sit,  with  coffee  in  my  cup — 
Ah  !  'twas  rarely  I  beheld  it  flow 

In  the  tavern  where  I  loved  to  sup 
Twenty  golden  years  ago ! 

Twenty  years  ago,  alas ! — but  stay — 

On  my  life,  'tis  half-past  twelve  o'clock ! 
After  all,  the  hours  do  slip  away — 

Come,  here  goes  to  burn  another  block  ! 
For  the  night,  or  morn,  is  wet  and  cold  ; 

And  my  fire  is  dwindling  rather  low: — 
I  had  fire  enough,  when  young  and  bold, 

Twenty  golden  years  ago. 

Dear !  I  don't  feel  well  at  all,  somehow  : 

Few  in  Weimar  dream  how  bad  I  am  ; 
Floods  of  tears  grow  common  with  me  now, 

High-Dutch  floods,  that  reason  cannot  dam. 
Doctors  think  I'll  neither  live  nor  thrive 

If  I  mope  at  home  so ; — I  don't  know — 
Am  I  living  now  f  I  was  alive 

Twenty  golden  years  ago. 

Wifeless,  friendless,  flagon  less,  alone, 

Not  qxiite  bookless,  though,  unless  I  choose, 
Left  with  nought  to  do,  except  to  groan, 

Not  a  soul  to  woo,  except  the  muse — 
Oh  !  this  is  hard  for  me  to  bear, 

Me,  who  whilome  lived  so  much  en  haut, 
Me,  who  broke  all  hearts  like  china-ware, 

Twenty  golden  years  ago  ! 

Perhaps  'tis  better ; — time's  defacing  waves, 

Long  have  quench'd  the  radiance  of  my 

brow — 


They  who  curse  me  nightly  from  thfcir 

Scarce  could  love  me  were  they  living  now  j 

But  my  loneliness  hath  darker  ills — 

Such   dun  duns  as   Conscience,  Thought 
and  Co., 

Awful  Gorgons !  worse  than  tailors'  bills 
Twenty  golden  years  ago  ! 

Did  I  paint  a  fifth  of  what  I  feel, 

Oh,  how  plaintive  you  would  ween  I  w<i*  ! 
But  1  won't,  albeit  I  have  a  deal 

More  to  wail  about  than  Kerner  has  ! 
Kerner's  tears  are  wept  for  wither'd  flowers, 

Mine  for  wither'd  hopes  ;  my  scroll  of  woe 
Dates,  alas !  from  youth's  deserted  bowers, 

Twenty  golden  years  ago ! 

Yet,  may  Deutschland's  bardlings   flourish 
long  ; 

Me,  I  tweak  no  beak  among  them ; — hawks 
Must  not  pounce  on  hawks  :  besides,  in  song 

I  could  once  beat  all  of  them  by  chalks. 
Though  you  find  me  as  I  near  my  goal, 

Sentimentalizing  like  Rousseau, 
Oh  !  I  had  a  grand  Byronian  soul 

Twenty  golden  years  ago  ! 

Tick-tick,  tick-tick !— not  a  sound  save  Time'aL 

And  the  wind-gust  as  it  drives  the  rain — 
Tortured  torturer  of  reluctant  rhymes, 

Go  to  bed,  and  rest  thine  aching  brain  ! 
Sleep ! — no    more    the  dupe    of   hopes    or 
schemes ; 

Soon  thou  sleepest  where  the  thistles  blow- 
Curious  anticlimax  to  thy  dreams 

Twenty  golden  years  ago ! 


POEMS  BY  RICHARD  B.  SHERIDAN. 


AH !  CRUEL  MAID. 

[Moore,  in  his  Life  of  Sheridan,  says,  this  song,  "  for  deep, 
Impassioned  feeling  and  natural  eloquence,  has  not,  perhaps, 
its  rival  through  the  whole  range  of  lyric  poetry."] 

AH,  cruel  maid,  how  hast  thou  changed 

The  temper  of  my  mind ! 
My  heart,  by  thee  from  love  estranged, 

Becomes,  like  thee,  unkind. 

By  fortune  favor'd,  clear  in  fame, 

I  once  ambitious  was ; 
And  friends  I  had,  who  fann'd  the  flame, 

And  gave  my  youth  applause. 

But  now,  my  weakness  all  accuse: 

Yet  vain  their  taunts  on  me ; 
Friends,  fortune,  fame  itself,  I'd  lose, 

To  gain  one  smile  from  thee. 

And  only  thou  should  not  despise 

My  weakness,  or  my  woe ; 
If  I  am  mad  in  others'  eyes. 

'Tis  thou  hast  made  me  so. 

But  days,  like  this,  with  doubting  curst, 

I  will  not  long  endure : 
Am  I  disdain'd — I  know  the  worst, 

And  likewise  know  my  cure. 

If  false,  her  vows  she  dare  renounce, 

That  instant  ends  my  pain  ; 
For,  oh !  the  heart  must  break  at  once, 

That  cannot  hate  again. 


HOW  OFT,  LOUISA. 
FROM  "THE  DUENNA." 

ilow  oft,  Louisa,  hast  thou  said — 
Nor  wilt  thou  the  fond  boast  disown- 

Chou  wouldst  not  lose  Antonio's  love 
To  reign  the  partner  of  a  throne ! 


And  by  those  lips  that  spoke  so  kind, 
And  by  this  hand  I  press'd  to  mine, 

To  gain  a  subject  nation's  love 

I  swear  I  would  not  part  with  thine. 

Then  how,  my  soul,  can  we  be  poor, 

Who  own  what  kingdoms  couH  not  buy? 
Of  this  true  heart  thou  shalt  be  queen, 

And,  serving  thee — a  monarch  I. 
And  thus  controll'd  in  mutual  bliss, 

And  rich  in  love's  exhaustless  mine — 
Do  thou  snatch  treasures  from  my  lip, 

And  I'll  take  kingdoms  back  from  thine  ! 


HAD  I  A  HEART  FOR  FALSEHOOD 
FRAMED. 

(Ant — "  MOLLY  ASTOKE,") 

HAD  I  a  heart  for  falsehood  framed, 

I  ne'er  could  injure  you, 
For,  tho'  your  tongue  no  promise  claini'd, 

Your  charms  would  make  me  true; 
Then,  lady,  dread  not  here  deceit, 

Nor  fear  to  suffer  wrong, 
For  friends  in  all  the  aged  you'll  meet, 

And  lovers  in  the  young. 

But  when  they  find  that  you  have  bless'd 

Another  with  your  heart, 
They'll  bid  aspiring  passion  rest, 

And  act  a  brother's  part. 
Then,  lady,  dread  not  here  deceit, 

Nor  fear  to  suffer  wrong, 
For  friends  in  all  the  aged  you'll  meet, 

And  brothers  in  the  young. 

In  speaking  of  the  lyrics  in  the  Opera  of  "The  Duenna," 
Moore  says :  "By  far  the  greater  number  of  the  songs  are  full 
of  beauty,  and  some  of  them  may  rank  among  the  best  models 
of  lyric  writing.  The  verses  '  Had  I  a  heart  for  falsehood 
framed,'  notwithstanding  the  stiflness  of  this  word  '  framed, 
and  one  or  two  slight  blemishes,  are  not  unworthy  of  living 
in  recollection  with  the  matchless  air  to  which  they  ara 
adapted." 


POEMS  BY  RICHARD  B.  SHERIDAN. 


423 


OH  YIELD,  FAIR  LIDS. 

(KIIO.M   AN   UNFINISHED  MS.    DRAMA.) 

On  yield,  fair  lids,  the  treasures  of  my  heart, 
Release  those  beams,  that  make  this  man- 
sion bright ; 
From   her  sweet   sense,   Slumber!    though 

sweet  thou  art, 

Begone,  and  give  the  air  she  breathes  in 
light. 

Or  while,  O  Sleep,  thou  dost  those  glances 
hide, 

Let  rosy  Slumbers  still  around  her  play, 
Sweet  as  the  cherub  Innocence  enjoy'd, 

\V  iicu  iL  hy  lap,  new-born,  in  smiles  he  lay. 

And  thou,  O  Dream,  that  com'st  her  sleep 

to  cheer, 

Oh  take  my  shape,  and  play  a  lover's  part ; 
Kiss  her  from  me,  and  whisper  in  her  ear, 
Till  her  eyes  shine,  'tis  night  within  my 
heart. 

It  may  be  Inferred  from  a  passage  in  Moore's  "Life  of  Sher- 
idan,"  that  he  intended  the  unfinished  drama,  whence  those 
lines  are  taken,  to  be  called  "  The  Foresters ;"  and  that  he  was 
Tery  hopeful  of  it,  for  he  was  wont  to  exclaim  occasionally,  to 
confidential  friends,  "Ah,  wait  till  my  Foresters  comes  out  1" 


A  BUMPER  OF  GOOD  LIQUOR 
(FROM  "THE  DUENNA.") 

A  BUMPER  of  good  liquor 
Will  end  a  contest  quicker 
Than  justice,  judge,  or  vicar; 
So  till  a  cheerful  glass, 
And  let  good  humor  pass : 
But  if  more  deep  the  quarrel, 
Why,  sooner  drain  the  barrel 
Than  be  the  hateful  fellow 
That's  crabbed  when  he's  mellow. 
A  bumper,  <fcc. 


WE  TWO. 

l"PbU  Is  also  from  the  same  MS.  drama  noticed  in  the  fore- 
foinjj  ton;  of  "  Oh  yield,  fair  lids."] 

"  WK  two,  each  other's  only  pride, 
Kach  other's  bliss,  each  other's  guide, 
Far  from  the  world's  unhallow'd  noise, 
Ita  coarse  delights  and  tainted  joys, 


Through    wilds    will    roam   and   deseru 

O 

rude — 
For,  Love,  thy  home  is  solitude." 

"  There  shall  no  vain  pretender  be, 
To  court  thy  smile  and  torture  me, 
No  proud  superior  there  be  seen, 
But  nature's  voice  shall  hail  thee,  queen.' 

"  With  fond  respect  and  tender  awe, 
I  will  obey  thy  gentle  law, 
Obey  thy  looks,  and  serve  thee  still, 
Prevent  thy  wish,  foresee  thy  will, 
And  added  to  a  lover's  care, 
Be  all  that  friends  and  parents  are." 


COULD  I  HER  FAULTS  REMEMBER 

COULD  I  her  faults  remember, 
Forgetting  every  charm, 

Soon  would  impartial  Reason 
The  tyrant  Love  disarm. 

But  when,  enraged,  I  number 
Each  failing  of  her  mind, 

Love,  still,  suggests  each  beauty, 
And  sees,  while  Reason's  blind 


BY  CCELIA'S  ARBOR 

BY  Coilia's  arbor,  all  the  night, 

.Hang,  humid  wreath — the  lover's  vow  ; 
And  haply,  at  the  morning's  light, 

My  love  will  twine  thee  round  her  brow. 

And  if  upon  her  bosom  bright 

Some  drops  of  dew  should  fall  from  thee; 
Tell  her  they  are  not  drops  of  night, 

But  tears  of  sorrow  shed  by  me. 

In  those  charming  lines  Sheridan  has  wrought  to  a  higher 
degree  of  finish  an  idea  to  be  found  in  an  early  poem  of  his  ad 
dressed  to  MUa  Llnley,  beginning  "  Uncouth  i*  this  moss-cor- 
ered  grotto  of  stone."  The  poem  is  too  long  for  quotation  at 
length,  and,  in  truth,  not  worth  it,  the  choice  bit  Sheridan  re- 
membered, however,  and  reconstructed  as  above.  The  original 
idea  stood  thus : 

"And  thou,  stony  grot,  In  thy  arch  raayst  preserve 

Two  lingering  drops  of  the  night-fallen  dew; 
And  just  let  them  fall  at  her  foci,  and  they'll  serve 
At  tears  of  my  sorrow  intrusted  to  you. 

"Or,  lost  they  unheeded  should  Dili  at  her  f<*ct, 

Let  them  lull  on  her  bonom  of  mow ;  and  I  *wear 
The  next  lime  I  vlnit  thy  nil--' -( -ov.-r'd  seat, 
I'll  pay  ihcc  eacb  drop  with  a  xenui:ie  tear  " 


424 


POEMS  BY  RICHARD  B.  SHERIDAN. 


LET  THE  TOAST  PASS. 

HERE'S  to  the  maiden  of  bashful  fifteen, 

Here's  to  the  widow  of  fifty ; 
Here's  to  the  flaunting  extravagant  queen, 

And  here's  to  the  housewife  that's  thrifty : 
Chorus.  Let  the  toast  pass, 

Drink  to  the  lass, 

I'll  warrant  she'll  prove  an  excuse  for  the 
glass. 

Hei  e's  to  the  charmer  whose  dimples  we  prize, 
Now  to  the  maid  who  has  none,  sir, 

Here's  to  the  girl  with  a  pair  of  blue  eyes, 
And  here's  to  the  nymph  with  but  one,  sir : 

Chorus.  Let  the  toast  pass,  &c. 

Here's  to  the  maid  with  a  bosom  of  snow, 
And  to  her  that's  as  brown  as  a  berry ; 

Here's  to  the  wife,  with  a  face  full  of  woe, 
And  now  to  the  girl  that  is  merry  • 

Chorus.  Let  the  toast  pass,  &c. 

For  let  'em  be  clumsy,  or  let  'em  be  slim. 

Young,  or  ancient,  I  care  not  a  feather; 
So  fill  the  pint  bumper*  quite  up  to  the  brim, 

And  let  e'en  us  toast  them  together : 
Chorus.  Let  the  toast  pass,  &c. 


O,  THE  DAYS  WHEN  I  WAS  YOUNG  1 
(FROM  "THE  DUENNA.") 

O,  the  days  when  I  was  young  ! 

When  I  laugh'd  in  fortune's  spite, 
Talk'd  of  love  the  whole  day  long, 

And  with  nectar  crown'd  the  night : 


*  Those  were  the  days  of  hard  drinking  0et  us  be  thankful 
they  are  passed  away),  when  they  not  only  filled  a  "pint 
bnmper,"  but  swallowed  it  at  a  draught,  if  they  meant  to  be 
thought  "pretty  fellows."  I  remember  of  heariug  a  witty 

reply  which  was  made  (as  it  was  reported)  by  Sir  H B 

L- — e,  an  Irish  don  vivant  of  the  last  century,  to  his  doctor, 
who  had  cut  him  down  to  a  pint  of  wine  daily,  when  he  was 
on  the  sick-list.  Now  the  convivial  baronet  was  what  was 
called,  in  those  days,  a  "  six-bottle  man,"— and,  we  may  sup- 
pose, felt  very  miserable  on  a  pint  of  wine  per  diem.  The 
doctor  called  the  day  after  he  had  issued  his  merciless  decree, 
•nd  hoped  his  patient  was  better.  "  I  hope  you  only  took  a 
pint  of  wine  yesterday,"  said  he.  The  baronet  nodded  a  melan- 
choly assent.  " Now,  don't  think  so  badly  of  this  injunction 
of  mine,  my  dear  friend,"  continued  the  doctor,  "  you  may 
rely  upon  it,  it  will  lengthen  your  days."  "  That  I  believe," 
returned  Sir  Hercules,  "  for  yesterday  seemed  to  me  the  longest 
fay  I  ever  spent  in  my  life." 


Then  it  was,  old  father  Care, 
Little  reck'd  I  of  thy  frown  ; 

Half  thy  malice  youth  could  bear, 
And  the  rest  a  bumper  drown. 

Truth  they  say  lies  in  a  well ; 

Why,  I  vow  I  ne'er  could  see, 
Let  the  water-drinkers  tell — 

There  it  always  lay  for  me ! 
For  when  sparkling  wine  went  round 

Never  saw  I  falsehood's  mask : 
But  still  honest  Truth  I  found 

In  the  bottom  of  each  flask. 

True,  at  length  my  vigor's  flown, 

I  have  years  to  bring  decay : 
Few  the  locks  that  now  I  own, 

And  the  few  I  have  are  gray; 
Yet,  old  Jerome,  thou  mayst  boast 

While  thy  spirits  do  not  tire, 
Still  beneath  thy  age's  frost 

Glows  a  spark  of  youthful  fire. 


DRY  BE  THAT  TEAR. 

DRY  be  that  tear,  my  gentlest  love, 
Be  hush'd  that  struggling  sigh ; 

Nor  seasons,  day,  nor  fate  shall  prove, 
More  fix'd,  more  true,  than  I : 

Hush'd  be  that  sigh,  be  dry  that  tear, 

Cease  boding  doubt,  cease  anxious  fear — 
Dry  be  that  tear. 

Ask'st  thou  how  long  my  love  shall  stay 
When  all  that's  new  is  past  ? 

How  long,  ah  !  Delia,  can  I  say, 
How  long  my  liie  shall  last  ? 

Dry  be  that  tear,  be  hush'd  that  sigh, 

At  least  I'll  love  thee  till  I  die — 
Hush'd  be  that  sigh. 

And  does  that  thought  affect  thee,  too, 
The  thought  of  Sylvio's  death, 

That  he,  who  only  breathed  for  you, 
Must  yield  that  faithful  breath  ? 

Hush'd  be  that  sigh,  be  dry  that  tear, 

Nor  let  us  lose  our  heaven  here — 
Dry  be  that  tear. 


POEMS  BY  RICHARD  B.  SHERIDAN. 


425 


WHAT  BARD,  O  TIME,   DISCOVER 

WHAT  bard,  O  Time,  discover, 

With  wings  first  made  thee  move ! 
Ah  !  sure  lie  was  some  lover 
Who  ne'er  had  left  his  love ! 
For  who  that  once  did  prove 
The  pangs  which  absence  brings, 
Though  but  one  day 
He  were  away, 
Could  picture  thce  with  wings  ? 

Theso  sweet  and  ingenious  lines  are  from  "  The  Dnenna." 
The  song  does  not  appear  in  the  late  editions  of  rtie  opera.  I 
obtained  it  from  an  old  Dublin  edition,  dated  1786— where  the 
pierjo  is  entitled.  "  The  Dnenna,  or  double  elopement ;  a  comic 
opera,  as  it  is  enacted  at  the  Theatre,  Smoke  Alley.  Dublin." 
(Properly  called  Smock  Alley.)  In  this  edition  most  outrageous 
liberties  have  been  taken  with  the  original  text. 


ALAS!  THOU  HAST  NO  WINGS,  OH!  TIME. 

[In  the  lines  that  follow  will  be  found  the  original  form  of 
the  idea  which  the  author  so  much  improved  in  the  foregoing. 
Moore,  in  his  Life  of  Sheridan,  gives  numerous  instances  of 
the  extreme  care  with  which  he  filed  and  polished  up  his 
•hafts  of  wit  to  bring  them  to  the  finest  point.  In  this  prac- 
tice no  one  could  better  sympathize  than  Moore.] 

ALAS  !  thou  hast  no  wings,  oh !  time ; 
It  was  some  thoughtless  lover's  rhyme, 
Who,  writing  in  his  Chloe's  view, 
Paid  her  the  compliment  through  you. 

For  had  he,  if  he  truly  loved, 
But  once  the  pangs  of  absence  proved, 
He'd  cropt  thy  wings,  and,  in  their  stead, 
Have  painted  thee  with  heels  of  lead. 


I  NE'ER  COULD  ANY  LUSTRE  SEE. 

I  NE'ER  could  any  lustre  see, 

In  eyes  that  would  not  look  on  mo  ; 

I  ne'er  saw  nectar  on  a  lip, 

But  where  my  own  did  hope  to  sip. 

Has  the  maid,  who  seeks  my  heart, 
Cheeks  of  rose,  untouch'd  by  art  ? 
I  will  own  the  color  true, 
When  yielding  blushes  aid  their  hue. 


Is  her  hand  so  soft  and  pure  ? 
I  must  press  it,  to  be  sure ; 
Nor  can  I  be  certain  then, 
'Till  it  grateful  press  again. 

Must  I,  with  attentive  eye, 
Watch  her  heaving  bosom  sigh  ? 
I  will  do  so,  when  I  see 
That  heaving  bosom  sigh  for  me. 


WHEN  SABLE  NIGHT. 

WHEN  sable  night,  each  drooping  plant  re- 
storing, 
Wept   o'er   her   flowers,   her  breath   did 

cheer, 
As  some  sad  widow  o'er  her  baby  deploring, 

Wakes  its  beauty  with  a  tear — 
When   all  did   sleep   whose    weary    hearts 

could  borrow 

One  hour  of  love  from  care  to  rest ; 
Lo  !  as  I  press'd  my  couch  in  silent  sorrow 
My  lover  caught  me  to  his  breast. 

He  vowM  he  came  to  save  me 
From  those  that  would  enslave  me  • 
Then  kneeling, 
Kisses  stealing, 
Endless  faith  he  swore! 

But  soon  I  chid  him  thence, 
For  had  his  fond  pretence 
Obtain'd  one  favor  then, 
And  he  had  press'd  again, 
I  fear'd  my  treach'rous  heart  might  gram 
him  more. 

Barns,  in  his  correspondence  with  Mr.  George  Thomson 
the  publisher,  writes  than  :  "  There  is  a  pretty  En;r1ti«h  M>U> 
by  Sheridan,  In  '  The  Dnenna,'  to  this  air,  which  is  out  ot 
light  superior  to  D'Urfcy's.  It  begins— 

'When  sable  night,  each  drooping  plant  restoring.' 

"The  air,  if  I  understand  the  cxprcssiot.  of  it  properly,  is  ;ht 
very  native  language  of  simplicity,  tenderness,  and  IOTO.  J 
have  again  gone  over  my  song  to  the  tune,  a*  follows: 

'Sleep'st  thou  or  wak'st  thou,  fairest  creature  T 

Rosy  morn  now  lifts  hta  eye. 

Numbering  ilka  bud  which  .\atnre 

tt'attr*  v>Uh,  tht  lean  qfjoy.' " 

The  idea  conveyed  in  the  words  I  have  given  In  tulle*,  l» 
but  the  repetition  of  Sheridan's  idea  of  Sable  Night  wcej.int 
over  her  flr  «era. 


POEMS  BY  RICHARD  B.  SHERIDAN. 


THE  MID-WATCH. 

WHEN  'tis  night,  and  the  mid-watch  is  come, 
And  chilling  mists  hang  o'er  the  darken'd 

main, 

Then  sailors  think  of  their  far-distant  home, 
And  of  those  friends  they  ne'er  may  see 

again ; 

But  when  the  fight's  begun, 
Each  serving  at  his  gun, 
Should  any  thought  of  them  come  o'er  your 

mind; 

Think,  only,  should  the  day  be  won, 
How  'twill  cheer 
Their  hearts  to  hear 
That  their  old  companion  he  was  one. 

Or,  my  lad,  if  you  a  mistress  kind 

Have  left  on  shore,  some  pretty  girl  and 

true, 

Who  many  a  night  doth  listen  to  the  wind, 
And  sighs  to  think  how  it  may  fare  with 

you: 

Oh,  when  the  fight's  begun, 
You  serving  at  your  gun, 
Should  any  thought  of  her  come  o'er  your 
mind* 


Think,  only,  should  the  day  be  won, 
How  'twill  cheer 
Her  heart  to  hear 
That  her  own  true  sailor  he  was  one. 


MARKED  YOU  HER  CHEEK? 

MAKK'D,you  her  cheek  of  rosy  hue  ? 
Mark'd  you  her  eye  of  sparkling  blue? 
That  eye,  in  liquid  cii-cles  moving ; 
That  cheek,  abash'd  at  Man's  approving  ; 
The  one,  Love's  arrows  darting  round ; 
The  other,  blushing  at  the  wound : 
Did  she  not  speak,  did  she  not  move, 
Now  Pallas — now  the  queen  of  love ! 

These  lines  are  generally  supposed  to  have  been  written 
upon  Miss  Linley ;  but  Moore,  in  his  Life  of  Sheridan,  tells  us 
Lady  Margaret  Fordyce  was  the  object  of  this  pparklirg 
eulogy.  They  are  part  of  a  long  poem  in  which,  to  use 
Moore's  words,  "they  shine  out  so  conspicuously,  that  wo 
cannot  wonder  at  their  having  been  so  soon  detached,  like  ill- 
set  gems,  from  the  loose  and  clumsy  workmanship  around 
them."  In  the  same  poem,  says  Moore,  we  find  "  one  of 
those  familiar  lines  which  so  many  quote  without  knowing 
whence  they  come ;  one  of  those  stray  fragments  whose 
parentage  is  doubtful,  but  to  which  (as  the  law  say 
mate  children),  "pater  est  populus.''  " 

"You  write  with  ease  to  show  yonr  breeding, 
But  easy  writing's  aunt,  futrd  reading." 


THE  POEMS  OF  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 

SWEET  Auburn !  loveliest  village  of  the  plain, 
Where  health  and  plenty  cheer'd  the  labor- 
ing swain, 

Where  smiling  Spring  its  earliest  visit  paid, 
And   parting    Summer's    lingering   blooms 

delay'd ; 

Dear  lovely  bowers  of  innocence  and  ease, 
Seats  of  my  youth,  when  every  sport  could 

please — 

How  often  have  I  loiter'd  o'er  thy  green, 
Where  humble  happiness  endear'd  each  scene ! 
How  often  have  I  paused  on  every  charm — 
The  shelter'd  cot,  the  cultivated  farm, 
The  never-failing  brook,  the  busy  mill, 
The  decent  church  that  topt  the  neighboring 

hill, 
The  hawthorn  bush,  with  seats  beneath  the 

shade, 

For  talking  age  and  whispering  lovers  made  1 
I  Tow  often  have  I  bless'd  the  coming  day 
When  toil  remitting  lent  its  turn  to  play, 
And  all  the  village  train,  from  labor  free, 
Led  up  their  sports  beneath  the  spreading 

tree; 

While  many  a  pastime  circled  in  the  shade, 
The  young  contending  as  the  oJd  survey'd ; 
And  many  a  gambol  frolick'd  o'er  the  ground, 
And  sleights  of  art  and  feats  of  strength 

went  round, 

And  still,  as  each  repeated  pleasure  tired, 
Succeeding  sports  the  mirthful  band  inspired; 
The  dancing  pair  that  simply  sought  renown 
By  holding  out  to  tire  each  other  down  ; 
The  swain  mistrustk-ss  of  his  smutted  face, 
SVhile   secret    laughter   titter'd   round   the 

place ; 


The  bashful  virgin's  sidelong  looks  of  love. 

The  matron's  glance  that  would  those  look* 
reprove ! 

These  were  thy  charms,  sweet  village !  sporU 
like  these, 

With  sweet  succession,  taught  even  toil  to 
please ; 

These  round  thy  bowers  their  cheerful  influ- 
ence shed  ; 

These  were  thy  charms — but  all  these  charms 
are  fled. 

Sweet  smiling  village,  loveliest  of  the  lawn, 
Thy  sports  are  fled,  and  all  thy  charms  with- 
drawn ; 

Amidst  thy  bowers  the  tyrant's  hand  is  seen, 
And  desolation  saddens  all  thy  green  : 
One  only  master  grasps  the  whole  domain, 
And  half  a  tillage  stints  thy  smiling  plain. 
No  more  thy  glassy  brook  reflects  the  day, 
But   choked  with  sedges   works  its  weary 

way; 

Along  thy  glades,  a  solitary  guest, 
The  hollow-sounding  bittern  guards  its  nest ; 
Amidst  thy  desert  walks  the  lapwing  flies, 
And  tires  their  echoes  with  unvaried  cries ; 
Sunk  are  thy  bowers  in  shapeless  ruin  all, 
And  the  long  grass  o'ertops  the  mouldering 

wall ; 
And,  trembling,  shrinking  from  the  spoiler's 

hand, 
Far,  far  away,  thy  children  leave  the  land. 

Ill  fares  the  land,  to  hastening  ills  a  prey, 

Where  wealth  accumulates  and  men  decay  : 

Princes  and  lords  may  flourish  or  may  fade — 

A  breath  can  make  them,  as  a  breath  has 

made; 


428 


THE  POEMS   OF   OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 


But  a  bold  peasantry,  their  country's  pride, 
When  once  destroy'd  can  never  be  supplied. 

A  time  there  was,  ere  England's  griefs  be- 
gan, 

When  every  rood  of  ground  maintain'd  its 
man ; 

For  him  light  labor  spread  her  wholesome 
store, 

Just  gave  what  life  required,  but  gave  no 
more: 

His  best  companions,  innocence  and  health, 

And  his  best  riches,  ignorance  of  wealth. 

But  times   are  alter'd ;  trade's   unfeeling 

train 

Usurp  the  land,  and  dispossess  the  swain : 
Along  the   lawn,   where   scatter'd   hamlets 

rose, 

Unwieldy  wealth  and  cumbrous  pomp  re- 
pose; 

And  every  want  to  luxury  allied, 
And  every  pang  that  folly  pays  to  pride. 
Those   gentle    hours   that    plenty   bade   to 

bloom, 

Those  calm  desires  that  ask'd  but  little  room, 
Those  healthful  sports  that  graced  the  peace- 
ful scene, 
Lived  in  each  look,  and  brigLten'd  all  the 

green;— 

These,  far  departing,  seek  a  kinder  shore, 
And  rural  mirth  and  manners  are  no  more. 

Sweet  Aiiburn     parent  of  the  blissful  hour, 
Thy  glades  forlorn  confess  the  tyrant's  power. 
Here,  as  I  take  ray  solitary  rounds, 
Amidst    thy    tangling   walks    and    ruin'd 

grounds, 

And,  many  a  year  elapsed,  return  to  view 
Where  once  the  cottage  stood,  the  hawthorn 

grew — 

Remembrance  wakes  with  all  her  busy  train, 
Swells  at  my  breast,  and  turns  the  past  to 

pain. 

In  all  my  wanderings  round  this  world  of 

care, 
In  all  my  griefs — and   God  has  given  my 

share — 

I  still  had  hopes,  my  latest  hours  to  crown, 
Amidst  these  humble  bowers  to  lay  me  down ; 
To  husband  out  life's  taper  at  the  close, 


And  keep  the  flame  from  wasting,  by  reposa 
I  still  had  hopes,  for  pride  attends  us  still, 
Amidst  the  swains  to  show  my  book-learn'd 

skill— 

Around  my  fire  an  evening  group  to  draw, 
And  tell  of  all  I  felt,  and  all  I  saw ; 
And,  as  an  hare,  whom  hounds  and  home 

pursue, 
Pants  to  the  place  from  whence  at  first  he 

flew, 

I  still  had  hopes,  my  long  vexations  past, 
Here  to  return — and  die  at  home  at  last. 

O  bless'd  retirement,  friend  to  life's  declint, 
Retreats    from    care,   that    never  must   be 

mine, — 
How  blest  is  he  who  crowns,  in  shades  like 

these, 

A  youth  of  labor  with  an  age  of  ease ; 
Who  quits  the  world  where  strong  tempta- 
tions try — 
And,   since  'tis   hard   to  combat,  learns   to 

fly! 

For  him  no  wretches,  born  to  work  and  weep, 
Explore  the  mine,  or  tempt  the  dangerous 

deep; 

No  surly  porter  stands,  in  guilty  state, 
To  spui'n  imploring  famine  from  the  gate , 
But  on  he  moves  to  meet  his  latter  end, 
Angels  around  befriending  virtue's  friend — 
Sinks  to  the  grave  with  unperceived  decay, 
While  resignation  gently  slopes  the  way — 
And,  all  his  prospects   brightening   to   the 

last, 
His   heaven  commences   ere   the   world  be 

pass'd. 

Sweet  was  the  sound,  when  oft  at  evening's 
close 

Up  yonder  hill  the  village  murmur  rose. 

There,  as  I  pass'd  with  careless  steps  and 
slow, 

The  mingling  notes  came  soften'd  from  be- 
low: 

The  swain  responsive  as  the  milkmaid  sung, 

The  sober  herd  that  low'd  to  meet  their 
young, 

The  noisy  geese  that  gabbled  o'er  the  pool, 

The  playful  children  just  let  loose  from 
school, 

The  watchdog's  voice  that  bay'd  the  whis- 
pering wind 


THE  POEMS  OF  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


429 


And  the  loud  laugh  that  spoke  the  vacant 

mind — 
These   all  in  sweet    confusion  sought  the 

shade, 
And  fill'd  each  pause  the  nightingale  had 

made. 

But  now  the  sounds  of  population  fail, 
No  cheerful  murmurs  fluctuate  in  the  gale, 
No   busy   steps   the    grass-grown    footway 

tread, 

For  all  the  blooming  flush  of  life  is  fled — 
All  but  yon  widow'd,  solitary  thing, 
That  feebly  bends  beside  the  plashy  spring ; 
She,  wretched   matron — forced   in  age,  for 

bread, 
To  strip  the  brook  with  mantling  cresses 

spread, 

To  pick  her  wintry  fagot  from  the  thorn, 
To   seek   her   nightly   shed,  and   weep   till 

morn — 

She  only  left  of  all  the  harmless  train, 
The  sad  historian  of  the  pensive  plain  ! 

Near  yonder  copse,  where  once  the  garden 

smiled, 
And  still  where  many  a  garden  flower  grovrs 

wild — 
There,  where  a  few  torn  shrubs  the  place 

disclose, 

The  village  preacher's  modest  mansion  rose. 
A  man  he  was  to  all  the  country  dear, 
And  passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a  year. 
Remote  from  towns  he  ran  his  godly  race, 
Nor  e'er  had  changed,  nor  wish'd  to  change, 

his  place ; 

Unpractised  he  to  fawn,  or  seek  for  power, 
By  doctrines  fashion'd  to  the  varying  hour; 
Far  other  aims  his  heart  had  learn'd  to 

prize — 
More  bent  to  raise   the   wretched  than  to 

rise. 
His  house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant 

train ; 
He  chid  their  wanderings,  but  relieved  their 

pain : 

The  long-remember'd  beggar  was  his  guest, 
Whose   beard   descending   swept  his   aged 

breast ; 

The  ruin'd  spendthrift,  now  no  longer  proud, 
Claim'd  kindred  there,  and  had  his  claims 

allow'd ; 
The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to  stay, 


Sat  by  his  fire,  and  talk'd  the  night  away — 
Wept  o'er  his  wounds,  or,  tales  of  sorrow 

done, 
Shoulder'd  his  crutch  and  show'd  how  fields 

were  won. 
Pleased  with  his  guests,  the  good  man  learn'd 

to  glow, 

And  quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  woe ; 
Careless  their  merits  or  their  faults  to  scan, 
His  pity  gave  ere  charity  began. 

Thus  to  relieve  the  wretched  was  his  pride, 
And  even  his  failings  lean'd  to  virtue's  side — 
But  in  his  duty  prompt  at  every  call, 
He  watch'd  and  wept,  he  pray'd  and  felt  for 

all; 

And,  as  a  bird  each  fond  endearment  tries 
To  tempt  its  new-fledged  offspring  to  the 

skies, 

He  tried  each  art,  reproved  each  dull  delay, 
Allured  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the  way. 

Beside  the  bed  where  parting  life  was 
laid, 

And  sorrow,  guilt,  and  pain  by  turns  dis- 
may'd, 

The  reverend  champion  stood.  At  his  con- 
trol 

Despair  and  anguish  fled  the  struggling 
soul; 

Comfort  came  down  the  trembling  wretch 
to  raise, 

And  his  last  faltering  accents  whisper'd 
praise. 

At  church,  with  meek    and    unaffected 

grace, 

His  looks  adorn'd  the  venerable  place ; 
Truth  from  his  lips  prevail'd  with  double 

sway, 
And  fools,  who  came  to  scoff,  remain'd  to 

pray. 

The  service  pass'd,  around  the  pious  man 
With  ready  zeal  each  honest  rustic  ran ; 
Even  children  follow'd,  with  endearing  wiln, 
And  pluck'd  his  gown,  to  share  the  good 

man's  smile : 

His  ready  smile  a  parent's  warmth  express'd, 
Their  welfare  pleased  him,  and  their  cares 

distress'd. 
To  them  his  heart,  his  love,  his  griefs  were 

given, 


430 


THE  POEMS   OF   OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


But   all   his   serious   thoughts  had   rest  in 

heaven : 

As  some  tall  cliff,  that  lifts  its  awful  form, 
Swells  from  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves  the 

storm, 
Though  round  its  breast  the  rolling  clouds 

are  spread, 
Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head. 

Beside  yon  straggling  fence   that   skirts 

the  way 

With  blossom'd  furze  unprofitably  gay — 
There,  in  his  noisy  mansion,  skill'd  to  rule, 
The  village  master  taught  his  little  school. 
A  man  severe  he  was,  and  stern  to  view ; 
I  knew  him  well,  and  every  truant  knew : 
Well  had  the  boding  tremblers  learn'd  to 

trace 

The  day's  disasters  in  his  morning  face ; 
Full  well  they  laugh'd  with  counterfeited 

glee 

At  all  his  jokes — for  many  a  joke  had  he ; 
Full  well  the  busy  whisper,  circling  round, 
Convey'd     the     dismal    tidings     when     he 

frown'd. 
Yet  he  was  kind  ;  or  if  severe  in  aught, 

*  O  7 

The  love  he  bore  to  learning  was  in  fault. 

The  village  all  declared  how  much  he  knew — 

'Twa>  cprtain  he  could  write,  and  cipher  too ; 

Lands  he  could  measure,  terms  and  tides 
presage, 

And  even  the  story  ran  that  he  could  gauge. 

In  arguing,  too,  the  parson  own'd  his  skill, 

For  even  though  vanquish'd,  he  could  argue 
still ; 

While  words  of  learned  length  and  thunder- 
ing sound 

Amazed  the  gazing  rustics  ranged  around — 

And  still  they  gazed,  and  still  the  wonder 
grew 

That  one  small  head  could  carry  all  he  knew. 

.  But  pass'd  is  all  his  fame ;  the  very  spot 

Where  many  a  time  he  triumph'd  is  forgot. 

Near  yonder  thorn,  that  lifts  its  head  on 
high, 

Where  once  the  sign-post  caught  the  pass- 
ing eye, 

Low  lies  that  house  where  nutbrown  draughts 
inspired, 

Where  graybeard  mirth  and  smiling  toil 
retired, 


Where  village  statesmen  talk'd  with  lookt 

profound, 
And  news  much  older  than  their  ale  went 

round. 

Imagination  fondly  stoops  to  trace 
The  parlor  splendors  of  that  festive  place ; 
The  whitewash'd    wall,   the   nicely  sanded 

floor, 
The  varnish'd  clock  that  click'd  behind  the 

door ; 

The  chest  contrived  a  double  debt  to  pay, 
A  bed  by  night,  a  chest  of  drawers  by  day; 
The  pictures  placed  for  ornament  and  use, 
The  twelve  good  rules,  the  royal  game  of 

goose ; 
The  hearth,  except  when  Winter  chill'd  the 

day, 
With  aspen  boughs  and  flowers  and  fennel 

gay; 

While  broken  teacups,  wisely  kept  for  show, 
Ranged  o'er  the  chimney,  glisten'd  in  a  row. 

Vain  transitory  splendors  !  could  not  all 
Reprieve   the   tottering   mansion   from    its 

fall? 

Obscure  it  sinks ;  nor  shall  it  more  impart 
An   hour's   importance  to   the   poor  man's 

heart : 

Thither  no  more  the  peasant  shall  repair 
To  sweet  oblivion  of  his  daily  care ; 
No   more  the  farmer's  news,  the  barber's 

tale, 

No  more  the  woodman's  ballad  shall  prevail ; 
No  more  the  smith  his  dusky  brow  shall 

clear, 
Relax  his  ponderous  strength  and  lean  to 

hear; 

The  host  himself  no  longer  shall  be  found 
Careful  to  see  the  mantling  bliss  go  round  ; 
Nor  the  coy  maid,  half  willing  to  be  press'd, 
Shall  kiss  the  cup  to  pass  it  to  the  rest. 

Yes !  let  the  rich  deride,  the  proud  dis- 
dain, 

These  simple  blessings  of  the  lowly  train — 
To  me  more  dear,  congenial  to  my  heart, 
One  native  charm  than  all  the  gloss  of  art. 
Spontaneous  joys,  where  nature  has  its  play, 
The  soul  adopts,  and  owns  their  first-born 

sway; 

Lightly  they  frolic  o'er  the  vacant  mind, 
Unenvied,  unmolested,  unconliued : 


THE  POEMS  OF   OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 


431 


But  the  long  pomp,  the  midnight  masque- 
rade, 
With    all    the    freaks    of    wanton    wealth 

array 'd, 

In  these,  ere  triflers  half  their  wish  obtain, 
The  toiling  pleasure  sickens  into  pain — 
And,  even  while  fashion's  brightest  arts  de- 
coy, 
The  heart  distrusting  asks  if  this  be  joy? 


Ye  friends  to   truth,  ye  statesmen   who 

survey 

The  rich  man's  joys  increase,  the  poor's  de- 
cay— 
'Tis   yours   to  judge  how  wide  the   limits 

stand 

Between  a  splendid  and  a  happy  land. 
Proud  swells  the  tide  with  loads  of  freighted 

ore, 
And   shouting   folly   hails    them   from   her 

shore ; 

Hoards  even  beyond  the  raiser's  wish  abound, 
And  rich  men  flock  from  all  the  world 

around ; 
Yet  count  our  gains :  this  wealth  is  but  a 

name 
That  leaves  our  useful  products  still  the 

same. 
Not  so  the  loss.     The  man  of  wealth  and 

pride 

Takes  up  a  space  that  many  poor  supplied — 
Space  for  his  lake,  his  park's  extended 

bounds, 

Space  for  his  horses,  equipage,  and  hounds  ; 
The  robe  that  wraps  his  limbs  in  silken  sloth 
lias  robb'd  the  neighboring  fields  of  half 

their  growth ; 

His  seat,  where  solitary  spots  are  seen, 
Indignant  spurns  the  cottage  from  the  green ; 
Around  the  world  each  needful  product  flies, 
For  all  the  luxuries  the  world  supplies : 
While  thus  the  land,  adorn'd  for  pleasure, 

all 
In  barren  splendor  feebly  waits  the  fall 


As  some  fair  female,  unadorn'd  and  plain, 
Secure  to  please  while  youth  confirms   her 

reign, 

Slights   every   borrow'd    charm   that   dress 
supplies, 


Nor  shares   with   art   the   triumph   of  her 

eyes — 
But  when  those  charms  are  pass'd,  for  charm* 

are  frail, 

When  time  advances,  and  when  lovers  fail — 
She  then  shines  forth,  solicitous  to  bless, 
In  all  the  glaring  impotence  of  dress. 
Thus  fares  the  land,  by  luxury  betray'd: 
In  nature's  simplest  charms  at  first  array'd — 
But  verging  to  decline,  its  splendors  rise, 
Its  vistas  strike,  its  palaces  surprise ; 
While,  scourged  by  famine,  from  the  smiling 

land 

The  mournful  peasant  leads  his  humble  band; 
And  while  he  sinks,  without  one  arm  to  save, 
The  country  blooms — a  garden  and  a  grave. 


Where  then,  ah,  where  shall  poverty  reside, 
To  'scape  the  pressure  of  contiguous  pride? 
If  to  some  common's  fenceless  limits  strayM 
He  drives  his  flocks  to  pick  the  scanty  blade, 
Those  fenceless  fields  the  sons  of  wealth  di- 
vide, 
And  even  the  bare-worn  common  is  denied. 


If  to  the  city  sped — what  waits  him  there? 
To  see  profusion  that  he  must  not  share  ; 
To  see  ten  thousand  baneful  arts  combined 
To  pamper  luxury  and  thin  mankind ; 
To  see  each  joy  the  sons  of  pleasure  know 
Extorted  from  his  fellow-creature's  woe : 
Here  while  the  courtier  glitters  in  brocade, 
There  the  pale  artist  plies  the  sickly  trade ; 
Here    while    the    proud    their    long-drawn 

pomps  display, 
There  the  black  gibbet  glooms  beside  the 

way. 

The   dome  where   pleasure   holds  her  mid- 
night rc-ign, 
Here,   richly   deck'd,  admits   the   gorgeous 

train — 
Tumultuous  grandeur   crowds   the   blazing 

•quart, 

The  rattling  chariots  clash,  the  torches  glare. 
Sure  scenes  like  these  no  troubles  e'er  annoy ; 
Sure  these  denote  one  universal  joy  ? 
Are  these  thy  serious  thoughts  ?    Ah,  turn 

thine  eyes 
Where  the  poor  houseless  shivering  female 

lies. 


432 


THE  POEMS  OF  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


She  once,  perhaps,  in  village  plenty  bless'd, 
Has  wept  at  tales  of  innocence  distress'd ; 
Her  modest  looks  the  cottage  might  adorn, 
Sweet  as  the  primrose  peeps  beneath  the 

thorn ; 

Now  lost  to  all — her  friends,  her  virtue  fled, 
Near  her  betrayer's  door  she  lays  her  head — 
And  pinch'd  with  cold,  and  shrinking  from 

the  shower, 

With  heavy  heart  deplores  that  luckless  hour 
When  idly  first,  ambitious  of  the  town, 
She   left   her  wheel   and   robes   of  country 

brown. 


Do  thine,  sweet  Auburn  !  thine,  the  love- 
liest train — 

Do  thy  fair  tribes  participate  her  pain  ? 
Even  now  perhaps,  by  cold  and  hunger  led, 
At  proud  men's  doors  they  ask  a  little  bread. 


Ah,  no !  To  distant  climes,  a  dreary 
scene, 

Where  half  the  convex  world  intrudes  be- 
tween, 

Through  torrid  tracks  with  fainting  steps 
they  go, 

Where  wild  Altama1  murmurs  to  their  v,  oe. 

Far  different  there  from  all  that  charm'd  be- 
fore, 

The  various  terrors  of  that  horrid  shore ; 

Those  blazing  suns  that  dart  a  downward 
ray, 

And  fiercely  shed  intolerable  day — 

Those  matted  woods  where  birds  forget  to 
sing, 

But  silent  bats  in  drowsy  clusters  cling — 

Those  poisonous  fields  with  rank  luxuriance 
crown'd, 

Where  the  dark  scorpion  gathers  death 
around — 

Where  at  each  step  the  stranger  fears  to 
wake 

The  rattling  terrors  of  the  vengeful  snake — 

Where  crouching  tigers  wait  their  hapless 
prey, 

And  savage  men  more  murderous  still  than 
they — 

While  oft  in  whirls  the  mad  tornado  flies, 

1  Th«  river  AlUmaha,  tn  Georgia,  North  America. 


Mingling  the  ravaged  landscape  with  th| 

skies. 

Far  different  these  from  every  former  scene  ; 
The  cooling  brook,  the  grassy-vested  green, 
The  breezy  covert  of  the  warbling  grove, 
That  only  shelter'd  thefts  of  harmless  love. 


Good   Heaven  !    what   son-rows   gloom'd 

that  parting  day, 
That  call'd  them  from  their  native   walks 

away ; 

When  the  poor  exiles,  every  pleasure  past, 
Hung  round  the  bowers,  and  fondly  look'd 

their  last — 

And  took  a  long  farewell,  and  wish'd  in  vain 
For   seats   like   these   beyond   the    western 

main — 
And,  shuddering   still  to   face   the   distant 

deep, 
Return'd   and  wept,   and  still   return'd   to 

weep. 

The  good  old  sire,  the  first  prepared  to  go 
To  new-found  worlds,  and  wept  for  others' 

woe — 

But  for  himself,  in  conscious  virtue  brave, 
He  only  wish'd  for  worlds  beyond  the  grave, 
His  lovely  daughter,  lovelier  in  her  tears, 
The  fond  companion  of  his  helpless  yeai-s, 
Silent  went  next,  neglectful  of  her  charms, 
And  left  a  lover's  for  her  father's  arms. 
With  louder  plaints  the  mother  spoke  her 

woes, 
And  bless'd  the  cot  where   every  pleasure 

rose, 
And  kiss'd  her  thoughtless  babes  with  many 

a  tear, 
And  clasp'd  them  close,  in  sorrow  doubly 

dear — 

Whilst  her  fond  husband  strove  to  lend  relief 
In  all  the  silent  manliness  of  grief. 


O  luxury !  thou  curst  by  Heaven's  decree, 
How  ill  exchanged  are  things  like  these  for 

thee! 

How  do  thy  potions,  with  insidious  joy, 
Diffuse  their  pleasures  only  to  destroy ! 
Kingdoms  by  thee,  to  sickly  greatness  grown, 
Boast  of  a  florid  vigor  not  their  own  : 
At  every  draught  more  large  and  large  they 

grow, 


THE   POEMS   OF   OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 


433 


A  bloated  mass  of  rank  unwieldy  woe  ; 
Till,  sapp'd  their  strength,  and  every  part 

unsound, 
Down,  down  they  sink,  and  spread  a  ruin 

round. 


E'en  now  the  devastation  is  begun, 
And  half  the  business  of  destruction  done; 
E'en  now,  methinks,  as   pondering   here  I 

stand, 

I  see  the  rural  virtues  leave  the  land. 
Down  where  yon  anchoring  vessel  spreads 

the  sail 

That  idly  waiting  flaps  with  every  gale, 
Downward  they  move,  a  melancholy  band, 
Pass  from   the   shore,    and  darken   all   the 

strand : 

Contented  toil,  and  hospitable  care, 
And  kind  connubial  tenderness  are  there, 
And  piety  with  wishes  placed  above, 
And  steady  loyalty,  and  faithful  love. 
And    thou,    sweet    Poetry,   thou    loveliest 

maid, 

Still  first  to  fly  where  sensual  joys  invade ; 
Unfit,  in  these  degenerate  times  of  shame, 
To  catch  the  heart,  or  strike  for  honest  fame : 
Dear   charming   nymph,  neglected   and  de- 
cried, 

My  shame  in  crowds,  my  solitary  pride ; 
Thou  source  of  all  my  bliss  and  all  my  woe, 
That  found'st  me  poor  at  first,  and  keep'st 

me  so; 

Thou  guide,  by  which  the  noble  arts  excel, 
Thou  nurse  of  every  virtue,  fare  thee  well ! 
Farewell;    and,  oh,  where'er  thy  voice   be 

tried, 

On  Torno's  cliffs,  or  Pambamarca's  side, 
Whether  where  equinoctial  fervors  glow, 
Or  winter  wraps  the  polar  world  in  snow, 
Still  let  thy  voice,  prevailing  over  time, 
Redress  the  rigors  of  th'  inclement  clime  ; 
Aid  slighted  truth  with  thy  persuasive  strain ; 
Teach  erring-man  to  spurn  the  rage  of  gain  ; 
Teach   him,  that  states  of  native  strength 

possess'd, 

Though  very  poor,  may  still  be  very  bless'd  ; 
That  trade's  proud  empire  hastes  to  swill 

decay, 

As  ocean  sweeps  the  labor'd  mole  away  ; 
While  self-dependent  power  can  time  defy, 
As  rocks  resist  the  billows  and  the  sky. 


THE  TRAVELLER. 

REMOTE,  unfriended,  melancholy,  slew, 
Or  by  the  lazy  Scheld,  or  wandering  Po ; 
Or  onward  where  the  rude  Carinthian  boor 
Against  the   houseless    stranger  shuts   the 

door, 

Or  where  Campania's  plain  forsaken  lies, 
A  weary  waste  expanding  to  the  skies — 
Where'er  I  roam,  whatever  realms  to  see, 
My  heart,  untravell'd,  fondly  turns  to  thee ; 
Still  to  my  brother  turns  with  ceaseless  pain, 
And  drags  at  each  remove  a  lengthening 

chain. 

Eternal  blessings  crown  my  earliest  friend, 
And    round   his   dwelling   guardian   saints 

attend : 
Blest  be  that  spot,  where  cheerful  guests 

retire 
To  pause  from  toil,  and  trim  their  evening 

fire  ; 

Blest  that  abode,  where  want  and  pain  re- 
pair, 

And  every  stranger  finds  a  ready  chair ; 
Blest  be   those   feasts   with   simple  plenty 

crown'd, 

Where  all  the  ruddy  family  around 
Laugh  at  the  jests  or  pranks  that  never  fail, 
Or  sigh  with  pity  at  some  mournful  tale ; 
Or  pi-ess  the  bashful  stranger  to  his  food, 
And  learn  the  luxury  of  doing  good. 

But  me,  not  destined  such  delights  to  share, 
My  prime  of  life  in  wandering  spent  and 

care — 

Impell'd  with  steps  unceasing  to  pursue 
Some  fleeting  good  that  mocks  me  with  the 

view, 
That,  like  the  circle  bounding  earth   and 

skies, 

Allures  from  far,  yet,  as  I  follow,  flies — 
My  fortune  leads  to  traverse  realms  alone, 
And  find  no  spot  of  all  the  world  my  own. 

E'en  now,  where  Alpine  solitudes  ascend, 
I  sit  me  down  a  pensive  hour  to  spend ; 
And   placed   on   high,   above    the    storm'a 

career, 
Look   downward  where   a  hundred   realms 

appear — 


434 


THE  POEMS   OF   OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


Lakes,  forests,  cities,  plains  extending  wide, 
The  pomp  of  kings,  the  shepherd's  humbler 
pride. 

When  thus  creation's  charms  around  com- 
bine, 

Amidst  the  store  should  thankless  pride  re- 
pine? 

Say,  should  the  philosophic  mind  disdain 

That  good  which  makes  each  humbler  bosom 
vain  ? 

Let  school-taught  pride  dissemble  all  it  can, 

These  little  things  are  great  to  little  man ; 

And  wiser  he  whose  sympathetic  mind 

Exults  in  all  the  good  of  all  mankind. 

Ye  glittering  towns  with  wealth  and  splen- 
dor crown'd ; 

Ye  fields  where  Summer  spreads  profusion 
round ; 

Ye  lakes  whose  vessels  catch  the  busy  gale ; 

Ye  bending  swains  that  dress  the  flowery 
vale ; — 

For  me  your  tributary  stores  combine ; 

Creation's  heir,  the  world,  the  world  is 
mine ! 

As  some  lone  miser,  visiting  his  store, 
Bends  at   his  treasure,  counts,  recounts  it 

o'er; 

Hoards  after  hoards  his  rising  raptures  fill, 
Yet  still  he  sighs,  for  hoards   are  wanting 

still : 

Thus  to  iny  breast  alternate  passions  rise, 
Pleased  with  each  good  that  Heaven  to  man 

supplies, 

Yet  oft  a  sigh  prevails,  and  sorrows  fall, 
To  see  the  hoard  of  human  bliss  so  small ; 
And  oft  I  wish,  amidst  the  scene,  to  find 
Some  spot  to  real  happiness  consign'd, 
Where  my  worn  soul,  each  wandering  hope 

at  rest, 
May  gather  bliss,  to  see  my  fellows  blest. 

But  where  to  find  that  happiest  spot  be- 

iow, 

Who  can  direct,  when  all  pretend  to  know  ? 
The  shuddering  tenant  of  the  frigid  zone 
Boldly  proclaims  that  happiest  spot  his  own ; 
Extols  the  treasures  of  his  stormy  seas, 
And  his  long  nights  of  revelry  and  ease ; 
The  naked  negro,  panting  at  the  line, 
Boasts  of  his  golden  sands  and  palmy  wine, 


Basks  in  the  glare,  or  stems  the  tepid  wave, 
And  thanks  his  gods  for  all  the  good  they 
gave. 

Such  is  the  patriot's  boast,  where'er  we 

roam, 

His  first  best  country  ever  is  at  home. 
And  yet,  perhaps,  if  countries  we  compare, 
And  estimate  the  blessings  which  they  share, 
Though  patriots  flatter,  still   shall  wisdom 

find 

An  equal  portion  dealt  to  all  mankind  ; 
As  different  good,  by  art  or  nature  given, 
To  different  nations,  makes  their  blessings 

even, 

Nature,  a  mother  kind  alike  to  all, 

Still  grants  her  bliss  at  labor's  earnest  call ; 

With  food  as  well  the  peasant  is  supplied 

On  Idra's  cliff  as  Arno's  shelvy  side ; 

And  though  the  rocky-crested  summits 
frown, 

These  rocks,  by  custom,  turn  to  beds  of 
down. 

From  art  more  various  are  the  blessings 
sent — 

Wealth,  commerce,  honor,  liberty,  content ; 

Yet  these  each  other's  power  so  strong  con- 
test, 

That  either  seems  destructive  of  the  rest: 

Where  wealth  and  freedom  reign,  content- 
ment fails, 

And  honor  sinks  where  commerce  long  pre- 
vails. 

Hence  every  state,  to  one  loved  blessing 
prone, 

Conforms  and  models  life  to  that  alone ; 

Each  to  the  favorite  happiness  attends; 

And  spurns  the  plan  that  aims  at  other 
ends — 

Till,  carried  to  excess  in  each  domain, 

This  favorite  good  begets  peculiar  pain. 

But  let  us  try  these  truths  with  closer 

eyes, 
And  trace  them  through  the  prospect  as  it 

lies: 

Here,  for  awhile  my  proper  cares  resign'd, 
Here  let  me  sit  in  sorrow  for  mankind ; 
Like  yon  neglected  shrub,  at  random  cast, 
That  shades  the  steep,  and  sighs  at  evcrj 

blast. 


THE  POEMS   OF   OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


435 


Far  to  the  right,  where  Apennine  ascends, 
Bright  as  the  Summer,  Italy  extends : 
Its  uplands  sloping  deck  the  mountain's  side, 
Woods  over  woods  :n  gay  theatric  pride, 
While  oft  some  temple's  mouldering  tops 

between 
With  venerable  grandeur  mark  the  scene. 

Could  Nature's  bounty  satisfy  the  breast, 
The  sons  of  Italy  were  surely  blest. 
Whatever  fruits  in  different  climes  are  found, 
That  proudly   rise,   or    humbly   court    the 

ground — 

Whatever  blooms  in  torrid  tracts  appear, 
Whose  bright  succession  decks   the  varied 

year — 

Whatever  sweets  salute  the  northern  sky 
With  vernal  lives,  that  blossom  but  to  die — 
These  here  disporting  own  the  kindred  soil, 
Nor  ask  luxuriance  from  the  planter's  toil; 
While  sea-born  gales  their  gelid  wings  ex- 
pand 

To   winnow   fragrance   round    the   smiling 
land. 

But  small  the  bliss  that  sense  alone  be- 
stows, 

And  sensual  bliss  is  all  the  nation  knows ; 
In  florid  beauty  groves  and  fields  appear — 
Man  seems  the  only  growth  that  dwindles 

here. 
Contrasted  faults  through  all   his  manners 

reign : 
Though  poor,  luxurious ;  though  submissive, 

vain  ; 
Though   grave,   yet   trifling ;    zealous,   yet 

untrue ; 

And  even  in  penance  planning  sins  anew. 
All  evils  here  contaminate  the  mind, 
That  opulence  departed  leaves  behind  ; 
For  wealth  was  theirs — nor  far  removed  the 

date 
When  commerce  proudly  flourish'd  through 

the  state. 

At  her  command  the  palace  learn'd  to  rise, 
Again  the   long-fallen   column   sought   the 

skies, 

The  canvas  glow'd,  beyond  e'en  nature  warm, 
The  pregnant  quarry  teem'd  with    human 

form ; 

Till,  more  unsteady  than  the  southern  gale, 
Commerce  on  other  shores  display'd  her  sail, 


While  naught  remain'd,  of  all  that   riche* 

gave, 
But  towns  unmann'd  and  lords  without  a 

slave — 
And  late  the  nation   found,  with  fruitless 

skill, 
Its  former  strength  was  but  plethoric  ill. 

Yet,  still  the  loss  of  wealth  is  here  sup- 
plied 

By  arts,  the  splendid  wrecks  of  former  pride : 
From  these  the  feeble  heart  and  long-fallen 

mind 

An  easy  compensation  seem  to  find. 
Here  may  be  seen,  in  bloodless  pomp  array'd, 
The  pasteboard  triumph  and  the  cavalcade ; 
Processions  form'd  for  piety  and  love — 
A  mistress  or  a  saint  in  every  grove : 
By  sports  like  these  are  all  their  carc^  be- 
guiled ; 

The  sports  of  children  satisfy  the  child, 
Each  nobler  aim  represt  by  long  control. 
Now  sinks  at  last,  or  feebly  mans  the  soul ; 
While  low  delights,  succeeding  fast  behind, 
In  happier  meanness  occupy  the  mind. 
As  in  those  domes,  where  Caesars  once  l>on: 

sway, 

Defaced  by  time  and  tottering  in  decay, 
There  in  the  ruin,  heedless  of  the  dead, 
The  shelter-seeking  peasant  builds  his  shed  ; 
And,  wondering  man  could  want  the  larger 

pile, 
Exults,  and  owns  his  cottage  with  a  smile. 

My  soul,  turn  from  them,  turn  we  to  survey 
Where  rougher  climes  a  nobler  race  dis- 
play- 
Where  the  bleak  S.wiss  their  stormy  man- 
sions tread, 

And  force  a  churlish  soil  for  scanty  bread. 
No  product  here  the  barren  hills  afford 
But  man   and   steel,   the    soldier  and    his 

sword ; 

No  vernal  blooms  their  torpid  rocks  array, 
But  Winter  lingering  chills  the  lap  of  May ; 
No  zephyr  fondly  sues  the  mountain's  bn-a-t, 
But    meteors    glare,    and    stormy    glooms 
invest. 

Yet  still,  even  here,  content  can  spread  a 

charm, 
Redress  the  clime,  and  all  its  rage  disarm. 


43G 


THE  POEMS  OF  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


Though  poor  the  peasant's  hut,  his  feasts 
though  small, 

lie  sees  his  little  lot  the  lot  of  all ; 

Sees  no  contiguous  palace  rear  its  head, 

To  shame  the  meanness  of  his  humble  shed ; 

No  costly  lord  the  sumptuous  banquet  deal, 

To  make  him  loathe  his  vegetable  meal ; 

But  calm,  and  bred  in  ignorance  and  toil, 

Each  wish  contracting,  fits  him  to  the  soil. 

Cheerful  at  morn,  he  wakes  from  short  re- 
pose, 

Breathes  the  keen  air,  and  carols  as  he  goes ; 

With  patient  angle  trolls  the  tinny  deep ; 

Or  drives  his  venturous  ploughshare  to  the 
steep ; 

Or  seeks  the  den  where  snow-tracks  mark 
the  way, 

And  drags  the  struggling  savage  into  day. 

At  night  returning,  every  labor  sped, 

He  sits  him  down  the  monarch  of  a  shed  ; 

Smiles  by  his  cheerful  fire,  and  round  sur- 
veys 

His  children's  looks,  that  brighten  at  the 
blaze  ; 

While  his  loved  partner,  boastful  of  her 
hoard, 

Displays  her  cleanly  platter  on  the  board : 

And  haply  too  some  pilgrim  thither  led 

With  many  a  tale  repays  the  nightly  bed. 

Thas  every  good  his  native  wilds  impart 
Imprints  the  patriot  passion  on  his  heart ; 
And  e'en  those  hills,  that  round  his  mansion 

rise, 

Enhance  the  bliss  his  scanty  fund  supplies : 
Dear  is   that   shed  to  which  his  soul  con- 
forms, 
And  dear  that  hill  which  lifts  him  to  the 

storms  ; 

And  as  a  child,  when  scaring  sounds  molest, 
Clings   close   and   closer    to    the    mother's 

breast — 

So  the  loud  torrent  and  the  whirlwind's  roar 
But  bind  him  to  his  native  mountains  more. 

Such  are  the  charms  to  barren  states  as- 

sign'd — 

Their  wants  but  few,  their  wishes  all  con- 
fined— 

Yet  let  them  only  share  the  praises  due, 
If  few  their  wants,  their  pleasures  are  but 
few : 


For  every  want  that  stimulates  the  breast 
Becomes  a  source  of  pleasure  when  redress'd. 
Whence    from   such    lands    each    pleasing 

science  flies, 

That  first  excites  desire,  and  then  supplies. 
Unknown  to  them,  when  sensual  pleasures 

cloy, 

To  fill  the  languid  pause  with  finer  joy  ; 
Unknown  those  powers  that  raise  the  soul 

to  flame, 
Catch  every  nerve  and  vibrate  through  the 

frame  : 

Their  level  life  is  but  a  smouldering  fire, 
Unquench'd    by  want,  unfann'd   by  strong 

desire  ; 

Unfit  for  raptures,  or,  if  raptures  cheer 
On  some  high  festival  of  once  a  year, 
In  wild  excess  the  vulgar  breast  takes  fire, 
Till,  buried  in  debauch,  the  bliss  expire. 

But  not   their  joys  alone   thus   coarsely 

flow, 

Their  morals,  like  their  pleasures,  are  but  low ; 
For,  as  refinement  stops,  from  sire  to  son, 
Unalter'd,  unimproved,  the  manners  run ; 
And  love's   and  friendship's  finely  pointed 

dart 

Fall  blunted  from  each  indurated  heart. 
Some   sterner   virtues   o'er  the   mountain's 

breast 

May  sit,  like  falcons  cowering  on  the  nest ; 
But  all  the  gentler  morals,  such  as  play 
Through   life's   more    cultured   walks,    and 

charm  the  way — 

These,  far  dispersed,  on  timorous  pinions  fly, 
To  sport  and  flutter  in  a  kinder  sky. 

To  kinder  skies,  where  gentler  manners 

reign, 

I  turn ;  and  France  displays  her  bright  do- 
main. 

Gay  sprightly  land  of  mirth  and  social  ease, 
Pleased  with  thyself,  whom  all  the  world 

can  please — 

How  often  have  I  led  thy  sportive  choir, 
With  tuneless  pipe  beside  the  murmuring 

Loire ! 

Where  shading  elms  along  the  margin  grew, 
And,  freshen'd  from  the  wave,  the  zephyr 

flew! 

And  haply,  though  my  harsh  touch,  falter 
ing  still, 


THK  POEMS  OF  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


437 


But  mock'cl  all  tune,  and  marr'd  the  dan- 
cer's skill — 

Yet  would  the  village  praise  my  wondrous 
power, 

And  dance,  forgetful  of  the  noontide  hour. 

Alike  all  ages.     Dames  of  ancient  days 

Have  led  their  children  through  the  mirth- 
ful maze ; 

And  the  gay  grandsire,  skill'd  in  gestic  lore, 

Has  frisk'd  beneath  the  burden  of  threescore. 

So  bless'd  a  life  these  thoughtless  realms 

display; 

Thus  idly  busy  rolls  their  world  away. 
Theirs  are  those  arts  that  mind  to  mind  en- 
dear, 

For  honor  forms  the  social  temper  here : 
Honor,  that  praise  which  real  merit  gains, 
Or  even  imaginary  worth  obtains, 
Here  passes  current — paid  from  hand  to  hand, 
It  shifts  in  splendid  traffic  round  the  land ; 
From  courts  to  camps,  to  cottages  it  strays, 
And  all  are  taught  an  avarice  of  praise — 
They  please,  are  pleased,  they  give  to  get 

esteem, 

Till,  seeming  blest,  they  grow  to  what  they 
seem. 

But  while  this  softer  art  their  bliss  supplies, 
It  gives  their  follies  also  room  to  rise  ; 
For   praise  too    dearly   loved,  or   warmly 

sought, 

Enfeebles  all  internal  strength  of  thought ; 
And  the  weak  soul,  within  itself  unblest, 
Leans  for  all  pleasure  on  another's  breast. 
Hence  ostentation  here,  with  tawdry  art, 
Pants  for  the  vulgar  praise  which  fools  im- 
part; 

Here  vanity  assumes  her  pert  grimace, 
And  trims  her  robes  of  frieze  with  copper 

lace; 

Here  beggar  pride  defrauds  her  daily  cheer, 
To  boast  one  splendid  banquet  once  a  year : 
The  mind  still  turns  where  shifting  fashion 

draws, 
Nor  weighs  the  solid  worth  of  self-applause. 

To  men  of  other  minds  my  fancy  Hies, 
Embosom'd  in  the  deep  where  Holland  lies. 
Methinks  her  patient  sons  before  me  stand, 
Where  the  broad  ocean   leans   against  the 
land ; 


And,  sedulous  to  stop  the  coming  tide, 
Lift  the  tall  rampire's  artificial  pride. 
Onward,  methinks,  and  diligently  slow, 
The  firm  connected  bulwark  seems  to  grow, 
Spreads  its  long  arms  amidst  the  watery  roar, 
Scoops    out    an    empire,    and    usurps    the 

shore — 

While  the  pent  ocean,  rising  o'er  the  pile, 
Sees  an  amphibious  world  beneath  him  smile 
The  slow  canal,  the  yellow  blossom'd  vale, 
The  willow-tufted  bank,  the  gliding  sail, 
The  crowded  mart,  the  cultivated  plain — 
A  new  creation  rescued  from  his  reign. 

Thus,  while  around  the  wave-subjected  soil 
Impels  the  native  to  repeated  toil, 
Industrious  habits  in  each  bosom  reign, 
And  industry  begets  a  love  of  gain. 
Hence   all   the   good   from    opulence    that 

springs, 
With   all    those    ills    superiluous    treasure 

brings, 
Are    here     display'd.       Their    much-loved 

wealth  imparts 

Convenience,  plenty,  elegance,  and  arts ; 
But  view  them  closer,  craft  and  fraud  ap> 

pear, 

Even  liberty  itself  is  barter'd  here. 
At  gold's  superior  charms  all  freedom  flies; 
The  needy  sell  it,  and  the  rich  man  buys : 
A  land  of  tyrants,  and  a  den  of  slaves, 
Here  wretches  seek  dishonorable  graves  ; 
And,  calmly  bent,  to  servitude  conform, 
Dull  as  their  lakes  that  slumber  in  the  storm. 

Heavens,  how  unlike  their  Belgic  sires  of 

old- 
Rough,  poor,  content,  ungovernably  bold, 
War  in  each  breast,  and  freedom  on  each 

brow ; 
How  much  unlike  the  sons  of  Britain  now ! 

Fired  at  the  sound,  my  genius  spreads  her 

wing, 
And  flies  where  Britain  courts  the  western 

Spring ; 
\V  lu-re  lawns  extend  that   scorn    Arcadian 

pride, 
And  brighter  streams  than  famed 

glide. 

>  A  river  in  India,  DOW  called  the  Jdu 


438 


THE  POEMS  OF  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


There,  all  around, the  gentlest  breezes  stray; 
There  gentle  music  melts  on  every  spray ; 
Creation's   mildest  charms   are   there   com- 
bined : 

Extremes  are  only  in  the  master's  mind. 
Stern  o'er  each  bosom  reason  holds  her  state, 
With  daring  aims  irregularly  great. 
Pride  in  their  port,  defiance  in  their  eye, 
I  see  the  lords  of  human  kind  pass  by, 
Intent  on  high  designs — a  thoughtful  band, 
By   forms  unfashion'd,  fresh  from  nature's 

hand, 

Fierce  in  their  native  hardiness  of  soul, 
True  to  imagined  right,  above  control ; 
While  even  the  peasant  boasts  these  rights 

to  scan, 
And  learns  to  venerate  himself  as  man. 

Thine,  freedom,  thine  the  blessings  pictured 

here ; 

Thine  are  those  charms  that  dazzle  and  en- 
dear ; 

Too  blest,  indeed,  were  such  without  alloy, 
But,  foster' d  e'en  by  freedom,  ills  annoy ; 
That  independence  Britons  prize  too  high 
Keeps  man  from  man,  and  breaks  the  social 

tie : 

The  self-dependent  lordlings  stand  alone — 
All   claims  that  bind    and  sweeten  life  un- 
known. 

Here,  by  the  bonds  of  nature  feebly  held, 
Minds  combat  minds,  repelling  and  repell'd ; 
Ferments  arise,  imprison'd  factions  roar, 
Repress'd    ambition    struggles    round    her 

shore ; 

Till,  overwrought,  the  general  system  feels 
Its  motions  stopp'd,  or  frenzy  fire  the  wheels. 

Nor  this  the  worst.     As  nature's  ties  de- 
cay, 

As  duty,  love,  and  honor  fail  to  sway, 
Fictitious  bonds,  the  bonds  of  wealth  and 

law, 
Still   gather   strength,  and   force  unwilling 

awe. 

Hence  all  obedience  bows  to  these  alone, 
And  talent  sinks,  and  merit  weeps  unknown  ; 
Till  time  may  come,  when,  stripp'd  of  all  her 

charms, 

The  land  of  scholars,  and  the  nurse  of  arms— 
Where    noble    stems   transmit   the   patriot 
flame. 


Where  kings  have   toil'd,  and  poets  wrote 

for  fame — 

One  sink  of  level  avarice  shall  lie, 
And  scholars,  soldiers,  kings,  unhonor'd  die. 

Yet  think  not,  thus  when  freedom's  ills  I 

state, 

I  mean  to  flatter  kings,  or  court  the  great. 
Ye  powers  of  truth  that  bid  my  soul  aspire, 
Far  from  my  bosom  drive  the  low  desire ! 
And  thou,  fair  freedom,  taught  alike  to  feel 
The  rabble's  rage  and  tyrant's  angry  steel — 
Thou  transitory  flower,  alike  undone 
By   proud    contempt,  or    favor's    fostering 

sun — 
Still  may  thy  blooms  the  changeful  clime 

endure ! 

I  only  would  repress  them  to  secure; 
For  just  experience  tells  in  every  soil, 
That  those  who   think   must  govern   those 

that  toil ; 
And  all  that   freedom's   highest   aims   can 

reach 

Is  but  to  lay  proportion'd  loads  on  each. 
Hence,   should    one   order     disproportion'd 

grow, 
Its  double  weight  must  ruin  all  below. 

Oh,  then,  how  blind  to  all  that  truth  re- 
quires, 

Who  think  it  freedom  when  a  part  aspii'es ! 
Calm  is  my  soul,  nor  apt  to  rise  in  arms, 
Except  when  fast  approaching  danger  warns ; 
But,  when   contending  chiefs  blockade  the 

throne, 
Contracting   regal   power    to   stretch   their 

own — 

When  I  behold  a  factious  band  agree 
To   call    it   freedom   when    themselves    are 

free — 
Each    wanton    judge   new   penal    statutes 

draw, 
Laws  grind  the  poor,  and  rich  men  1'ule  the 

law — 
The  wealth  of  climes,  where  savage  nation  % 

roam, 
Pillaged  from  slaves  to  purchase  slaves  at 

home — 

Fear,  pity,  justice,  indignation,  start, 
Tear  off  reserve,  and  bare  my  swelling  heart 
Till  half  a  patriot,  half  a  coward  grown, 
I  fly  from  petty  tyrants  to  the  tin-one. 


THE  POEMS  OF  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


439 


Yes,  brother,  curse  with  me  that  baleful 

hour 

When  first  ambition  struck  at  regal  power ; 
And  thus,  polluting  honor  in  its  source, 
Gave  wealth  to  sway  the  mind  with  double 

force. 
Have  we  not  seen,  round  Britain's  peopled 

shore, 

Her  useful  sons  exchanged  for  useless  ore  ? 
Seen  all  her  triumphs  but  destruction  haste, 
Like    flaring    tapers    brightening    as    they 

waste  ? 

Seen  opulence,  her  grandeur  to  maintain, 
Lead  stern  depopulation  in  her  train, 
And  over   fields    where   scatter'd    hamlets 

rose, 

lu  barren  solitary  pomp  repose  ? 
Have  we  not  seen,  at  pleasure's  lordly  call, 
The  smiling  long-frequented  village  fall  ? 
Beheld  the  duteous  son,  the  sire  decay'd, 
The  modest  matron  and  the  blushing  maid, 
Forced  from  their  homes,  a  melancholy  train, 
To    traverse    climes    beyond    the    western 

main — 
Where  wild   Oswego1  spreads   her  swamps 

around, 
And  Niagara  stuns  with  thundering  sound  ? 

Even  now,  perhaps,  as  there  some  pilgrim 

strays 

Through  tangled  forests  and  through  dan- 
gerous ways, 
Where   beasts   with    man    divided   empire 

claim, 

And  the  brown  Indian  marks  with  murder- 
ous aim — 

There,  while  above  the  giddy  tempest  flies, 
And  all  around  distressful  yells  arise — 
The  pensive  exile,  bending  with  his  woe, 
To  stop  too  fearful,  and  too  faint  to  go, 
Casts  a  long  look  where  England's  glories 

thine, 
And  bids  his  bosom  sympathize  with  mine. 

Vain,  very  vain,  my  weary  search  to  find 
Th?t  bliss  which  only  centres  in  the  mind. 
W>  y  have  I  stray'd  from  pleasure  and  re- 
pose, 

To  seek  a  good  each  government  bestows? 
fn  every  government,  though  terrors  reign, 


M wego,  a  river  of  N.  America  running  into  Lake  Ontario. 


Though  tyrant  kings  or  tyrant  laws  restrain, 
How  small,  of  all  that  human  hearts  endure, 
That  part  which  laws  or  kings  can  cause  or 

cure! 

Still  to  ourselves  in  every  place  consign'd, 
Our  own  felicity  we  make  or  find. 
With  secret  course,  which  no  loud  storms 

annoy, 

Glides  the  smooth  current  of  domestic  joy; 
The  lifted  axe,  the  agonizing  wheel, 
Zcck's   iron   crown,  and   Damiens"  bed  of 

steel, 
To   men    remote    from    power  but    rarely 

known — 
Leave  reason,  faith,  and  conscience,  all  oar 

own. 


THE  HERMIT. 

"TURN,  gentle  Hermit  of  the  dale, 

And  guide  my  lonely  way 
To  where  yon  taper  cheers  the  vale 

With  hospitable  ray. 

For  here,  forlorn  and  lost,  1  tread, 
With  fainting  steps  and  slow, 

Where  wilds,  immeasurably  spread, 
Seem  lengthening  as  I  go." 

"Forbear,  my  son,"  the  Hermit  cries, 
"  To  tempt  the  dangerous  gloom  ; 

For  yonder  faithless  phantom  flies 
To  lure  thee  to  thy  doom. 

Here,  to  the  houseless  child  of  want 

My  door  is  open  still ; 
And,  though  my  portion  is  but  scant, 

I  give  it  with  good  will. 

Then  turn  to-night,  and  freely  share 

Whate'er  my  cell  bestows — 
My  rushy  couch  and  frugal  fare, 

My  blessing  and  repose. 

No  flocks  that  range  the  valley  free, 
To  slaughter  I  condemn — 

1  George  and  Luke  Zerk  headed  an  insurrection  In  Hungary, 
1514;  George  usurped  tin-  Hov.T.-ii.-Miy.  mul  was  punished  bj 
a  red-hot  iron  crown.  Damienx,  who  attempted  the  awan«V 
nation  of  Louis  XV.  of  France,  in  1757.  was  tortured  to  d»-»tb 


440 


THE  POEMS  OF  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


Taught  by  that  Power  that  pities  me, 
I  learn  to  pity  them. 

But  from  the  mountain's  grassy  side 

A  guiltless  feast  I  bring ; 
A  scrip  with  herbs  and  fruits  supplied, 

And  water  from  the  spring. 

Then,*pilgrim,  turn  ;  thy  cares  forego, — 
All  earth-born  cares  are  wrong : 

Man  wants  but  little  here  below, 
Nor  wants  that  little  long." 

Soft  as  the  dew  from  heaven  descends, 

His  gentle  accents  fell ; 
The  modest  stranger  lowly  bends, 

And  follows  to  the  cell. 

Far,  in  a  wilderness  obscure, 

The  lonely  mansion  lay, — 
A  refuge  to  the  neighboring  poor, 

And  strangers  led  astray. 

No  stores  beneath  its  humble  thatch 

Required  a  master's  care; 
The  wicket,  opening  with  a  latch, 

Received  the  harmless  pair. 

And  now,  when  busy  crowds  retire 

To  take  their  evening  rest, 
The  Hermit  trimm'd  his  little  fire, 

And  cheer'd  his  pensive  guest ; 

And  spread  his  vegetable  store, 
And  gayly  press'd  and  smiled  ; 

And,  skill'd  in  legendary  lore, 
The  lingering  hours  beguiled. 

Around,  in  sympathetic  mirth 

Its  tricks  the  kitten  tries, — 
The  cricket  chirrups  in  the  hearth, 

The  crackling  fagot  flies. 

o         o 

But,  nothing  could  a  charm  impart 
To  soothe  the  stranger's  woe — 

For  grief  was  heavy  at  his  heart, 
And  tears  began  to  flow. 

His  rising  cares  the  Hermit  spied — 
With  answering  care  oppress'd  ; 

"  And  whence,  unhappy  youth,"  he  cried, 
"  The  sorrows  of  thy  breast  ? 


From  better  habitations  spurn'd, 

Reluctant  dost  thou  rove? 
Or  grieve  for  friendship  unreturn'd, 

Or  unregarded  love  ? 

Alas,  the  joys  that  fortune  brings 

Are  trifling,  and  decay ; 
And  those  who  prize  the  paltry  thingg 

More  trifling  still  than  they. 

And  what  is  friendship  but  a  name, 

A  charm  that  lulls  to  sleep — 
A  shade  that  follows  wealth  or  fame, 

And  leaves  the  wretch  to  weep  ? 

And  love  is  still  an  emptier  sound — 

The  modern  fair  one's  jest ; 
On  earth  unseen,  or  only  found 

To  warm  the  turtle's  nest. 

For  shame,  fond  youth,  thy  sorrow!  hush, 

And  spurn  the  sex,"  he  said  ; 
But,  while  he  spoke,  a  rising  blush 

His  love-lorn  guest  betray'd : 

Surprised,  he  sees  new  beauties  riso( 
Swift  mantling  to  the  view — 

Like  colors  o'er  the  morning  skies, 
As  bright,  as  transient  too. 

The  bashful  look,  the  rising  breast, 

Alternate  spread  alarms: 
The  lovely  stranger  stands  confest, 

A  maid  in  all  her  charms. 

"  And,  ah  !  forgive  a  stranger  rude, 
A  wretch  forlorn,"  she  cried — 

"  Whose  feet  unhallow'd  thus  intrude 
Where  heaven  and  you  reside. 

But  let  a  maid  thy  pity  share, 
Whom  love  has  taught  to  stray — 

Who  seeks  for  rest,  but  finds  despair 
Companion  of  her  way. 

My  father  lived  beside  the  Tyne — 

A  wealthy  lord  was  he ; 
And  all  his  wealth  was  mark'd  as  nine  : 

He  had  but  only  me. 

To  win  me  from  his  tender  arms 
Unnumber'd  suitors  came ; 


THE  POEMS  OF  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


441 


Who  praised  me  for  imputed  charms, 
And  felt  or  feign'd  a  flame. 

Each  hour  a  mercenary  crowd 
With  richest  proffers  strove ; 

Among  the  rest  young  Edwin  bow'd — 
But  never  talk'd  of  love. 

In  humble  simplest  habit  clad, 
No  wealth  or  power  had  he ; 

Wisdom  and  worth  were  all  he  had, 
But  these  were  all  to  me. 

And  when  beside  me  in  the  dale 

He  caroll'd  lays  of  love, 
His  breath  lent  fragrance  to  the  gale, 

And  music  to  the  grove. 

The  blossom  opening  to  the  day, 

The  dews  of  heaven  refined, 
Could  naught  of  purity  display 

To  emulate  his  mind. 

The  dew,  the  blossoms  of  the  tree, 
With  charms  inconstant  shine  : 

Their  charms  were  his ;  but,  woe  to  me, 
Their  constancy  was  mine. 

For  still  I  tried  each  fickle  art, 

Importunate  and  vain ; 
And  while  his  passion  touch'd  my  heart, 

I  triumph'd  in  his  pain. 

Till,  quite  dejected  with  my  scorn, 

He  left  me  to  my  pride ; 
And  sought  a  solitude  forlorn 

In  secret,  where  he  died. 

But  mine  the  sorrow,  mine  the  fault, 

And  well  my  life  shall  pay ; 
I'll  seek  the  solitude  he  sought, 

And  stretch  me  where  he  lay. 

And  there,  forforn,  despairing,  hid, 

I'll  lay  me  down  and  die  : 
'Twas  so  for  me  that  Edwin  did, 

And  so  for  him  will  I." 

"  Forbid  it,  heaven  !"  the  Hermit  cried, 
And  claap'd  her  to  his  breast: 

The  wondering  fair  one  turn'd  to  chide — 
'Twas  Edwin's  self  that  prest. 


"  Turn,  Angelina,  ever  dear — 

My  charmer,  turn  to  see 
Thy  own,  thy  long-lost  Edwin  here, 

Restored  to  love  and  thee. 

Thus  let  me  hold  thee  to  my  heart, 

And  every  care  resign : 
And  shall  we  never,  never  part, 

My  life — my  all  that's  mine  ? 

No ;  never,  from  this  hour  to  part, 
We'll  live  and  love  so  true — 

The  sigh  that  rends  thy  constant  heart 
Shall  break  thy  Edwin's  too." 


THE  DOUBLE  TRANSFORMATION. 

A    TALE. 

SECLUDED  from  domestic  strife, 
Jack  Bookworm  led  a  college  life  ; 

O  ' 

A  fellowship,  at  twenty-five, 
Made  him  the  happiest  man  alive  ; 
He  drank  his  glass,  and  crack'd  his  joke, 
And  freshmen  wonder'd  as  he  spoke. 


Such  pleasures,  unalloy'd  with  care, 
Could  any  accident  impair  ? 
Could  Cupid's  shaft  at  length  transfix 
Our  swain,  arrived  at  thirty-six  ? 
Oh,  had  the  archer  ne'er  come  down 
To  ravage  in  a  country  town  ! 
Or  Flavia  been  content  to  stop 
At  triumphs  in  a  Fleet-street  shop  ! 
Oh,  had  her  eyes  forgot  to  blaze, 
Or  Jack  had  wanted  eyes  to  gaze  ! 
Oh  !  —  But  let  exclamation  cease  ; 
Her  presence  banish'd  all  his  peace  : 
So  with  decorum  all  things  carried, 
Miss  frown'd  and  blush'd,  and  then 
married. 

Need  we  expose  to  vulgar  sight 
The  raptures  of  the  bridal  night? 
Need  we  intrude  on  hallow'd  ground, 
Or  draw  the  curtains  closed  around  V 
Let  it  suffice,  that  each  had  charms  : 
He  clasp'd  a  goddess  in  his  arms; 


442 


THE  POEMS  OF  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


And  though  she  felt  his  usage  rough, 
Yet  in  a  man  'twas  well  enough. 

The  honeymoon  like  lightning  flew; 
The  second  brought  its  transports  too ; 
A  third,  a  fourth,  were  not  amiss  ; 
The  fifth  was  friendship  mix'd  with  bliss ; 
But,  when  a  twelvemonth  pass'd  away, 
Jack  found  his  goddess  made  of  clay ; 
Found  half  the  charms  that  deck'd  her  face 
Arose  from  powder,  shreds,  or  lace ; 
But  still  the  worst  remain'd  behind — 
That  very  face  had  robb'd  her  mind. 

Skill'd  in  no  other  arts  was  she 
But  dressing,  patching,  repartee  ; 
And,  just  as  humor  rose  or  fell, 
By  turns  a  slattern  or  a  belle. 
'Tis  true,  she  dress'd  with  modern  grace — 
Half-naked  at  a  ball  or  race ; 
But  when  at  home,  at  board  or  bed, 
Five  greasy  nightcaps  wrapp'd  her  head. 
Could  so  much  beauty  condescend 
To  be  a  dull  domestic  friend? 
Could  any  curtain-lectures  bring 
To  decency  so  fine  a  thing  ? 
In  short — by  night  'twas  fits  or  fretting, 
By  day  'twas  gadding  or  coquetting. 
Fond  to  be  seen,  she  kept  a  bevy 
Of  powder'd  coxcombs  at  her  levee ; 
The  squire  and  captain  took  their  stations, 
And  twenty  other  near  relations. 
Jack  suck'd  his  pipe,  and  often  broke 
A  sigh  in  suffocating  smoke ; 
While  all  their  hours  were  pass'd  between 
Insulting  repartee  or  spleen. 

Thus,  as  her  faults  each  day  were  known, 
He  thinks  her  features  coarser  grown ; 
He  fancies  every  vice  she  shows 
Or  thins  her  lip  or  points  her  nose ; 
Whenever  rage  or  envy  rise, 
How  wide  her  mouth,  how  wild  her  eyes ! 
He  knows  not  how,  but  so  it  is, 
Her  face  is  grown  a  knowing  phiz ; 
And,  though  her  fops  are  wondrous  civil, 
He  thinks  her  ugly  as  the  devil. 

Now,  to  perplex  the  ravell'd  noose, 
As  each  a  different  way  pursues — 
While  sullen  or  loquacious  strife 
Promised  to  hold  them  on  for  life — 


That  dire  disease,  whose  ruthless  power 
Withers  the  beauty's  transient  flower — 
Lo,  the  small-pox,  whose  horrid  glare 
Levell'd  its  terrors  at  the  fair, 
And,  rifling  every  youthful  grace, 
Left  but  the  remnant  of  a  face. 

The  glass,  grown  hateful  to  her  sight, 
Reflected  now  a  perfect  fright. 
Each  former  art  she  vainly  tries 
To  bring  back  lustre  to  her  eyes ; 
In  vain  she  tries  her  paste  and  creams 
To  smooth  her  skin,  or  hide  its  seams: 
Her  country  beaux  and  city  cousins, 
Lovers  no  more,  flew  off  by  dozens ; 
The  squire  himself  was  seen  to  yield, 
And  even  the  captain  quit  the  field. 

Poor  madam,  now  condemn'd  to  hack 
The  rest  of  life  with  anxious  Jack, 
Perceiving  others  fairly  flown, 
Attempted  pleasing  him  alone. 
Jack  soon  was  dazzled  to  behold 
Her  present  face  surpass  the  old. 
With  modesty  her  cheeks  are  dyed  ; 
Humility  displaces  pride ; 
For  tawdry  finery  is  seen 
A  person  ever  neatly  clean  ; 
No  more  presuming  on  her  sway, 
She  learns  good-nature  every  day : 
Serenely  gay,  and  strict  in  duty, 
Jack  finds  his  wife  a  perfect  beauty. 


STANZAS  ON  THE  TAKING  OF 
QUEBEC. 

AMIDST  the  clamor  of  exulting  joys, 

Which  triumph  forces  from  the   patriot 

heart, 

Grief  dares  to  mingle  her  soul-piercing  voice, 
And  quells  the  raotures  which  from  pleas- 
ures start. 

Oh,  Wolfe,  to  thee  a  streaming  flood  of  woe, 
Sighing,  we  pay,  and  think  e'en  conquest 

dear ; 

Quebec  in  vain  shall  teach  our  breast  to  glow, 
Whilst  thy  sad  fate  extorts  the  heart-wrung 
tear. 


THE   POEMS  OF   OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


443 


Alive  the  foe  thy  dreadful  vigor  fled, 

And  saw  thee  fall  with  joy-pronouncing 

eyes: 
Yet  they  shall  know  thou  conquerest,  though 

dead! 

Since  from  thy  tomb  a  thousand  heroes 
rise. 


EPITAPH  ON  EDWARD  PURDON. 

[This  gentleman  was  educated  at  Trinity  College,  Dublin ; 
but  having  wasted  his  patrimony,  he  enlisted  as  a  foot-soldier ; 
/rowing  tired  of  that  employment,  he  obtained  his  discharge, 
%nd  became  a  scribbler  in  the  newspapers.  He  translated 
Voltaire'b  Henriade.] 

HERE  lies  poor  Ned  Purdon,  from  misery 

freed, 

Who  long  was  a  bookseller's  hack ; 
He  led  such  a  damnable  life  in  this  world, 
I  don't  think  he'll  wish  to  come  back. 


STANZAS  ON  WOMAN. 


lovely  woman  stoops  to  folly, 
And  finds  too  late  that  men  betray, 
What  charm  can  soothe  her  melancholy, 
What  art  can  wash  her  guilt  away  ? 

The  only  art  her  guilt  to  cover, 
To  hide  her  shame  from  every  eye, 

To  give  repentance  to  her  lover, 
And  wring  his  bosom,  is  —  to  die. 


AN  ELEGY  ON  THE  GLORY  OF  HER 
SEX,  MRS.  MARY  BLAIZE. 

GOOD  people  all,  with  one  accord, 
Lament  for  Madam  I>lai/r, 

Who  never  wanted  a  good  word — 
From  those  who  spoke  her  praise 


The  needy  seldom  pass'd  her  door, 
And  always  found  her  kind ; 

She  freely  lent  to  all  the  poor — 
Who  left  a  pledge  behind. 

She  strove  the  neighborhood  to  please, 
With  manners  wondrous  winning ; 

And  never  follow'd  wicked  ways — 
Unless  when  she  was  sinning. 

At  church,  in  silks  and  satins  new, 
With  hoop  of  monstrous  size, 

She  never  slumber'd  in  her  pew — 
But  when  she  shut  her  eyes. 

Her  love  was  sought,  I  do  aver, 
By  twenty  beaux  and  more ; 

The  king  himself  has  follow'd  her — 
When  she  has  walk'd  before. 

But  now  her  wealth  and  finery  fled, 
Her  hangers-on  cut  short  all ; 

The  doctors  found,  when  she  was  dead — 
Her  last  disorder  mortal. 

Let  us  lament,  in  sorrow  sore, 
For  Kent-street  well  may  say, 

That  had  she  lived  a  twelvemonth  more- 
She  had  not  died  to-day. 


EPITAPH  ON  DR.  PARNELL. 

THIS  tomb,  inscribed  to  gentle  Parnell's 
name, 

May  speak  our  gratitude,  but  not  his  fame. 

What  heart  but  feels  his  sweetly  moral  lay, 

That  leads  to  truth  through  pleasure's  flow- 
ery way  ? 

Celestial  themes  confess'd  his  tuneful  aid ; 

And  heaven,  that  lent  him  genius,  was  re- 
paid. 

Needless  to  him  the  tribute  we  bestow, 

The  transitory  breath  of  fame  below: 

More  lasting  rapture  from  his  work  shall 
rise, 

While  converts  thank  their  poet  in  the  skiei 


444 


THE   POEMS   OF   OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 


A  PROLOGUE, 

WRITTEN    AND   SPOKEN  BY  THE  POET  LABE- 

RIUS,  A  ROMAN  KNIGHT,  WHOM    <X<E8AR 

FORCED  UPON  THE  STAGE. 

(PRESERVED  BY  MACROBIUS.) 

WHAT  !  no  way  left  to  shun  th'   inglorious 

stage, 

And  save  from  infamy  my  sinking  age  ? 
Scarce  half  alive,   oppress'd    with  many  a 

year, 
What,   in   the  name  of  dotage,  drives  me 

here? 

A  time  there  was,  when  glory  was  my  guide, 
Nor  force  nor  fraud  could  turn   my   steps 

aside ; 

Unawed  by  power,  and  unappall'd  by  fear, 
With  honest  thrift  I  held  my  honor  dear: 
But  this  vile  hour  disperses  all  my  store, 
And  all  my  hoard  of  honor  is  no  more ; 
For,  ah !  too  partial  to  my  life's  decline, 
Caesar  persuades,  submission  must  be  mine ; 
Him  I  obey,  whom  heaven  itself  obeys, 
Hopeless  of  pleasing,  yet  inclined  to  please. 
Here  then  at  once  I  welcome  every  shame, 
And  cancel  at  threescore  a  life  of  fame  ; 
No  more  my  titles  shall  my  children  tell, 
The  old  buffoon  will  tit  my  name  as  well : 
This  day  beyond  its  term  my  fate  extends, 
For  life  is  ended  when  our  honor  ends. 


EPILOGUE    TO    THE    COMEDY     OF 
"SHE  STOOPS  TO   CONQUER." 

WELL,  having  Stooped  to  Conquer  with  suc- 
cess, 

And  gain'd  a  husband  without  aid  from 
dress, 

Still,  as  a  bar-maid,  I  could  wish  it  too, 

As  I  have  conquer'd  him,  to  conquer  you : 


And  let  me  say,  for  all  your  resolution, 
That  pretty  bar-maids  have  done  execution. 
Our  life  is  ail  a  play,  composed  to  please, 
"  We  have  our  exits  and  our  entrances." 
The  first  act  shows  the  simple  country  maidr 
Harmless  and  young,  of  every  thing  afraid ; 
Blushes   when  hired,  and  with   unmeaning 

action, 

"  I  hope  as  how  to  give  you  satisfaction." 
Her  second  act  displays  a  livelier  scene — 
Th'  unblushing  bar-maid  of  a  country  inn, 
Who  whisks  about  the  house,  at  market 

caters, 
Talks  loud,  coquets  the  guests,  and  scoldi 

the  waiters. 
Next  the  scene  shifts  to  town,  and  there  she 

soars, 

The  chop-house  toasts  of  ogling  connoisseurs. 
On  squires  and  cits  she  there  displays  her 

arts, 

And  on  the  gridiron  broils  her  lovers'  hearts . 
And  as  she  smiles,  her  triumphs  to  complete, 
Even  common-councilmen  forget  to  eat. 
The   fourth  act  shows  her  wedded  to  the 

squire, 

And  madam  now  begins  to  hold  it  higher ; 
Dotes  upon  dancing,  and  in  all  her  pride 
Swims    round    the    room  the    Heinelle   of 

Cheapside ; 

Ogles  and  leers  with  artificial  skill, 
Till  having  lost  in  age  the  power  to  kill, 
She   sits   all   night   at   cards,  and  ogles  at 

Spadille. 

Such,  through  our  lives,  the  eventful  history : 
The  fifth  and  last  act  still  remains  for  me. 
The  bar-maid  now  for  your  protection  prays, 
Turns  female  barrister,  and  pleads  for  bays. 


EMMA. 

IN  all  my  Emma's  beauties  blest, 
Amidst  profusion  still  I  pine ; 

For  though  she  gives  me  up  her  breast, 
Its  panting  tenant  <s  not  mine. 


THE  POEMS  OF  AUBREY  DE  VERE, 


SONG. 

LOVE  laid  down  his  golden  head 

( )n  his  mother's  knee ; — 
"  The  world  runs  round  so  fast,"  he  said, 

"  None  has  time  for  me." 

Thought,  a  sage  unhonor'd,  turn'd 

From  the  on-rushing  crew ; 
Song  her  starry  legend  spurn'd ; 

Art  her  glass  down  threw. 

Roll  on,  blind  world,  upon  thy  track 
Until  thy  wheels  catch  fire  ! 

For  that  is  gone  which  comes  not  back 
To  seller  nor  to  buyer  ! 


CREEP  SLOWLY  UP  THE  WILLOW- 
WAND. 

CREEP  slowly  up  the  willow-wand, 
Young  leaves ;  and  in  your  lightness 

Teach  us  that  spirits  which  despond 
May  wear  their  own  pure  brightness  ! 

Into  new  sweetness  slowly  dip, 
O  May  I  advance,  yet  linger ; 

Nor  let  the  ring  too  swiftly  slip 
Down  that  new-plighted  finger ! 

Thy  bursting  blooms,  O  Spring,  retard: — 
While  thus  thy  raptures  press  on, 

How  many  a  joy  is  lost  or  marr'd, 
How  many  a  lovely  lesson  1 


For  each  new  grace  conceded,  those 
The  earlier-loved  are  taken  ; 

In  death  their  eyes  must  violets  close 
Before  the  rose  can  waken. 

Ye  woods  with  ice-threads  tingling  late, 
Where  late  we  heard  the  robin, 

Your  chants  that  hour  but  antedate 
When  autumn  winds  are  sobbing. 

Ye  gummy  buds  in  silken  sheath, 
Hang  back  content  to  glisten  ! 

Hold  in,  O  Earth,  thy  charm6d  breath ; 
Thou  air,  be  still,  and  listen  ! 


SPENSER. 

ONE  peaceful  spot  in  a  storm-vex'd  isle 
Shall  wear  forever  the  past's  calm  smile : — 
Kilcoleman  Castle  !    There  Spenser  sate  ; 
There  sang,  unweeting  of  coming  late. 

The  song  he  sang  was  a  life-romance 
Woven  by  Virtues  in  mystic  dance, 
Where  the  gods  and  the  heroes  of  Grecian 

story 
Themselves  were  virtues  in  allegory. 

True  love  was  in  it,  but  love  sublimed. 
Occult,  high-reason'd,  bewitchM,  be-rhymed  I 
The  knight  was  the  servant  of  ends  trans- 
human, 

The  women  were  seraphs,   the   bard   half 
woman. 


448 


THE  POEMS  OF  AUBREY  DE  VERE. 


Time  and   its  tumults,  stern  shocks,  hearts 

wrung, 

To  him  were  mad  words  to  sweet  music  sung, 
History  to  him  an  old  missal  quaint 
Border'd  round  with  gold  angel  and  azure 

saint. 

Creative  indeed  was  that  eye,  sad  Mary, 
That  hail'd  in  thy  rival  a  queen  of  faery, 
And  in  Raleigh,  half  statesman,  half  pirate, 

could  see 
But  the  shepherd  of  ocean's  green  Ai-cady. 

Under   groves  of  Penshurst  his  first   notes 

rang: 

As  Sidney  lived  so  his  Spenser  sang. 
From  the  well-head  of  Chaucer  one  stream 

found  birth, 
Like  an  Arethusa,  on  Irish  earth. 

From  the  court  he  had  fled,  and  the  courtly 

lure : — 

One  virgin  muse  in  an  age  not  pure 
Wore  Florimel's  girdle,  and  mourn'd  in  song 
(Disguised  as  Irena's)  lerne's  wrong.1 

Roll  onward,  thou  western  Ilyssus,  roll, 
"Mulla,"   far    kenn'd    by    "old    mountain 

Mole !" 
With   thy  Shepherds   a   Calidore  loved   to 

dwell ; 
And  beside  him  an  Irish  PastoreL 

Dead  are  the  wild-flowers  she  flung  on  thy 

tide, 
Bending  over  thee,  giftless — that  well-sung 

bride :• 
The  flowers  have  pass'd  by,  but  abideth  the 

river ; 
And  the  genius   that  hallo w'd  it  haunts  it 

forever. 


HOLY  CROSS  ABBEY. 

NOT  dead,  but  living  still  and  militant, 
With  things  dead-doom'd  wrestling  in  con- 
quering war, 


1  Fairy  Queen.  Book  V.  Canto  i. 

*  "Son*,'  made  in  lieu   of  many  ornaments." — SPENSER'S 
fplthalamlon. 


More  free  for  chains,  more  fair  for  every  scar, 
How  well,  huge  pile,  that  forehead  gray  and 

gaunt 
Thou  lift'st  our  world  of  fleeting  shapes  to 

daunt ! 

The  past  in  thee  surviveth  petrified : 
Like   some    dead    tongue    art   thou,  some 

tongue  that  died 
To  live ; — for  prayer  reserved,  of  flatteries 

scant. 

The  age  of  Sophists  takes  on  thee  no  hoM : 
From  thine  ascetic  breast  the  hollow  jibn 
Falls  flat,  and  cavil  of  the  blustering  sen  be: 
Thine  endless  iron  winter  mocks  the  gold 
Of  our  brief  autumns.     God  hath  press'd  y» 

thee 
The  impress  of  His  own  eternity. 


SELF-DECEPTION 

LIKE  mist  it  tracks  us  wheresoe'er  we  go, 
Like  air  bends  with  us  ever  as  we  bend ; 
And,  as  the  shades  at  noontide  darkest  grow, 
With  grace  ascending  it  too  can  ascend : 
Weakness  with  virtue  skill'd  it  is  to  blend, 
Breed  baser  life  from  buried  sins  laid  low, 
Empty  our  world  of  God  and  good,  yet  lend 
The  spirit's  waste  a  paradisal  glow. 
O  happy  children  simple  even  in  wiles  ! 
And  ye  of  single  eye  thrice  happy  poor ! 
Practised   self-love,  the   cheat   which   slays 

with  smiles, 

Weaves  not  for  you  the  inevitable  lure. 
Men     live     a    lie : — specious    their     latest 

breath : — 
Welcome,  delusion-slayer,  truthful  Death  1 


OUR  KINGS  SAT  OF  OLD  IN  EMANIA 
AND  TARA. 

i. 

OUR  kings  sat  of  old  in  Emania  and  Tara : — 
Those  new  kings  whence  are  they  ?    Their 

names  are  unknown ! 
Our  saints  lie  entomb'd  in  Ardmagh  and 

Cilldara ; 

Their  relics  are  healing ;  their  graves  are 
grass-grown. 


THE  POEMS  OF  AUBREY  DE  VERE 


447 


Our  princes  of  old,  when  their  warfare  was 

over, 
As  pilgrims  forth  wander'd;    as  hermits 

found  rest: — 
Shall  the  hand  of  the  stranger  their  ashes 

uncover 
In  Bennchor  the  holy,  in  Aran  the  blest  ? ' 

ii. 

Not  so,  by  the  race  our  Dalriada  planted  ! — 
In   Alba  were  children ;    we  sent  her  a 
man. 


1  There  is  no  other  example  of  a  nation  devoting  itself  to 
spiritual  things  with  au  ardor  and  a  success  comparable  to 
that  which  distinguished  Ireland.  During  the  first  three  cen- 
turies after  he,  conversion  to  Christianity  she  resembled  one 
vast  monastery.  Statements  so  extraordinary  that  if  they 
came  from  Irish  sources  they  might  be  supposed  to  have 
originated  in  national  vanity,  have  reached  us  in  snch  num- 
bers from  the  records  of  those  foreign  nations  under  whose 
altars  the  relics  of  Irish  saints  aud  founders  repose,  that  upon 
this  point  there  remains  no  difference  of  opinion  among  the 
learned.  .  For  ordinary  readers  the  subject  is  sufficiently 
illustrated  in  the  more  recent  Irish  histories.  Mr.  Moore 
remarks  (Hist,  of  Ireland,  vol  i.  p.  276) :  "  In  order  to  convey 
to  the  reader  any  adequate  notion  of  the  apostolic  labors  of 
that  great  crowd  of  learned  missionaries  whom  Ireland  sent 
foith,  in  the  course  of  this  century,  to  all  parts  of  Europe,  it 
would  be  necessary  to  transport  him  to  the  scenes  of  their 
respective  missions  ;  to  point  out  the  difficulties  they  had  to 
encounter,  and  the  admirable  patience  and  courage  with 
which  they  surmounted  them ;  to  show  how  inestimable 
was  the  service  they  rendered,  during  that  dark  period,  by 
keeping  the  dying  embers  of  learning  awake,  and  how  grate- 
fully their  names  are  enshrined  in  the  records  of  foreign  lands, 
though  but  faintly,  if  at  all,  remembered  in  their  own,  win- 
ning for  her  that  noble  title  of  the  '  island  of  the  holy  and  the 
learned,1  which  throughout  the  night  that  overhung  the  rest 
of  Europe  she  so  long  and  BO  proudly  wore.  Thus  the  labors 
of  the  great  missionary,  St.  Columbanus,  were  after  his  death 
still  vigorously  carried  on,  both  in  France  and  Italy,  by  those 
disciples  who  had  accompanied  or  joined  him  from  Ireland  ; 
aud  his  favorite  Callus,  to  whom  in  dying  he  bequeathed  his 
pastoral  staff,  became  the  founder  of  an  abbey  in  Switzerland, 
which  was  in  the  thirteenth  century  erected  into  a  princedom, 
while  the  territory  belonging  to  it,  through  all  changes,  bore 
the  name  of  St.  Gall.  *  *  *  This  pious  Irishman  has  been 
called,  by  a  foreign  martyrologiet,  the  apostle  of  the  Allema- 
nian  nation.  Another  disciple  and  countryman  of  St.  Colum- 
banus, named  Dcicola,  or  in  Irish  Dichuill,  enjoyed  like  his 
master  the  patronage  and  friendship  of  the  monarch  Ulotalre 
II.,  who  endowed  the  monastic  establishment  formed  by  him 
«.  Ltithra  with  considerable  grants  of  land." 

He  proct'eds  to  enumerate  many  other  monuments  of  early 
Irish  devotion,  a*  the  tomb  of  the  Irish  priest  Caidoc,  in  the 
monastery  of  Ccntula  in  I'onlhiuu,  and  the  hermitage  of  St. 
Fiacre,  to  which  Anne  of  Austria,  in  the  year  1041,  made  her 
pilgrimage  on  foot.  He  record*  the  labors  of  St.  Fursa 
among  the  East  Angles,  and  afterward  in  France,  and  of  his 
brothers  Ultan  and  Foillan  in  Brabant;  of  St.  Livin  In  Ghent ; 
•  >f  St.  Fridolin  beside  the  Khini-.  Hi-  refers  to  the  two  Irish- 
men successively  bishops  of  Strasburg,  St.  Arbogast.  and  St. 
F!or>-ntius;  to  the  two  brothers  Erard  anil  Albert,  whose 
tombs  were  long  shown  at  Katisbon  ;  to  St.  Wiro,  to  whom 
used  to  confess,  barefooted :  to  St.  Killan,  the  sreat 
of  Franconia,  who  consummated  his  labors  by  martyr- 
dom, and  who  is  still  honored  at  Wurtzburg  as  its  patron 
faint.  He  proceeds  to  commemorate  Catalan*,  patron  of 
T«r«Mi\um,  and  at  on*  period  an  ornament  of  the  celebrated 


Battles   won   in   Argyle   in   Dunedin   they 

chanted : 
King   Kenneth    completed   what   Fergus 

began. 
Our   name   is   her   name :   she   is   Alba  no 

longer : 
Her  kings  are  our  blood,  and  she  crowns 

them  at  Scone : 
Strong-hearted  they  are ;  and  strong-handed ; 

but  stronger 

When  throned  on  our  Lia  Fail,  Destiny's 
stone ! 


school  of  Lismore,  and  Virgilius,  or  Feargal,  denounced  to  th« 
Pope  by  Boniface  as  a  heretic  for  having  anticipated  at  that 
early  period  the  discovery  of  the  "antipodes,"  and  main- 
tained "  that  there  was  another  world,  and  other  men  under 
the  earth."  This  great  man  propagated  the  Gospel  among 
the  Carinthians.  He  then  records  the  selection  by  Charle- 
magne of  two  Irishmen,  Clement  and  Albinns,  one  of  whom  he 
placed  at  the  head  of  a  seminary  founded  by  him  in  France, 
while  the  other  presided  over  a  similar  institution  at  Pavia  ; 
a  third  Irishman,  Dungal,  being  especially  consulted  by  the 
same  prince  on  account  of  his  astronomical  knowledge.  This 
celebrated  teacher  carried  on  a  controversy  with  Claudius 
Bishop  of  Turin,  who  had  revived  the  heterodox  opinions  o4 
Vigilantius  against  the  veneration  of  the  saints.  He  be- 
queathed to  the  monastery  of  Bobio  his  library,  the  greater 
part  of  which  is  still  preserved  at  Milan. 

Mr.  Moore  next  illustrates  the  remarkable  knowledge  of 
Greek  possessed  by  the  early  Irish  ecclesiastics,  a  circum- 
stance accounted  for  by  the  fact  that  the  fame  of  the  Irish 
churches  and  schools  had  attracted  many  Greeks  to  Ireland. 
Advancing  to  the  ninth  century  he  records  Sedulius  and  Do- 
natus,  the  former  of  whom  had  become  so  celebrated  from  hia 
writings  that  the  Pope  created  him  Bishop  of  Oreto,  and  de- 
spatched him  to  Spain  in  order  that  he  might  compose  the 
differences  which  had  arisen  among  the  clergy  there,  while 
the  latter  was  made  Bishop  of  Fiesolc.  Of  his  writings  noth- 
ing remains  except  the  Latin  verses  in  which  he  celebrates 
his  native  land  under  its  early  name  of  Scotia. 

"  Finibus  occiduis  describitur  optima  tcllus 

Nomine  et  antiquis  Scotia  dicta  libris. 
Insula  dives  opum,  gemmarnm,  vestis  et  auri : 
Commoda  corporibus,  acre,  sole,  solo,"  <fcc. 

He  next  gives  an  account  of  the  far-famed  John  Scotus 
Erigena,  and  remarks  upon  the  influence  of  the  early  Irish 
writers  on  the  scholastic  philosophy.— (Moore's  History,  vol. 
i.  pp.  276-307.)  From  the  latter  part  of  the  fifth  century  to  the 
latter  part  of  the  eighth  was  Ireland's  golden  age.  The 
Danish  invasions  reduced  her  to  the  comparatively  low 
condition  in  which  she  was  found  by  the  Normans  in  the 
twelfth. 

The  progress  of  Ireland's  Christianity  Is  briefly  but  com- 
prehensively narrated  also  in  Mr.  Haverty's  recent  History  of 
Ireland,  Farrell  &  Son:— "Among  the  great  ecclesiastical 
schools  or  monasteries  founded  In  Ireland  about  this  time 
(the  fifth  century),  were  those  of  St.  Ailbe  of  Emly,  of  8u 
BenignuB  of  Armagh,  of  St.  Fiech  of  Slttty,  of  St.  Mel  of 
Ardagh,  of  St.  Mochay  of  Antrim,  of  St.  Moctheus  of  Lonth. 
of  St.  Ibar  of  Beg-Erin,  of  St.  Asicus  of  Elphin,  and  of  S:. 
eican  of  Derkan."— P  75.  "  •  •  •  The  most  celebrated  of 
thorn,  founded  early  in  the  sixth  century,  wore  Clonard  in 
Meatii  founded  by  St.  Finan  or  Flnlan  ;  Clonmacnoise. on  rhe 
banks  of  the  Shannon,  in  the  King's  Bounty,  founded  in  the 
same  century  by  St.  Klaran,  called  the  Carpenter's  Son  : 
Hemiclior,  or  Bangor,  In  the  Ards  of  Ulster,  founded  by  Si. 
ir  588.  and  Lismore  In  Wnterford.  founder" 
by  St.  Carthach.  or  Mochuda,  about  th  i  year  633.  Tl  se  »i< 


448 


THE  POEMS  OF  AUBREY  DE  VEME. 


THE  MALISON, 
i. 

THE  Curse  of  that  land  which  in  ban  and  in 

blessing 
Hath     puissance,    through     prayer     and 

through  penance  alight 
On  the  False  One  who  whisper'd,  the  traitor's 

hand  pressing, 
"  I  ride  without  guards  in  the  morning, — 

good-night !" 

O    beautiful     serpent!      O    woman    fiend- 
hearted  ! 
Wife  false  to  O'Ruark !  queen  base  to  thy 

trust ! 
The  glory  of  ages  forever  departed 

That  hour  from  the  isle  of  the  saintly  and 
just. 

n. 

The  Curse  of  that  land  on  the  monarchs  dis- 
loyal, 
Who  welcomed  the  invader,  and  knelt  at 

his  knee  ! 
False  Derniod,  false  Donald — the  chieftains 

once  royal 
Of  the  Deasies   and   Ossory,  cursed  let 

them  be  ! 
Their  name  and  their  shame  make  eternal. 

Engrave  them 
On  the  cliffs  which  the  great  billows  buffet 

and  stain : 

Like  billows  the  nations,  when  tyrants  en- 
slave them, 
Swell  up  in  their  fury — not  always  in  vain ! 

many  other  Irish  schools  attracted  a  vast  concourse  of  stu- 
dents, the  pupils  of  a.single  school  ofien  numbering  from  one 
to  three  thousand,  several  of  whom  came  from  Britain,  Gaul, 
»nd  other  countries,  drawn  thither  by  the  reputation  for  sanc- 
tity and  learning  which  Ireland  enjoyed  throughout  Europe." 
—P.  87.  "  *  *  *  Scarcely  an  island  round  the  coast,  or  in  the 
takes  of  the  interior,  or  a  valley,  or  any  solitary  spot,  could  be 
found  which,  like  the  deserts  of  Egypt  and  Palestine,  was  not 
inhabited  by  fervent  coenobites  and  anchorites." — P.  88.  After 
various  quotations  from  eminent  foreign  authorities,  as  Erie  of 
Auxerre,  and  Tierry,  Mr.  Haverty  proceeds  : — "  Stephen  White 
(Apologia,  p.  24)  thus  sums  up  the  labors  of  the  Irish  saints  on 
the  continent : — 'Among  the  names  of  saints  wLom  Ireland 
formerly  sent  forth  there  were,  as  I  have  learned  from  the 
trustworthy  writings  of  the  ancients,  150  now  honored  as  pa- 
trons of  places  in  Germany,  of  whom  36  were  martyrs ;  45  Irish 
patrons  in  the  Gauls,  of  whom  6  were  martyrs  ;  at  least  30  in 
Belgium ;  44  in  England ;  13  in  Italy ;  and  in  Norway  and  Ice- 
taiid  8  martyrs,  besides  many  others.'  It  has  been  calculated 
that  the  ancient  Irish  monks  had  13  monastic  foundations  in 
Scotland,  12  in  England,  7  in  France,  12  in  Armoric  Gaul,  7  in 
I/Jtharingia,  11  in  Burgundy,  9  in  Belgium,  10  in  Alsatia,  1C  in 
Bavaria,  6  in  Italy,  and  15  in  Rhetia,  Helvetia,  and  Suavia,  be- 


lli. 

But  praise  in  the  churches,  and  worship  and 

honor 
To  him  who,  betray'd  and  deserted,  fought 

on ! 
All  praise  to  King  Roderick,  the  prince  of 

Clan  Connor, 

The  king  of  all  Erin,  and  Cathall  his  son ! 
May  the  million-voiced  chant  that  in  end- 
less expansion 
Sweeps  onward  through  heaven  his  praisea 

prolong ; 
May  the  heaven  of  heavens  this  night  be  the 

mansion 

Of  the  good  king  who  died  in  the  cloisters 
of  Cons  ! 


HYMN, 

ON    THE     FOUNDING    OF    THE     ABBEY    OF     ST. 

THOMAS    THE    MARTTR     (i   BECKEf), 

IN     DUBLIN,    A.    D.     1177. 

"The  celebrated  Abbey  of  St.  Thomas  the  Martyr  wa.s 
founded  in  Dublin  by  Fitz-Adelm,  by  order  of  Henry  Second. 
The  site  was  the  place  now  called  Thomas'  Court.  In  the 
presence  of  Cardinal  Vivian  and  St.  Laurence  O'Toole  the 
deputy  endowed  it  with  a  carucate  of  land  called  Donore." 
HAVERTY'S  Hist,  of  Ireland,  Fan-ell  &  Son's  edition,  205. 

I. 

REJOICE,  thou  race  of  man,  rejoice ! 

To-day  the  Church  renews  her  boast 
Of  England's  Thomas  ;  and  her  voice 

Is  echo'd  by  the  heavenly  host. 

sides  many  in  Thuringia,  and  on  the  left  margin  of  the  Rhine 
between  Gueldres  and  Alsatia."— Note,  p.  103.  Even  after  the 
Danish  invasion  Ireland  continued  to  found  her  religious  es- 
tablishments in  foreign  countries :—"  A  few  Irish  monks 
settled  at  Glastoubury,  and  for  their  support  began  to  teacb 
the  rudiments  of  sacred  and  secular  knowledge.  One  of  the 
earliest  and  most  illustrious  of  their  pupils  was  the  great  St. 
Dunstan,  who,  under  the  tuition  of  these  Irishmen  became 
skilful  in  philosophy,  music,  and  other  accomplishments. 
*  *  *  St.  Cadroc,  the  son  of  a  king  of  the  Albanian  Scoti,  was 
at  the  same  time  in  Ireland,  studying  in  the  schools  of 
Armagh." — P.  144.  Mr.  Haverty  gives  also  an  interesting 
account  of  the  Culdees  of  Ireland,  "religious  persons  resem- 
bling very  much  members  of  the  tertiary  orders  of  St.  Dominic 
and  St.  Francis  in  the  Catholic  Church  at  the  present  day,  or 
one  of  the  great  religious  confraternities  of  modern  times." — 
P.  105.  He  also  explains  those  abuses,  the  cause  of  so  much 
misconception,  by  which  the  great  chiefs  occasionally  usurped 
and  transmitted,  though  not  in  holy  orders,  the  titles  and  es- 
tates of  the  richer  bishoprics,  the  spiritual  duties  of  whieb 
were  vicariously  discharged  by  churchmen,  as  has  happened 
more  frequently  at  a  later  time  in  the  case  of  narishes  appro 
priated  by  lay  rectors. 


THE  POEMS  OF  AUBREY  DE  VERE. 


449 


Rejoice,  whoever  loves  the  right ; 

Rejoice,  ye  faithful  men  and  true : 
The  Prince  of  Peace  o'errules  the  fight ; 

The  many  fall  before  the  few. 

ii. 

Behold  a  great  high  priest  with  rays 

Of  martyrdom's  red  sunset  crown'd ! 
No  other  like  him  in  the  days 

Wherein  he  trod  the  earth  was  found. 
The  swords  of  men  unholy  met 

Above  him  clashing,  and  he  bled : 
But  God,  the  God  he  served,  hath  set 

A  wreath  unfading  on  his  head. 

in. 

Great  is  the  priestly  charge,  and  great 

The  line  to  whom  that  charge  is  given  ! 
It  comes  not,  that  pontificate, 

Save  from  the  great  High   Priest  in 

heaven ! 
A  frowning  king  no  equal  brook'd  : — 

"  Obey,"  he  cried,  "  my  will,  or  die." 
Thomas,  like  Stephen,  heavenward  look'd 

And  saw  the  Son  of  Man  on  high. 


1  Nuad  "of  the  Silver  Hand"  was  the  leader  of  the  Tuatha 
de  Danann  who  arc  said  by  the  bards  to  have  landed  in  Ire- 
land A.  M.  3303,  i.  e.  according  to  the  chronology  of  the  Septu- 
agiut,  adopted  by  the  Four  Masters.  Eochy,  the  last  of  the 
Firbolgic  kings,  was  slain  by  them ;  and  a  cairn  still  shown 
on  the  seacoast  near  Sligo  is  said  to  be  his  grave.  The  first 
proceeding  of  the  invaders  was  to  burn  their  fleet,  so  as  to 
render  retreat  impossible.  "  According  to  the  superstitious 
ideas  of  the  bards  these  Tnatha  de  Danann  were  profoundly 
skilled  in  magic,  and  rendered  themselves  invisible  to  the  in- 
habitants nntil  they  bad  penetrated  into  the  heart  of  the 
country.  In  other  words,  they  landed  under  the  cover  of  a 
fog  or  mist ;  and  the  Firbolgs,  at  first  taken  by  surprise,  made 
no  regular  stand,  until  the  new-comers  had  marched  almost 
across  Ireland,  when  the  two  armies  met  face  to  face  on  the 
plain  of  Moyturey,  near  the  shore  of  Lough  Corrib,  in  part  of 
the  ancient  territory  of  Partry.  Here  a  battle  was  fought,  in 
which  the  Firbolgs  were  overthrown,  'with  the  greatest 
slaughter/  says  an  old  writer,  'that  was  ever  heard  of  in  Ire- 
land at  one  meeting.'  *  *  *  The  scattered  fragments  of  his 
(Eochy's)  army  took  refuge  in  the  nothern  isle  of  Aran,  Rath- 
lin  Island,  the  Hebrides,  the  Isle  of  Man,  and  Britain.11 — Far- 
rell  &  Son's  HAVEBTY'B  Ireland,  p.  12.  "  The  victorious 
Nnad  lost  his  hand  in  this  battle,  and  a  silver  hand  was  made 
Tor  him  by  Credne  Cerd,  the  artificer,  and  fitted  on  him  by 
the  Physician  Diencccht,  whose  son,  Miach,  improved  the 
work,  according  to  the  legend,  by  infusing  feeling  and  motion 
Into  every  joint  of  the  artificial  band,  as  if  it  had  been  a  nat- 
ural one.11— Farrell  A  Son's  HAVERTY'S  IRtt.  of  Ireland,  p.  18. 

Twenty-seven  years  later  Nnad  wa?  killed  in  battle  by 
Balor  "of  the  mighty  blows,"  a  Fomorian.  The  sway  of  the 
Tuatha  de  Dauann  \t  said  to  have  lasted  for  197  years,  when  it 
was  terminated  by  the  immigration  of  the  Milesian  race. 
Furrell  &  Son's  HAVKRTT'S  Inland,  p.  13.  Dr.  O'Donovan 
says  (Four  Masters,  vol.  i.  p.  84) :— "  From  the  many  monu- 
ments ascribed  to  this  colony  by  tradition,  and  in  ancient 
Irish  historical  tales,  it  is  quite  evident  that  they  were  a  real 
people :  and  Crom  their  having  been  considered  gods  and  ma- 


IV. 

Blest  is  the  People,  blest  and  strong, 

That  'mid  its  pontiffi*  counts  a  saint  I 
His  virtuous  memory  lasting  long 

Shall  keep  its  altars  pure  from  taint. 
The  heathen  plot,  the  tyrants  rage ; 

But  in  their  Saint  the  poor  shall  find 
A  shield,  or  after  many  an  age 

A  light  restored  to  guide  the  blind. 

Thus  with  expiatory  rite 

The  Roman  priest  and  Laurence  sang, 
And  loud  the  regal  towers  that  night 

With  music  and  with  feasting  rang. 


DEAD  IS  THE  PRINCE  OF  THE 
SILVER  HAND.1 

i. 
DEAD  is  the  Prince  of  the  Silver  Hand, 

And  dead  Eochy  the  son  of  Ere! 
Ere  lived  Milesius  they  ruled  the  land 

Thou  hast  ruled  and  lost  in  turn,  O'Ruark ! 


gicians  by  the  Gaedhil,  or  Scoti,  who  snbdned  them,  it  maybe 
inferred  that  they  were  skilled  in  arts  which  the  latter  did  not 
understand.  *  *  *  It  appears  from  a  very  curious  and  ancient 
Irish  tract;  written  in  the  shape  of  a  dialogue  between  St. 
Patrick  and  Caoilte  MacRonuin,  that  there  were  very  many 
places  in  Ireland  where  the  Tuatha  de  Dauaun  were  then 
supposed  to  live  as  sprites  or  fairies,  with  corporeal  and  ma- 
terial forms,  but  endued  with  immortality.  The  inference 
naturally  to  be  drawn  from  these  stories  is  that  the  Tuatha  de 
Danann  lingered  in  the  country  for  many  centuries  after  their 
subjection  by  the  Gaedhil,  and  that  they  lived  Sa  retired 
situations,  where  they  practised  abstruse  arts,  which  induced 
the  others  to  regard  them  as  magicians." 

The  Tuatha  de  Danann  are  chiefly  remembered  in  connec- 
tion with  two  circumstances.  They  are  asserted  to  have 
carried  into  Ireland  the  far-famed  "  Lia  Fail,"  or  "  Stone  of 
Destiny,"  on  which  the  kings  of  Ireland  were  crowned  for 
ages,  and  which  was  afterward  said  to  have  been  removed  to 
Scone  in  Scotland;  and  they  gave.  Ireland  her  name.  The 
throe  names  by  which  Ireland  was  called  in  early  years,  Eire, 
Banba,  and  Fodhln.  were  iiKsi^iu-d  to  her  in  consequence  of 
their  belonging  to  the  wives  of  the  three  last  kings  of  the 
Tnatha  de  Danann  race,  each  of  whom  reigned  successively 
during  a  single  year.  These  three  queens  were  slain  in  the 
battle  fought  by  the  Milesians  against  the  Tuatha  de  Danami 
at  Tailtinn,  or  Teltown,  in  Menth  ;  the  Irish  queens  beiin1 
accustomed  in  the  Pagan  times  to  lead  their  armies  to  battle. 
The  Tnatha  de  Dananns  seem  to  have  easily  kept  the  Firbolgs, 
a  pastoral  people,  In  subjection,  being,  though  inferior  to 
them  in  numbers,  far  superior  in  civilization.  "It  is  proba- 
ble," says  Mr.  Haverty,  "  that  by  the  Tuatha  de  Dananns 
mines  were  first  worked  in  Ireland ;  and  it  la  generally  be- 
lieved that  they  were  the  artificers  of  those  beautifully-shaped 
bronzed  swords  and  spear-heads  that  have  been  found  in  Ire- 
land, and  of  which  so  many  fine  specimens  may  be  seen  in  the 
Museum  of  the  Royal  Irish  Academy.  *  •  *  There  la  evi- 
dence to  show  that  the  vast  mounds  or  artificial  hills  of  Drogh- 
eda,  Knowth,  Dowth,  and  Now  Grange,  along  the  batiks  of 


450 


THE  POEMS  OF  AUBREY  DE  VERB. 


Two  thousand  years  have  pass'd  since  then, 
And  clans  and  kingdoms  in  blind  com- 
motion 

Have  butted  at  heaven  and  sunk  again 
As  the  great  waves  sink  in  the  depths  of 
ocean. 

ii. 

Last  King  of  the  Gaels  of  Eire,  be  still ! 

What  God  decrees  must  come  to  pass : 
There  is  none  that  soundeth  His  Way  or 

Will: 

His  hand  is  iron,  and  earth  is  glass. 
Where  built  the  Firbolgs  there  shrieks  the 

owl; 
The  Tuatha  bequeath'd  but  the  name  of 

Eire:— 
Roderick,  our  last  of  kings,  thy  cowl 

Outweighs  the  crown  of  thy  kingly  sire  1 


THE  FAITHFUL  NORMAN. 


PBAISE  to  the  valiant  and  faithful  foe  ! 
Give  us  noble  foes,  not  the  friend   who 

lies! 
We  dread  the  drugg'd  cup,  not  the  open 

blow ; — 

We  dread  the  old  hate  in  the  new  dis- 
guise. 
To  Ossory's  King  they  had  pledged  their 

word : 
He  stood  in  their  camp,  and  their  pledge 

they  broke ; 
Then   Maurice   the   Norman    upraised    his 

sword  ; 
The  cross  on  its  hilt  he  kiss'd,  and  spoke : — 

ii. 

"  So  long  as  this  sword  or  this  arm  hath 

might 

I  swear  by  the  cross  which  is  lord  of  all, 
By  the  faith  and  honor  of  noble  and  knight 
Who  touches  yon  Prince  by  this  hand 
shall  fall !" 

the  Boyne,  with  several  minor  tumuli  in  the  same  neighbor- 
hood, were  erected  as  the  tombs  of  Tuatha  de  Danann  kings 
and  chieftains ;  and  as  such  they  only  rank  after  the  pyramids 
of  Egypt  for  the  stupendous  efforts  which  were  required  to 
raise  them.  As  to  the  Firbolgs,  it  is  doubtful  whether  there 


So  side  by  side  through  the  throng   they 

pass'd ; 
And   Eire   gave  praise   to   the  just   and 

true. 
Brave  foe!     Wrongs  past  truth  heals  at 

last ; — 

There  is  room  in  the  great  heart  of  Eire 
for  you ! 


ST.   PATRICK  AND  THE   BARD. 

THE  land  is  sad,  and  dark  our  days : 
Sing  us  a  song  of  the  days  that  were ! — 

Then  sang  the  bard  in  his  Order's  praise 
This  song  of  the  chief  bard  of  king  Laeg 
haire. 


The  King  is  wroth  with  a  greater  wrath 
Than  the  wrath  of  Nial  or  the  wrath  of 

Conn! 
From  his  heart  to  his  brow  the  blood  makes 

path, 

And  hangs  there,  a  red  cloud,  beneath  his 
crown. 

XL 

Is  there  any  who  knows  not,  from  south  to 

north, 
That  Laeghaire  to-morrow  his   birthday 

keeps  ? 

No  fire  may  be  lit  upon  hill  or  hearth 
Till   the   King's   strong   fire   in   its   kingly 

mirth 
Leaps  upward  from  Tara's  palace  steeps  1 

in. 

Yet  Patrick  has  lighted  his  paschal  fire 

At  Slane, — it  is  holy  Saturday, — 
And  bless'd    his   font   'mid    the    chanting 

choir ! 

From  hill  to  hill  the  flame  makes  way  : 
While  the  King  looks  on  it,  his  eyes  with 

ire 
Flash  red,  like  Mars,  under  tresses  gray. 

are  any  monuments  remaining  of  their  first  eway  in  Ireland ; 
but  the  famous  Dun  Angus,  and  other  great  stone  forts  in  the 
islands  of  Aran,  are  well  authenticated  remnants  of  their  mil- 
itary structures  of  the  period  of  the  Christian  era,  or  thep» 
abouts."— P.  20. 


THE  POEMS  OF  AUBREY  DE  VERE. 


451 


IV. 

The  great  King's  captains  with  drawn  swords 

rose ; 
To  avenge  their  Lord  and  the  State  they 

swore ; 

The  Druids  rose  and  their  garments  tore  ; 
"The  strangers  to  us  and  our  gods  are  foes !" 
Then  the  King  to  Patrick  a  herald  sent, 

Who  said,  "  Come  up  at  noon,  and  show 
Who  lit  thy  fire,  and  with  what  intent  ? — 
These   things   the  great  King  Laeghaire 
would  know." 

» 
v. 

But  Laeghaire  conceal'd  twelve  men  in  the 

way, 
Who  swore  by  the  sun  the  saint  to  slay. 

VI. 

When  the  waters  of  Boyne  began  to  bask, 
And  the  fields  to  flash,  in  the  rising  sun, 

The  Apostle  Evangelist  kept  his  Pasch, 
And  Erin  her  grace  baptismal  won  : 

Her  birthday  it  was  ; — his  font  the  rock, 

He  bless'd  the  land,  and  he  bless'd  his  flock. 

VII. 

Then  forth  to  Tara  he  fared  full  lowly : 
The  Staff  of  Jesus  was  in  his  hand  ; 

Eight    priests    paced    after  him    chanting 

slowly, 
Printing  their  steps  on  the  dewy  land. 

It  was  the  Resurrection  morn ; 

The  lark  sang  loud  o'er  the  springing  corn ; 

The  dove  was  heard,  and  the  hunter's  horn. 

VIII. 

The  murderers  stood  close  by  on  the  way ; 
Yet  they  saw  naught  save  the  lambs  at  play. 

IX. 

A  trouble  lurk'd  in  the  King's  strong  eye 
When  the  guests  that  he  counted  for  dead 

drew  nigh. 

He  sat  in  state  at  his  palace  gate ; 
His  chiefs  and  his   nobles  were  ranged 

around ; 

The  Druids  like  ravens  smelt  some  far  fate ; 
Their  eyes   were   gloomily  bent  on   the 

ground. 

Then  spake  Laeghaire :  "He  comes — beware ! 
Let  none  salute  him,  or  rise  from  his  chair  1" 


Like  some  still  vision  men  see  by  night, 
Mitred,  with  eyes  of  serene  command, 
Saint   Patrick   moved   onward    in    ghostly 

white : 

The  Staff  of  Jesus  was  in  his  hand. 
His  priests  paced  after  him  unafraid, 
And  the  boy,  Benignus,  more  like  a  maid, 
Like  a  maid  just  wedded  he  walk'd    and 

smiled, 
To  Christ  new-plighted,  that  priestly  child. 

XL 

They  enter'd  the  circle;  their  hymn  they 

ceased ; 
The   Druids   their  eyes   bent   earthward 

still : 

On  Patrick's  brow  the  glory  increased, 
As  a  sunrise  brightening  some  breathless 

hill. 
The  warriors  sat  silent:    strange  awe  they 

felt  ;— 
The  chief  bard,  Dubtach,  rose  up,  and  knelt  1 

XII. 

Then  Patrick  discoursed  of  the  things  to  be 

When  time  gives  way  to  eternity, 

Of  kingdoms  that  cease,  which  are  dreams 

not  things, 
And  the  Kingdom  built   by  the   King  of 

kings. 

Of  Him  he  spake  who  reigns  from  the  Cross ; 
Of  the  death  which  is  life,  and  the  life  which 

is  loss; 
And  how  all  things  were  made  by  the  Infant 

Lord, 
And   the   small    hand    the    Magian   kings 

adored. 

His  voice  sounded  on  like  a  throbbing  flood 
That  swells  all  night  from  some  far-off  wood, 
And  when  it  was  ended — that  wondrous 

strain — 
Invisible  myriads  breathed  low,  "Amen  !" 

XIII. 

While  he  spake,  men  say  that  the  refluent 

tide 

On  the  shore  beside  Colpa  ceased  to  sink ; 
And  they  say  the  white  deer  by  Mulla's 

side 

O'er  the  green  marge  bending  forebore  to 
drink: 


452 


THE  POEMS  OF  AUBREY  DE  VERE. 


That  the  Brandon  eagle  forgat  to  soar ; 

That  no  leaf  stirr'd  in  the  wood  by  Lee. — 
Such  stupor  hung  the  island  o'er, 

For  none  might  guess  what  the  end  would 
be. 

XIV. 

Then  whisper' d  the  King  to  a  chief  close  by, 
"  It  were  better  for  me  to  believe  than  die  !" 

XV. 

Yet  the  King  believed  not ;  but  ordinance 

gave 
That   whoso   would    might  believe   that 

word  : 
So   the  meek  believed,  and  the  wise,  and 

brave, 

And  Mary's  Son  as  their  God  adored. 
Ethnea  and  Fethlimea,  his  daughters  twain, 
That  day  were  in  baptism  born  again ; 
And  the  Druids,  because  they  could  answer 

naught, 

Bow'd  down  to  the  faith  the  stranger  brought. 
That  day  upon  Erin  God  pour'd  His  Spirit, — 
Yet  none  like  the  chief  of  the  bards  had 

merit, 

Dubtach  ! — He  rose  and  believed  the  first, 
Ere  the   great   light   yet  on  the  res-t  had 

burst. 

It  was  thus  that  Erin,  then  blind  but  strong, 

/  O  t 

To  Christ  through  her  chief  bard   paid 

homage  due : 

And  this  was  a  sign  that  in  Erin  song 
Should  from  first  to  last  to  the  cross  be 

true! 


'TWAS  A  HOLY  TIME  WHEN  THE 
KING'S  LONG  FOEMEN.1 


TWAS  a  holy  time  when  the  king's  long  foe- 
men 

P"ought,  side  by  side,  to  uplift  the  serf; 
ft  ever  triumph'd  in  old  time  Greek  or  Roman 

As  Brian  and  Malachi  at  Clontarf. 

1  Malachi.  who  fought  under  the  great  Brian  Borumha  at 
Clontarf,  where  the  Danish  power  in  Ireland  was  overthrown 
forever,  had  himself  heen  King  of  all  Ireland,  but  allowed 
himself  to  be  deposed,  A.  r>.  1003,  and  his  rival  to  be  elevated 


There  was  peace  in  Eire  for  long  years  after ; 

Canute  in  England  reign'd  and  Sweyn  ; 
But   Eire   found   rest,   and    the    freeman's 
laughter 

Rang  out  the  knell  of  the  vanquish'd  Dane. 

ii. 

Praise  to  the  king  of  ninety  years 

Who  rode  round  the  battle-field,  cross  in 

hand! 
But,  the  blessing  of  Eire  and  grateful  tears 

To  him  who  fought  under  Brian's  com- 
mand ! 
A  crown  in  heaven  for  the  king  who  brake, 

To  stanch  old  discords,  his  royal  wand  ; 
Who  spurn'd  his  throne  for  his  people's  sake, 

Who  served  a  rival  and  saved  the  land ! 


KING  LAEGHAIRE  AND  SAINT 
PATRICK. 

THUS  sang  to  the  princess  the  bard  Maelmire; 
But  the  princess  received  not  the  words  he 

said  : 
There  was  ever  great  feud  and  great  hate  in 

Eire: 
Yet  O'Donnell  wept  when  O'Neill  was  dead. 


"  Thou  son  of  Calphurn,  in  peace  go  forth  !' 
This  hand  shall  slay  them  whoe'er  shall 

slay  thee  ! 
The   carles   shall  stand    to   their  necks   in 

earth 

Till  they  die  of  thirst  who  mock  or  stay 
thee! 


in  his  place.  Mr.  Moore  remarks  on  this  subject  (History  of 
Ireland,  vol.  ii.  p.  101) : — "  The  ready  acquiescence  with  which, 
in  general,  so  violent  a  change  in  the  polity  of  the  country 
was  submitted  to,  may  be  in  a  great  degree  attributed  to  the 
example  of  patience  and  disinterestedness  exhibited  by  the 
immediate  victim  of  this  revolution,  the  deposed  Malachi  him- 
self. Nor,  in  forming  our  estimate  of  this  Prince's  character, 
from  a  general  view  of  his  whole  career,  can  we  well  hesitate 
in  coming  to  the  conclusion  that  not  to  any  backwardness  iu 
the  field,  or  want  of  vigor  in  council,  is  his  tranquil  submis- 
sion to  the  violent  encroachments  of  his  rival  to  be  attributed ; 
but  to  a  regard,  rare  at  such  an  unripe  period  of  civilization, 
for  the  real  interests  of  the  public  weal." 

2  The  following  statement  is  extracted  by  Dr.  Petrie,  in  his 
History  and  Antiquities  of  Tara  Hili,  from  the  Annotations  of 
the  Life  of  St  Patrick,  by  Tirechan  : — "  And  Patrick  repaired 
again  to  the  City  of  Tara  to  Laeghaire  the  son  of  Nial,  because 
lie  (the  King)  had  ratified  a  league  with  him  that  he  should 


THE  POEMS  OF  AUBREY  DE  VERE. 


453 


IL 

u  But  my  father,  Nial,  who  is  dead  long  since, 

Permits  not  me  to  believe  thy  word ; 
For  the   servants   of  Jesus,   thy   heavenly 

Prince, 

Once  dead,  lie  flat  as  in  sleep,  interred ; 
But   we   are  as   men    through  dark   floods 

that  wade; — 

We  stand  in  our  black  graves  undismay'd  ; 
Our  faces  are  turn'd  to  the  race  abhorr'd, 
And  ready  beside  us  stand  spear  and  sword, 
Ready  to  strike  at  the  last  great  day, 
Ready  to  trample  them  back  into  clay. 

in. 

"  Tins  is  my  realm  and  men  call  it  Eire, 
Wherein  I  have  lived  and  live  in  hate 

(Like  Nial  before  me  and  Ere  his  sire) 
Of    the    race     Lagenian,    ill-named     the 
Great !" 

IV. 

Thus  spoke  Laeghaire,  and  his  host  rush'd  on, 
A  river  of  blood  as  yet  unshed : — 

At  noon  they  fought ;    and  at  set  of  sun 
That  king  lay  captive,  that  host  lay  dead  ! 

v. 

The  brave  foe   loosed   him;  but   bade   him 

swear, 
He  would  never  demand  of  them  Tribute 

more. 
So  Laeghaire  by  the  dread  God-elements 

swore, 

By  the  moon  divine  and  the  earth  and  air ; 
He  swore  by  the  wind  and  the  broad  sunshine 

That  circle  forever  both  land  and  sea, 
By  the  long-back'd  rivers,  and  mighty  wine, 
.     By  the  cloud  far-seeing,  by  herb  and  tree, 
By  the  boon  spring  shower,  and  by  autumn's 

fan, 

By  woman's  breast,  and  the  head  of  man, 
By  night  and  the  noonday  Demon  he  swore 
1 1 1-  \vould  claim  the  Boarian  Tribute  no  more. 


not  be  slain  in  his  kingdom ;— hut  he  could  not  believe, 
saying,  'Nial,  my  father,  did  not  permit  me  to  believe, 
but  that  I  should  be  interred  in  the  top  of  Tara,  like  men 
standing  up  in  war.  For  the  Pagans  are  accustomed  to 
be  buried  armed,  with  ttieir  weapons  ready,  face  to  face, 
to  the  Day  of  Erdathe,  among  the  Ma^i,  i.  0.  the  Day  of 
Judgment  of  the  Lord.'"  Dr.  Petrle  in  the  same  work 
quotes  the  following  passage  from  the  Leabbar  Iluldhre, 
an  Irish  manuscript  of  the  Utn  century:-  " Laeghaire  was 


VI. 

But  with  years  wrath  wax'd ;   and  he  brake 

his  faith  ; — 
Then  the  dread  God-elements  wrought  hi* 

death ; 

For  the  wind  and  sunshine  by  Cassi's  side 
Came  down  and  smote  on  his  head  that  he 

died. 
Death -sick   three    days    on   his   throne   he 

sate: 
Then  he  died,  as  his  father  died,  great  in 

hate. 

VII. 

They  buried  the  king  upon  Tara's  hill, 
In  his  grave  upright ; — there  stands  he  still 
Upright  there  stands  he  as  men  that  wade 
By   night   through    a    castle -moat,   undis- 
may'd ; 
On  his  head  is  the  gold  crown,  the  spear  in 

his  hand, 
And  he  looks  to  the  hated  Lagenian  land. 

VIII. 

Patrick  the  Apostle,  the  son  of  Calphurn, 
These     pagan     interments     endured     na 

fonger ; 

And  Eire  he  commanded  this  song  to  leam, 
"Though    hate    is    strong    yet    love    is 

stronger !" 

To  the  Gaels  of  Eire  he  gave  a  Creed : 
He  bade  them  to  fear  not  Fate,  Demon,  or 

Faery ; 

But  to  fast  in  Lent,  and  by  no  black  deed 
To  insult   God's   Son,   and   His   mother 
Mary. 

Thus    sang     to     the     princes     the     bard 

-Mud  mire: — 
Oh !   when  will  it  leave  me,  that  widow's 

wail? 
My  heart  is  stone  and  my  brain  is  fire 

For  the  men  that  died   in   thy   woods, 
Imayle ! 


taken  in  the  battle,  and  he  gave  the  Lageniana  guarantees, 
that  is,  the  Sun  and  Moon,  the  Water  and  the  Air,  Day  and 
Night,  Sea  and  Land,  that  he  would  never  duriiii;  his  lift 
demand  the  Bora  Tribute.  But  Laeghaire  went  again  with 
a  great  army  to  the  La^un latin  to  demand  tribute  of  them ; 
for  he  did  not  pay  any  regard  to  his  oaths.  But.  by  tht 
side  of  Gael,  he  was  killed  by  the  Sun  and  the  Wind,  and 
by  the  other  Guarantees;  for  no  one  dared  to 
them  at  that  time." 


454 


THE  POEMS  OF  AUBREY  DE  VERK 


THE  BIER  THAT  CONQUERED ;   OR, 
O'DONNELL'S  ANSWER. 

A.  D.  1257. 

LAND  which  the  Norman  would  make  his 

own! l 

(Thus  sang  the  Bard  'mid  a  host  o'erthrown, 
While    their   white    cheeks    some    on    the 

clench'd  hand  propp'd, 
And  from  some  the  life-blood  scarce  heeded 

dropp'd) 

There  are  men  in  thee  that  refuse  to  die, 
And  that  scorn  to  live,  while  a  foe  stands 

nigh ! 

i. 

O'Donnell  lay  sick  with  a  grievous  wound : 
The  leech  had  left  him ;  the  priest  had 

come  ; 

The  clan  sat  weeping  upon  the  ground, 
Their  banners  furl'd  and  their  minstrels 
dumb. 

ii. 

Then  spake  O'Donnell,  the  king :  "Although 
My  hour  draws  nigh,  and  my  dolors  grow ; 
And  although  my  sins  I  have  now  coufess'd, 
And  desire  in  the  land,  my  charge,  to  rest, 
Yet  leave  this  realm,  nor  will  I  nor  can, 
While  a   stranger  treads  on  her,  child  or 
man. 

in. 

"  I  will  languish  no  longer  a  sick  man  here  : 
My  bed  is  grievous;  build  up  my  Bier. 
The  white  robe  a  king  wears  over  me  throw ; 
Bear  me  forth  to  the  field  where  he  camps — 

your  foe, 

With  the  yellow  torches  and  dirges  low. 
The  heralds  his  challenge  have  brought  and 

fled: 

The  answer  they  bore  not  I  bear  instead. 
My  people  shall  fight  my  pain  in  sight, 
And  I  shall  sleep  well  when  their  wrong 

stands  ri<rht." 


1  Maurice  Fitz  Gerald,  Lord  Justice,  marched  to  the  north- 
west, and  a  furious  battle  was  fought  between  him  and  God- 
frey O'Donnell,  Prince  of  Tirconnell,  at  Creadran-Killa,  north 
of  Sligo,  A.  D.  1257.  The  two  leaders  met  in  single  combat 
and  severely  wounded  each  other.  It  was  of  the  wound  he 
UJCD  received  that  O'Donnell  died  soon  after,  after  trium- 
tiluuuly  defeating  his  great  rival  potentate  in  Ulster.  O'Neill. 


IV. 

Then  the  clan  to  the  words  of  their  Chief 

gave  ear, 
And  they  fell'd  great  oak-trees  and  built  a 

bier ; 

Its  plumes  from  the  eagle's  wing  were  shed, 
And  the  wine-black  samite  above  it  they 

spread 

Inwoven  with  sad  emblems  and  texts  divine, 
And  the  braided  bud  of  Tirconnell's  pine, 
And  all  that  is  meet  for  the  great  and  brave 
When  past  are  the  measured  years  God  gave, 
And  a  voice  cries  "  Come"  from  the  waiting 

grave. 

v. 

When   the   Bier  was  ready  they  laid  him 

thereon ; 
And  the  army  forth  bare  him  with  wail  and 

moan  : 

With  wail  by  the  sea-lakes  and  rock  abysses ; 
With  moan  through  the    vapor-trail'd  wil- 
dernesses ; 
And   men  sore  wounded   themselves  drew 

nigh 
And  sail!,  "  We  will  go  with  our  king  and 

die ;" 

And  women  wept  as  the  pomp  pass'd  by. 
The  sad  yellow  torches  far  off  were  seen  ; 
No  war-note  peal'd  through  the  gorges 

green ; 
But  the  black  pines  echo'd  the   mourners' 

keen. 

VL 

What  said  the  Invader,  that  pomp  in  sight? 
"  They  sue  for  the  pity  they  shall  not  win." 
But  the  sick  king  sat  on  the  Bier  upright, 
And  said,  "  So  well !  I  shall  sleep  to-night : — •_ 
Rest  here  my  couch,  and  my  peace  begin.*' 

VII. 

Then     the    war-cry    sounded — "  Bataillah 

Aboo !" 

And  the  whole  clan  rush'd  to  the  battle 
plain : 

The  latter,  hearing  that  O'Donnell  was  dying,  demanded 
hostages  from  the  Kinel  Connell.  The  messengers  who 
brought  this  insolent  message  fled  in  terror  the  moment  they 
had  delivered  it;— and  the  answer  to  it  was  brought  by 
O'Donnell  on  his  bier.  Maurice  Fitz  Gerald  finally  retired  to 
the  Franciscan  monastery  winch  he  had  founded  at  Youghal 
and  died  peacefully  in  the  habit  of  that  order 


THE  POEMS  OF  AUBREY  DE  VERE. 


455 


They  were  thrice   driven   back,  but  they 

form'd  anew 
That  an  end  might  come  to  their  king's 

great  pain. 

'Twas  a  people  not  army  that  onward  rush'd  ; 
Twas  a  nation's  blood  from  their  wounds 

that  gush'd  : 
Bare-bosom'd   they   fought,   and   with   joy 

were  slain ; 

Till  evening  their  blood  fell  fast  like  rain ; 
But  a  shout  swell'd  up  o'er  the  setting  sun, 
And  O'Donnell  died  for  the  field  was  won. 

So  they  baiied  their  king  upon  Aileach's 

shore ; 
And  in  peace  he  slept ; — O'Donnell  More. 


PECCATUM  PECCAVIT. 


WHERE  is  thy  brother  ?     Hereinon,  speak  !' 

H  fiber,  the  son  of  Milesius,  where  ? 
The  orphans'  wail  and  their  mother's  shriek 

Forever  they  ring  upon  Banba's  air ! 
And  whose,  oh  whose  was  the  sword,  Here- 

mon, 
That  smote  Amergin,   thy  brother  and 

bard? 
Twas  the  Fate  of  thy  house  or  a  mocking 

Demon 

That  raised  thy  hand  o'er  his  forehead 
scarr'd  ! 

IL 

Woe,  woe  to  Banba !    That  blood  of  brothers 
Wells  up  from  her  bosom  renew'd  each 

year ; 

'Twas  hers  the  shriek — that  desolate  moth- 
er's : — 
'Twas  Banba  wept  o'er  that  first  red  bier ! 

1  Between  the  brothers  who  founded  the  great  Milesian  or 
Gaelic  dynasty  in  Ireland  there  was  strife,  as  between  the 
brothera  who  founded  Rome.  Herotnon  and  ITeber  divided 
Ireland  between  them.  A  dtepnte  having  arisen  between 
them,  a  battle  was  fought  at  Oeasbill,  in  the  present  King's 
County,  in  which  Ileber  fell  by  his  brother's  hand.  In  the 
second  year  of  his  reign  Hercmon  also  slew  his  brother 
Amergin,  in  battle.  To  Amergin  no  territory  was  assigned. 
tie  is  said  to  have  constructed  the  causeway  or  (oc/iar  of  In ver 
•lor,  or  the  mouth  of  the  Ovoca  in  Wicklow. 

There  are  some  excellent  remarks  in  Mr.  Hnverty's  History 
on  the  absurdity  of  disparaging  the  authentic  part  of  Irish 
history  on  account  of  other  portions  having  been  but  Bardic 


The  priest  has  warn'd,  and  the  bard  lament- 
ed : 

But  warning  and  wailing  her  sons  despised; 
The   head   was  sage,   and  the  heart  half- 
sainted  ; 

But  the  sword-hand  was  evermore  unbap- 
tized ! 


THE  DIRGE  OF  ATHUNREE. 

A.  D.  1816. 

[This  great  battle  marked  an  epoch  in  Irish  history.  In  it  the 
Norman  power  at  last  triumphed  over  that  of  the  Gael,  whiob 
had  long  been  enfeebled  by  the  divisions  in  the  royal  house 
of  O'Connor.  From  this  period  also  the  Norman  Barons  more 
rapidly  than  before  became  Irish  Chiefs.  As  such  they  were 
accepted  by  Ireland.  The  power  of  the  English  Crown  on 
the  other  hand  gradually  declined  till  R  became  unknown 
beyond  the  narrow  limits  of  a  part  of  the  Pale.  It  rose  again 
after  the  accession  of  Henry  VII.  1 

1. 

ATHUNREE  !     Athunree ! 
Erin's  heart,  is  broke  on  thee  ! 
Ne'er  till  then  in  all  its  woe 
Did  that  heart  its  hope  forego. 
Save  a  little  child — but  one— 
The  latest  regal  race  is  gone. 
Roderick  died  again  on  thee, 
Athunree ! 

n. 

Athunree!  Athunree! 

A  hundred  years  and  forty-three 

Winter-wing'd  and  black  as  night 

C1  O 

O'er  the  land  had  track'd  their  flight : 
In  Clonmacnoise  from  earthy  bed 
Roderick  raised  once  more  his  head  : — 
Fedlim  floodlike  rush'd  to  thee, 
Athunree ! 

in. 

Athunree !   Athunree ! 

The  light  that  struggled  sank  on  thee  ! 

Legends :— "  The  ancient  Irish!  altribated  the  utmost  Impor- 
tance to  their  historical  compositions  for  social  reasons — every 
question  as  to  the  rights  of  property  turned  upon  the  descent 
of  families,  and  the  principle  of  clanship.  •  *  *  Again,  when 
we  arrive  at  the  period  of  Christianity  In  Ireland,  we  find 
that  our  ancient  annuls  stand  the  test  of  verification  by 
science,  with  a  success  which  not  only  establishes  their  char- 
acter for  truthi'iilin1^  ut  that  period,  but  vindicates  the  rt-cordj 
of  preceding  dates."  He  refers  especially  to  the  eclipsrs  re- 
corded. "*  *  *  Shortly  after  the  establishment  of  Christian 
Ity  in  Ireland  the  Chronicles  of  the  Bards  were  replaced  cy 
regular  Annals,  bspt  in  several  of  the  monancri**."— Farrel 
<t  Son's  edition,  p.  ii. 


456 


THE  POEMS  OF  AUBREY  DE  VERE. 


Ne'er  since  Gathall  the  red-handed 
Such  a  host  till  then  was  banded. 
Long-hair'd  Kerne  and  Gallogiass 
Met  the  Norman  face  to  face ; 
The  saffron  standard  floated  far 
O'er  the  on-rolling  wave  of  war ; 
Bards  the  onset  sang  o'er  thee, 
Athunree  ! 

IV. 

Athunree !   Athunree ! 
The  poison  tree  took  root  in  thee ! 
What  might  naked  breasts  avail 
'Gainst  sharp  spear  and  steel-ribb'd  mail  ? 
Of  our  Princes  twenty-nine, 
Bulwarks  fair  of  Connor's  line, 
Of  our  clansmen  thousands  ten 
Slept  on  thy  red  ridges.     Then — 
Then  the  night  came  down  on  thee, 
Athunree ! 

v. 

Athunree !   Athunree  ! 
Strangely  shone  that  moon  on  thee ! 
Like  the  lamp  of  them  that  tread 
Staggering  o'er  the  heaps  of  dead, 
Seeking  thac  they  fear  to  see. 
Oh,  that  widow's  wailing  sore ! 
On  it  rang  to  Oranmore ; 
Died,  they  say,  among  the  piles 
That  make  holy  Aran's  isles  ; — 
It  was  Erin  wept  on  thee, 
Athunree  ! 

VI. 

Athunree  !  Athunree ! 
The  heart  of  Erin  burst  on  thee  ! 
Since  that  hour  some  unseen  hand 
On  her  forehead  stamps  the  brand. 
Her  children  ate  that  hour  the  fruit 
That  slays  manhood  at  the  root ; 
Our  warriors  are  not  what  they  were ; 
Our  maids  no  more  are  blithe  and  fair ; 
Truth  and  honor  died  with  thee, 
Athunree ! 

VII. 

Athunree!   Athunree! 
Never  harvest  wave  o'er  thee ! 
Never  sweetly-breathing  kine 
Pant  o'er  golden  meads  of  thine  ! 


Barren  be  thou  as  the  tomb ; 
May  the  night-bird  haunt  thy  gloom, 
And  the  waiter  from,  the  sea, 
Athunree! 

VIII. 

Athunree !   Athunree  ! 
All  my  heart  is  sore  for  thee, 
It  was  Erin  died  on  thee, 
Athunree  ! 


BETWEEN  TWO  MOUNTAINS. 


BETWEEN  two  mountains'  granite  walls  one 

star 

Shines  in  this  sea-lake  quiet  as  the  grave ; 
The  ocean  moans  against  its  rocky  bar; 
That  star  no  reflex  finds  in  foam  or  wave. 

n. 

Saints  of  our  country !  if,  no  more  a  nation, 
Vain  are  henceforth  her  struggles,  from  OD 

high 

Fix  in  the  bosom  of  her  desolation 
So  much  the  more  that  hope  which  cannot 

die! 


ODE. 

i. 

THE  unvanquish'd  land  puts  forth  each  year 

New  growth  of  man  and  forest ; 
Her  children  vanish ;  but  on  her, 

Stranger,  in  vain  thou  warrest ! 
She  wrestles,  strong  through  hope  sublime 

(Thick  darkness  round  her  pressing). 
Wrestles  with  God's  great  Angel,  Time — 

And  wins,  though  maim'd,  the  blessing. 

ii. 

As  night  draws  in  what  day  sent  forth, 

As  Spring  is  born  of  Winter, 
As  flowers  that  hide  in  parent  earth 

Reissue  from  the  centre, 


THE  POEMS  OF  AUBREY  DE  VERE. 


457 


Our  land  takes  back  her  wasted  brood, 

Our  land,  in  respiration, 
Breathes  from  her  deep  heart  unsubdued 

A  renovated  nation  ! 

in. 
Man's  mortal  frame,  for  heaven  design'd, 

In  caves  of  earth  must  wither ; 
Of  all  its  myriad  atoms  join'd 

No  twain  may  cleave  together. 
Our  land  is  dead.     Upon  the  blast 

Far  foith  her  dust  is  driven ; 
But  the  glorified  shape  shall  be  hers  at  last, 

And  the  crown  that  descends  from  heaven  ! 

IV. 

Her  children  die  ;  the  nation  lives  : — 

Through  signs  celestial  ranging 
The  nation's  Destiny  still  survives 

Unchanged,  yet  ever  changing. 
The  many-centuried  Wrath  goes  by ; 

But  while  earth's  tumult  rages 
"  In  Ccelo  quies."     Burst  and  die, 

Thou  storm  of  temporal  ages  ! 

v. 
Burst,  and  thine  utmost  fury  wreak 

On  things  that  are  but  seeming ! 
First  kill ;  then  die  ;  that  God  may  speak, 

And  man  surcease  from  dreaming ! 
That  Love  and  Justice  strong  as  love 

May  be  the  poles  unshaken 
Round  which  a  world  new-born  may  move ; 

And  Truth  that  slept  may  waken ! 


THE  STATUE  OF  KILKENNY.1 

A.  D.  1867. 

OF  old  ye  warr'd  on  men  :  to  day 
On  women  and  on  babes  ye  war ; 

The  Noble's  child  his  head  must  lay 
Beneath  the  peasant's  roof  no  more  ! 

»  A  strikine,  and,  In  its  admissions,  a  very  teaching  picture 
of  the  condition  of  thin*,"'  in  Ireland  in  the  fourteenth  cen- 
tury I*  presented  by  the  following  extracts  from  the  remon- 
strance despatched  to  Pope  John  XXII.  by  O'Neill,  King  of 
Ulster,  and  the  other  prince*  of  tliut  province.  It  IB  given  in 
Plowden's  History  of  Ireland  with  the  following  remarks: — 
"The  disastrous  prospect  of  afluirs  in  Ireland  drove  'he 
English  government  to  the  unchristian  and  scandalous  shift 
of  prostituting  the  spiritual  powers  of  tlfe  Church  to  the 
profane  use  of  state  policy.  •  •  •  So  powerfully  therefore  did 


I  saw  in  sleep  the  Infant's  hand 
His  foster-brother's  fiercely  grasp  ; 

His  warm  arm,  lithe  as  willow  waiul, 
Twines  me  each  day  with  closer  clasp ! 

O  infant  smiler !   grief  beguiler ! 

Between  the  oppressor  and  the  oppress'd, 
O  soft,  unconscious  reconciler, 

Smile  on  !  through  thee  the  land  is  bless'd. 

Through  thee  the  puissant  love  the  poor ; 

His  conqueror's  hope  the  vancjuish'd  shares ; 
For  thy  sake  by  a  lowly  door 

The  clan  made  vassal  stops  and  stares. 

Our  vales  are  healthy.     On  thy  cheek 
There  dawns,  each  day,  a  livelier  red  : 

Smile  on  !   Before  another  week 

Thy  feet  our  earthen  floor  will  tread  ! 

Thy  foster-brothers  twain  for  thee 

Would  face  the  wolves  on  snowy  fell : 

Smile  on  !  the  Irish  Enemy 

Will  fence  their  Norman  nursling  well. 

The  nursling  as  the  child  is  dear ; — 
Thy  mother  loves  not  like  thy  nurse  ! 

That  babbling  Mandate  steps  not  near 
Thv  cot,  but  o'er  her  bleeding  corse  I 


THE  TRUE  KING. 

A.  D.  1399. 
I. 

HE  came  in  the  night  on  a  false  pretence ; 

As  a  friend  he  came — as  a  lord  remains : 
His  coming  we  noted  not — when  or  whence ; 

We  slept:  we  woke  in  chains. 

the  English  agents  press  the  mutual  interests  of  both  conns 
to  resist  the  erection  of  a  new  Scotch  dynasty  in  Ireland 
that  a  solemn  sentence  of  excommunication  was  published 
from  the  Papal  chair  against  all  the  enemies  of  Edward  II., 
and  nominally  against  Robert  and  Edward  lirnce.  who  were 
then  invading  Ireland  for  the  purpose  of  t-ccurin^  to  the  latter 
the  throne,  to  which  the  ^enerality  of  that  nation  had  called 
him."— Vol.  i.  p.  131.  He  proceeds— "This  remonstrance" 
(sent  to  neutralize  the  effect  of  Edward's  appeal  to  Komc) 
"produced  so  strong  an  effect  upon  Pope  John  XXII.,  thai 
his  Holiness  immediately  transmitted  a  copy  of  it  to  th« 
King,  earnestly  exhorting  him  to  redress  the  grievance* 
complained  of,  as  the  only  sure  expedient  to  bring  back  tht 
Irish  to  their  allegiance."— P.  133. 


458 


THE  POEMS  OF  AUBREY  DE  VERE. 


Ere  a  year  they  had  chased  us  to  dens  and 

caves ; 
Our  streets  and  our  churches  lay  drown'd 

in  bloed ; 

The  race  that  had  sold  us  their  sons  as  slaves 
In  our  land  our  conquerors  stood ! 

ii. 

Who  were  they,  those   princes  that   gave 

away 
What  was   theirs   to  keep,  not  theirs  to 

give? 
A  king  holds  sway  for  a  passing  day ; 

The  kingdoms  forever  live ! 
The  tanist  succeeds  when  the  king  is  dust  r1 
The   king  rules   all;    yet  the  king  hath 

naught. 
They  were  traitors  not  kings  who  sold  their 

trust ; 
They  were  traitors  not  kings  who  bought ! 

in. 

Brave  Art  MacMurrough ! — Arise, 'tis  morn ! 

For  a  true  king  the  nation  waited  long. 
Ha  is  strong  as  the  horn  of  the  unicorn, 

This  true  king  who  rights  our  wrong ! 
He  rules  in  the  fight  by  an  inward  right ; 

From  the  heart  of  the  nation  her  king  is 

grown ; 
He  rules  by  right ;  he  is  might  of  her  might ; 

Her  flesh,  and  bone  of  her  bone  ! 


QUEEN  MARGARET'S  FEASTING. 

A.  D.  1451. 
I. 

FAIR  she  stood — God's  queenly  creature  !* 

Wondrous  joy  was  in  her  face 
Of  her  ladies  none  in  stature 

Like  to  her,  and  none  in  grace 

1  According  to  the  Irish  law  the  king,  far  from  being  able 
to  alienate  his  kingdom,  had  but  a  life-interest  in  the  sove- 
reignty. His  son  did  not  by  necessity  succeed  to  the  crown. 
The  sovereignty  was  vested  in  a  particular  family  as  repre- 
senting the  clan  or  race.  Within  certain  limits  of  kin- 
dred in  that  family  the  king  was  chosen  by  election  ;  and  at 
the  same  period  his  Tanist,  or  successor,  was  chosen  also. 
Such  was  the  immemorial  usage ;  and  the  transactions  by 
which  Irish  princes  occasionally  pretended  to  transfer  their 
rights  to  a  foreign  power  were  traitorous  proceedings  on  the 
part  of  both  the  sides  concerned  in  them.  These  frauds 


On  the  church-roof  stood  they  round  her, 

Cloth  of  gold  was  her  attire; 
They  in  jewell'd  circle  wound  her; — 

Beside  her  Ely's  king,  her  sire. 

n. 

Far  and  near  the  green  fields  glitter'd 

Like  to  poppy-beds  in  Spring, 
Gay  with  companies  loose-scatter'd 

Seated  each  in  seemly  ring 
Under  banners  red  or  yellow : 

There  all  day  "the  feast  they  kept 
From  chill  dawn  and  noontide  mellow, 

Till  the  hill-shades  eastward  crept. 

in. 

On  a  white  steed  at  the  gateway 

Margaret's  husband,  Calwagh  sate  ; 
Guest  on  guest,  approaching,  straightway 

Welcomed  he  with  love  and  state. 
Each  pass'd  on  with  largess  laden, 

Chosen  gifts  of  thought  and  work, 
Now  the  red  cloak  of  the  maiden, 

Now  the  minstrel's  golden  torque. 

IV. 

On  the  wind  the  tapestries  shifted  ; 

From  the  blue  hills  rang  the  horn  ; 
Slowly  toward  the  sunset  drifted 

Choral  song  and  shout  breeze-borne. 
Like  a  sea  the  crowds  unresting 

Murmur' d  round  the  gray  church-tower ; 
Many  a  prayer,  amid  the  feasting, 

For  Margaret's  mother  rose  that  hour ! 

v. 

On  the  church-roof  kerne  and  noble 
At  her  bright  face  look'd  half  dazed ; 

Naught  was  hers  of  shame  or  trouble ; — 
On  the  crowds  far  off  she  gazed  : 


were  concealed  from  the  Irish,  and  the  elections  to  the 
monarchy  went  on  as  before,  until  some  occasion  rose  sup- 
posed to  be  favorable  for  the  assertion  of  the  new  claim. 

1  A  singularly  picturesque  narrative  of  this  event  is  given 
in  an  old  Irish  Chronicle  translated  by  Duald  MacPerbis,  v/ue 
of  Ireland's  "chief  bards,"  for  Sir  James  Ware,  in  the  year 
1666,  and  republished  in  the  Miscellany  of  the  Irish  Archaeo- 
logical Society,  vol.  i.  1846.  The  chronicler  thus  concludes: 
"  God's  blessing,  the  blessing  of  all  the  saints,  and  every  one, 
blessing  from  Jerusalem  to  Inis  Glaaire.  be  on  her  goint; 
to  heaven  ;•  and  blessed  be  he  who  will  reade  and  h"are 
this  for  blessing  her  soul ;  and  cursed  be  that  sore  in  her 
breast  that  killed  Marsraret."  See  Farrell  &  Sou's  edition 
of  HAVKKTT'S  History  of  Ireland. 


QUEEN  MARGARET'S  FEASTING. 


THE  POEMS  OF  AUBREY  DE  VERE. 


459 


Once,  on  heaven  her  dark  eyes  bending, 
Her  hands  in  prayer  she  flung  apart ; 

Unconsciously  her  arms  extending, 
She  bless'd  her  people  in  her  heart. 

VI. 

Thus  a  Gaelic  queen  and  nation 

At  Imayn  till  set  of  sun 
Kept  with  feast  the  Annunciation, 

Fourteen  hundred  fifty-one. 
Time  it  was  of  solace  tender; — 

'Twas  a  brave  time  strong  yet  fair ! 
Blessing,  O  ye  angels,  send  her 

From  Salem's  towers  and  Inisglaaire  1 


PLORANS  PLORAVIT. 

A.  D.  1583. 

SHE  sits  alone  on  the  cold  grave-stone 
And  only  the  dead  are  nigh  her ; 

In  the  tongue  of  the  Gael  she  makes  her  wail 
The  night  wind  rushes  by  her. 

"  Few,  oh  few  are  leal  and  true, 
And  fewer  shall  be,  and  fewer ; 

The  land  is  a  corse  ; — no  life,  no  force — 
O  wind,  with  sere  leaves  strew  her ! 

"  Men  ask  what  scope  is  left  for  hope 
To  one  who  has  known  her  story : — 

I  trust  her  dead !    Their  graves  arc  red ; 
But  their  souls  are  with  God  in  glory." 


WAR-SONG  OF  MAcCARTHY. 


Two  lives  of  an  eagle,  the  old  song  saith, 

Make  the  life  of  a  black  yew-tree ; 
For  two  lives  of  a  yew-tree  the  furrough's 
path 

Men  trace,  grass-grown  on  the  lea ; 
Two  furroughs  they  last  till  the  time  is  past 

God  willeth  the  world  to  be ; 
For  a  furrough's  life  has  MacCarthy  stood 
fast, 

MacOarthy  in  Carbery. 


u. 

Up  with  the  banner  whose  green  shall  live 

While  lives  the  green  on  the  oak  ! 
And  down  with  the  axes  that  grind  and  nve 

Keen-edged  as  the  thunder-stroke  ! 
And  on  with  the  battle-cry  known  of  old, 

And  the  clan-rush  like  wind  and  wave ; — 
On,  on !  the  Invader  is  bought  and  sold ; 

His  own  hand  has  dug  his  grave ! 


FLORENCE    MAcCARTIIY'S     FARE- 
WELL TO  HIS  ENGLISH  LOVE,1 


MY  pensive-brow'd  Evangeline ! 
What  says^to  thee  old  Windsor's  pine 

Whose  shadow  o'er  the  pleasance  sways  T 
It  says,  "  Ere  long  the  evening  star 
Will  pierce  my  darkness  from  afar : — 

I  grieve  as  one  with  grief  who  plays." 

ii. 

Evangeline !  Evangeline ! 

In  that  far  distant  land  of  mine 

There  stands  a  yew-tree  among  tombs  ! 
For  ages  there  that  tree  has  stood, 
A  black  pall  dash'd  with  drops  of  blood —  ' 

O'er  all  my  world  it  breathes  its  glooms. 

I  IT. 

England's  fair  child,  Evangeline  ! 
Because  my  yew-tree  is  not  thine, 

Because  thy  Gods  on  mine  wage  war, 
Farewell !  Back  fall  the  gates  of  brass ; 
The  exile  to  his  own  must  pass ; — 

I  seek  the  land  of  torabs  once  more. 


1  There  is  a  striking  description  of  Florence  MacCarthy  In 
the  Pacata  tlibcrnia.  llu  "  WHS  contented  (tandem  uliquando) 
to  repaire  to  the  president,  lying  at  Moyallo,  bringing  some 
fourty  horse  in  his  company;  and  himself  in  the  middcyt  of 
his  troupe  (like  the  great  Turke  among  his  janissaries) 
drsw  toward  the  houee,  the  nine-and-twentieth  of  October, 
like  Saul  higher  by  the  head  and  shoulders  than  any  of  bla 
follower!"." — P.  170.  The  moral  indignation  constantly 
expressed  by  the  author  of  the  Pacatn  ilibcrnia  at  Florence 
MacCarthy'8  method  of  countermining  the  far  darker  in  tricars 
of  the  Lord  President,  recorded  in  that  work,  with  intrigue* 
of  his  own,  is  curious.  Before  the  period  he  describes.  Florence 
had  been  for  eleven  yean  detained  a  prisoner  in  England.  In 
1601  he  was  again  arrested  at  a  time  when  he  possessed  th* 
"Qneen's  protection."  and  *ent  to  the  Tower— where  h« 
passed  the  rest  of  his  life. 


460 


THE  POEMS  OF  AUBREY  DE  VERB. 


WAR-SONG  OF  TIECONNELL'S  BARD  AT 
THE  BATTLE  OF  BLACK  WATER, 

A.  D.  1597. 

[At  this  battle,  the  Irish  of  UlBter  were  commanded  by 
•*  Red  Hugh"  O'Neill,  Prince  of  Tirone,  and  by  Hugh  O'Don- 
nell  (called  also  "Red  Hugh"),  Prince  of  Tirconnell.  Queen 
Elizabeth's  army  was  led  by  Marshal  Bagnal,  who  fell  in  the 
rout  with  2,500  of  the  invading  force.  Twelve  thousand 
jold  pieces,  thirty-four  standards',  and  all  the  artillery  of  the 
vanquished  army  were  taken.] 

I. 

GLORY  to  God,  and  to  the  powers  that  tight 

For  Freedom  and  the  Right ! 
We  have  them  then,  the  Invaders !    There 
they  stand 

Once  more  on  Oriel's  land  ! 
They  have  pass'd  the  gorge  stream-cloven, 

And  the  mountain's  purple  bound  ; 
Now  the  toils  are  round  them  woven, 

Now  the  nets  are  spread  around ! 
Give  them  time :   their  steeds  are  blown ; — 

Let  them  stand  and  round  them  stare 

Breathing  blasts  of  Irish  air. 

Our  clouds  are  o'er  them  sailing ; 

o  y 

Our  woods  are  round  them  wailing  : 

O    7 

Our  eagles  know  their  own  ! 

n. 

Thrice  we've  met  them — race  and  brood! 
First  at  Clontibret  they  stood : — ' 
How  soon  the  giant  son  of  Meath* 
Roll'd  from  his  horse  upon  the  heath  ! 

Again  we  met  them — once  again  ; 
Portmore  and  Banburb's  plain  know  where  ;* 
There  fell  de  Burgh;  there  fell  Kildare: 
(His  valiant  foster-brothers  twain 
Died  at  his  feet,  but  died  in  vain  ;) 
There  Waller,  Turner,  Vaughan  fell, 
Vanquish'd,  though  deem'd  invincible ! 

1  Tills  battle  was  fought  in  1595.    Sir  John  Norreys  com- 
manded the  invading  force.    TLe  O'Neill  led  the  Irish. 

2  Segrave. 

*  This  battle  was  fought  in  1597.  Lord  de  Burgh  command- 
ing the  English. 

4  Red  Hugh  O'Donnell,  when  but  a  boy  of  fifteen,  was 
already  celebrated  for  his  beauty,  his  courage,  and  his  sKill 
in  warlike  accomplishments.  To  prevent  him  from  assuming 
the  headship  of  Tirconnell  the  following  device  was  resorted 
to  by  Sir  John  Perrot,  Lord  President  of  Munster.  During  the 
summer  of  1587  Red  Hugh  with  MacSwyne  of  the  battle-axes, 
O'Gallagher  of  Ballyshannon,  and  some  other  Irish  chiefs, 
oad  gone  to  a  monastery  of  Carmelites  situated  on  the  western 
ihore  of  Lough  Swilly,  and  facing  the  mountains  of  Inish- 
owen,  the  church  of  which  had  long  been  a  famous  place  of 
c.  One  day  a  ship,  ID  appearance  a  merchant  vessel. 


We  raised  that  hour  a  battle-axe 
That  dinn'd  the  iron  on  your  backs ! 
Vengeance,  that  hour,  a  wide-wing'd  Fury, 
On  drave  you  to  the  gates  of'Newry: 
There  rest  ye  found ;  by  rest  restored, 
Sang  there  your  song  of  Battleford ! 

in. 

Thou  rising  sun,  fair  fall 
Thy  greeting    on    Armagh's    time-honor'd 
wall, 

And  on  the  willows  hoar 
That  fringe  thy  silver  waters,  Avonmore  ! 
See !  on  that  hill  of  drifted  sand 
The  far-famed  Marshal  holds  command, 
Bagnal,  their  bravest : — to  the  right 
That  recreant  neither  chief  nor  knight 
"The  Queen's  O'Reilly,"  he  that  sold 
His  country,  clan,  and  Church  for  gold  ! 
"  Saint  George  for  England  !" — Rebel  crew ! 
What  are  the  Saints  ye  spurn  to  you  ? 
They  charge ;  they  pass  yon  grassy  swell ; 
They  reach  our  pitfall's  hidden  well. 
On,  warriors  native  to  the  sod, 
Be  on  them  in  the  power  of  God  ! 

IV. 

Twin  stars  !   Twin  regents  of  our  righteous 

O  O 

war ! 

This  day  remember  whose,  and  who  ye  are — 
Thou  that  o'er  green  Tir-owen's  tribes  hast 

sway ! 
Thou  whom  Tir-connell's  vales  obey  ! 

The  line  of  Nial,  the  line  of  Conn, 

So  oft  at  strife,  to-day  are  one ! 

Both  Chiefs  are  dear  to  Eire  ;  to  me 

Dearest  he  is  and  needs  must  be, 
My  Prince,  my  Chief,  my  child,  on  whom 
So  early  fell  the  dungeon's  doom.4 

O'Donnell !    hear  this  day  thy  Bard  ! 


sailed  up  the  bay,  cast  anchor  opposite  Rathmullan,  and  offered 
for  sale  her  cargo  of  Spanish  wine.  Young  Red  Hugh  was 
among  those  who  went  on  board  during  the  night.  The  next 
morning  he  and  his  companions  found  themselves  secured 
under  hatches.  He  was  thrown  into  prison  in  Dublin,  where 
he  languished  for  three  years  and  three  months.  At  the  end 
of  that  time  he  made  his  escape,  and  flying  to  the  south  took 
refuge  with  Felim  O'Toole,  who  surrendered  him  to  the 
English.  "  He  remained  again  in  irons,"  says  the  Chronicle, 
"  until  the  Feast  of  Christmas,  1592,  when  it  seemed  to  the  Son 
of  the  Virgin  time  for  him  to  escape."  Once  more  he  fled, 
accompanied  by  two  sons  of  Shane  O'Neill,  to  the  mountains 
of  Wicklow.  then  covered  with  snow.  After  wandering  about 
for  three  days  and  nights  O'Donnell  and  one  of  his  companiuua 
(the  other  had  perished)  were  found  by  some  of  O'Byrne't 
clansmen  beneath  the  thelter  of  a  cliff,  benumbed  and  ahnovt 


THE  POEMS  OF  AUBREY  DE  VERE. 


461 


By   those    young    feet    so    maira'd    and 

scarrM, 

Bit  by  the  winter's  fangs  when  lost 
Thou  wander'dst  on   through  snows  and 

frost, 
Remember  thou  those  years  in  chains  thou 

worest, 
Snatch'd  in  false  peace  from  unsuspecting 

halls, 
And  that  one  thought,  of  all  thy  pangs  the 

sorest, 
Thy  subjects  groan'd  the   upstart  alien's 

thralls ! 

Tha-t  thought  on  waft  thee  through  the  fight : 
On,  on,  for  Erin's  right ! 

v. 

Seest  thou  yon  stream  whose  tawny  waters 

glide 
Through  weeds  and  yellow  marsh  lingeringly 

and  slowly  ? 

Blest  is  that  spot  and  holy ! 
There,  ages  past,  Saint   Bercan   stood   and 

cried, 
"  This  spot  shall  quell  one  day  the  Invaders' 

pride !" 
He  saw  in  mystic  trance 

The  blood-stain  flush  yon  rill : — 
On,  hosts  of  God,  advance ; 

Your  country's  fates  fulfil! 
On,  clansmen,  leal  and  true, 
Lambdearg !  Bataillah-aboo ! 
Be  Truth  this  day  your  might ! 
Truth  lords  it  in  the  fight ! 

VI. 

O'Neill !  That  day  be  with  thee  now 
When,  throned  on  Ulster's  regal   seat  of 
stone, 

Thou  satt'st,  and  thou  alone ; 
While  flock'd  from  far  the  Tribes,  and  to  thy 
hand 

Was  given  the  snow-white  wand, 
Hiin's  authentic  sceptre  of  command  ! 
Kingless  a  People  stood  around  thee  !    Thou 
Didst  dash  the  British  bauble  from  th)  brow, 

And  for  a  coronet  laid  down 


dead  from  hunger ;  for  daring  those  three  days  their  food  had 
consisted  of  grass  and  forest  leaves.  On  the  restoration  of  his 
strength  O'Donnell  succeeded,  with  the  attiMHtance  of  O'Neill, 
in  making  his  way  to  his  native  mountains.  From  thutino- 
iiifii*.  ihe  two  treat  Northern  Princes  of  Tirconnell  and  Tironc, 
ri-niiunrinx  t!ia  ancient  rivalries  of  their  several  Houses, 


That  People's  love  became  once  more  thy 

crown  ! 

True  King  alone  is  he 
In  whom  summ'd  up  his  People  share  the 

throne : — 

Fair  from  the  soil  he  rises  like  a  tree : 
Rock-like  the  stranger  presses  on  it,  prone ! 
Strike  for  that  People's  cause ! 
For  Tanistry ;  for  Brehon  laws : 
The  sage  traditions  of  civility ; 
Pure  hearths,  and  faith  set  free ! 

VII. 

Hark !  the  thunder  of  their  meeting  ! 

Hand  meets  hand,  and  rough  the  greeting ! 

Hark !  the  crash  of  shield  and  brand ; 

They  mix,  they  mingle,  band  with  band, 

Intertwisted,  intertangled, 

Mangled  forehead  meeting  mangled, 

Like  two  horn-commingling  stags 

Wrestling  on  the  mountain  crags  ! 

Lo !   the  wavering  darkness  through 

I  see  the  banner  of  Red  Hugh  ; 

Close  beside  is  thine,  O'Neill ! 

Now  they  stoop  and  now  they  reel, 

Rise  once  more  and  onward  sail, 

Like  two  falcons  on  one  gale  ! — 

O  ye  clansmen  past  me  rushing 

Like  mountain  torrents  seaward  gushing, 

Tell  the  Chiefs  that  from  this  height 

Their  Chief  of  bards  beholds  the  tight ; 

That  on  theirs  he  pours  his  spirit ; 

Marks  their  deeds  and  chants  their  merit ; 

While  the  Priesthood  evermore, 

Like  him  that  ruled  God's  host  of  yore, 

With  arms  outstretched  that  God  implore ! 

VIII. 

Mightiest  of  the  line  of  Conn, 

On  to  victory !    On,  on,  on  ! 

It  is  Erin  that  in  thee 

Lives  and  works  right  wondrously  ! 

Eva  from  the  heavenly  bourne 

Upon  thee  her  eyes  doth  turn, 

She  whose  marriage  couch  was  spread1 

'Twixt  the  dying  and  the  dead  ! 

Parcelled  kingdoms  one  by  one 

entered  into  that  common  alliance  against  the  invader.  th« 
effects  of  which  were  irresistible  until  that  reverse  al  Kin«a!ij 
of  which  the  cause  has  never  been  explained. 

1  The  celebrated  picture  of  an  Irish  artist,  Mr.  Maclisc,  hu 
rendered  well  known  this  incident,  one  of  the  nn>«t  touching 
it  liUtory.  After  the  capture  of  Watnrford  the  Kin^-  i.f 


THE  POEMS  OF  AUBREY  DE  YERE. 


For  a  prey  to  traitors  thrown  ; 
Pledges  forfeit,  broken  vows, 
Roofless  fane,  and  blazing  house ; 
All  the  dreadful  deeds  of  old 
Rise  resurgent  from  the  mould, 
For  their  judgment  peal  is  toll'd  ! 
All  our  Future  takes  her  stand 
Hawk-like  on  thy  lifted  hand. 
States  that  live  not,  vigil  keeping 
In  the  lirnbo  of  long  weeping ; 
Palace-courts  and  minster-towers 
That  shall  make  this  isle  of  ours 
Fairer  than  the  star  of  morn, 
Wait  thy  mandate  to  be  born ! 
Chief  elect  'mid  desolation, 
Wield  thou  well  the  inspiration 
Thou  drawest  from  a  new-born  nation  1 

IX. 

Sleep  no  longer  Bards  that  hold 

Ranged  beneath  me  harps  of  gold  ! 

Smite  them  with  a  heavier  hand 

Than  vengeance  lays  on  axe  or  brand  I 

Pour  upon  the  blast  a  song 

Linking  litanies  of  wrong, 

Till,  like  poison-dews,  the  strain 

Eat  into  the  Invader's  brain. 

On  the  retributive  harp 

Catch  that  death-shriek  shrill  and  sharp1 

Which  she  utter'd,  she  whose  lord 

Leinster  led  forth  his  daughter  and  married  her  to  the  Nor- 
man, Strongbow.  This  was  on  St.  Bartholomew's  Day,  1170. 
"The  marriage  ceremony  was  hastily  performed,  and  the 
wedding  cortege  passed  through  streets  reeking  with  the  still 
warm  blood  of  the  brave  and  unhappy  citizens." — HAVERTY'S 
Hist.,  p.  177,  Farrell  &  Son's  edition. 

1  "  Another  and  equally  unsuccessful  attempt  to  plant  Ulster 
was  made  in  1573  by  a  more  distinguished  minion  of  the 
Queen,  Walter  Devereux,  Earl  of  Essex.  Elizabeth  embarked 
with  that  noble  Earl  in  his  project  of  colonizing  Clandeboy  in' 
Ulster.  *  *  *  Lingard  says  that  the  agreement  was  that  the 
Queen  and  the  Earl  should  furnish  each  half  the  expense,  and 
should  divide  the  colony  when  it  should  be  peopled  with  two 
thousand  settlers.  This  bargain  of  fraud  and  crime  was  sealed 
by  Essex  with  a  desperate  act  of  villainy.  On  his  arrival  in 
Ulster  he  met  a  most  formidable  opposition  from  Phelim 
O'Neill,  which  resulted,  after  a  great  deal  of  hard  fighting,  in  a 
solemn  peace  between  them.  '  However,'  says  the  manuscript 
Irish  Annals  of  Queen  Elizabeth's  reign,  'at  a  feast  wherein 
the  Earl  entertained  that  chieftain,  and  at  the  end  of  their 
jood  cheer,  O'Neill  with  his  wife  were  seized  ;  the  friends  who 
attended  were  put  to  the  sword  before  their  faces ;  Phelim, 
with  c?8  wife  and  brother,  were  conveyed  to  Dublin,  where 
they  w«v«  cut  up  in  quarters.'  "—(The  Confiscation  of  Ulster. 
By  THOMAS  MACNEVIN,  p.  53 ;  James  Duffy.) 

*  The  intended  victim  was  SSane  O'Neill,  Prince  of  Tirone, 
«!?ainst  whom  the  Queen  supported  the  pretensions  of  his 
illegitimate  brother  Matthew,  Baron  of  Dungannon,  and  of 
his  sons.  Sussex  "  was  concerting  at  that  time,  A.  D.  1561,  a 
plan  for  the  secret  murder  of  O'Neill.  *  *  *  This  chosen  tool 
of  the  Queen's  representative  was  named  Nele  Gray;  and 


Perish'd,  Essex,  at  thy  board  ! 

Peerless  chieftain  !  peerless  wife  ! 

From  his  throat,  and  hers,  the  knife 

Drain'd  the  mingled  tide  of  life  ! 

Sing  the  base  assassin's  steel 

By  Sussex  hired  to  slay  O'Neill  !a 

Sing,  fierce  Bards,  the  plains  sword-wasted, 

Sing  the  cornfields  burnt  and  blasted, 

That  when  raged  the  war  no  longer 

Kernes  dog-chased  might  pine  with  hunger  t 

Pour  around  their  ears  the  groans 

Of  half-human  skeletons 

From  wet  cave  or  forest-cover 

Foodless  deserts  peering  over  : 

Or  upon  the  roadside  lying, 

Infant  dead  and  mother  dying, 

On  their  mouths  the  grassy  stain 

Of  the  wild  weed  gnaw'd  in  vain  ; — 

Look  upon  them,  hoary  Head 

Of  the  last  of  Desmonds  dead  ; 

His  that  drew — too  late — his  sword 

Religion  and  his  right  to  guard  ; 

Head  that  evermore  dost  frown 

From  the  tower  of  London  down  ! 

She  that  slew  him  from  her  barge 

Makes  that  Head  this  hour  the  targe 

Of  her  insults  cold  and  keen, 

England's  caliph,  not  her  queen  ! 

— Portent  terrible  and  dire 

Whom  thy  country  and  thy  sire1 

after  first  swearing  him  upon  the  Bible  to  keep  all  secret,  it 
was  proposed  that  he  should  receive  for  this  murder  of  Shane 
one  hundred  marks  of  land  a  year  to  him  and  his  heirs  for- 
ever."— MOORE'S  Hist.,  vol.  iv.  p.  32. 

"With  regard  to  the  odious  transaction  now  under  con- 
sideration there  needs  no  more  than  the  letter  addressed  by 
Sussex  himself  to  his  royal  mist-ess  on  that  occasion,  to  prove 
the  frightful  familiarity  with  deeds  of  blood  which  then 
prevailed  in  the  highest  stations."— Ibid.  The  letter,  which 
is  preserved  in  the  State-paper  Office,  thus  concludes : — "  In 
fine,  I  brake  with  him  to  kill  Shane,  and  bound  myself  by  my 
oath  to  see  him  have  a  hundred  marks  of  land.  He  seemed 
desirous  to  serve  your  Highness  and  to  have  the  land ;  but 
fearful  to  do  it,  doubting  his  escape  after,  i.  told  him  the 
ways  he  might  do  it,  and  how  to  escape  after  with  safety, 
which  he  offered  and  promised  to  do." 

*  The  illegitimacy  of  Elizabeth  rests  upon  authority  ujt 
particularly  favorable  to  the  opposite  side,  viz.,  Archbifehop 
Cranmer,  and  an  Act  of  Parliament  never  repealed  even  in  her 
own  reign  : — "  Cranmer, '  having  previously  invoked  the  name 
of  Christ,  and  having  God  alone  before  his  eyes,'  prononnced 
definitively  that  the  marriage  formerly  contracted,  solemnized 
and  consummated  between  Henry  and  Anne  Boleyn  was,  and 
always  had  been,  null  and  void.  The  whole  process  was  after- 
ward laid  before  the  members  of  the  Convocation,  and  the 
Houses  of  Parliament.  The  former  presumed  not  to  dissent 
from  the  decision  of  the  metropolitan  ;  tbe  latter  were  willing 
that  in  such  a  case  their  ignorance  should  be  guided  by  the 
learning  of  the  clergy.  By  both  the  divorce  was  approved  and 
confirmed."— LINGARD'S  Hist.,  vol.  v.  p.  36.  What  was  the  ori- 
gin of  the  Parliament  which  Elizabeth  induced  So  recognize  her 


THE  POEMS  OF  AUBREY  DE  VERB. 


463 


Branded  with  a  bastard's  name, 
Thy  birth  was  but  thy  lightest  shame! 
To  honor  recreant  and  thine  oath  ; — 
Trampling  that  Faith  whose  borrow'd  garb1 
First  gave  thee  sceptre,  crown,  and  orb, 
Thy  flatterers  scorn,  thy  lovers  loathe 
That  idol  with  the  blood-stain'd  feet 
Ill-throned  on  murder'd  Mary's  seat ! 


Glory  be  to  God  on  high  ! 

That  shout  ra-ng  up  into  the  sky ! 

The  plain  lies  bare ;  the  smoke  drifts  by ; 

Again  that  cry  :  they  fly !  they  fly  ! 

O'er  them  standards  thirty-four 

Waved  at  morn  ;  they  wave  no  more. 

Glory  be  to  Him  alone  who  holds  the  nations 

in  His  hand, 
And  to  them  the  heavenly  guardians  of  our 

Church  and  native  land  ! 
Sing,  ye  priests,  youi  deep  Te  Deums ;  bards, 

make  answer  loud  and  long, 
In  your  rapture  flinging  heavenward  censers 

of  triumphant  song. 
Isle   for  centuries   blind   in  bondage,  make 

once  more  thine  ancient  boast, 
From  the  cliffs  of  Inishowen  southward  on 

to  Carbery's  coast ! 
We  have  seen  the  right  made  perfect,  seen 

the  Hand  that  rules  the  spheres 
Glance  like  lightning   through  the   clouds, 

and  backward  roll  the  wrongful  years. 


title  f  "In  the  Lower  Honse  a  majority  had  been  secured  by 
the  expedient  of  sending  to  the  sheriffs*  a  list  of  court  candi- 
dates, out  of  whom  the  members  were  to  be  chosen." — 
LINCIARD,  vol.  vi.  p.  5.  The  court  named  five  candidates  for 
the  shires,  and  three  for  the  boroughs  ! 

1  Not  only  had  Elizabeth  repeatedly  asserted  herself  to  be 
a  Catholic  in  her  Bister's  reign,  but  for  some  time  after  her 
own  accession  she  wore  the  same  mask.  "She  continued  to 
assist  and  occasionally  to  communicate  at  mass:  she  buried 
her  sister  with  all  the  solemnities  of  the  Catholic  ritual ;  and 
she  ordered  a  solemn  dirge,  and  a  mass  of  requiem  for  the 
'soul  of  the  Emperor  Charles  V.1 "— LINCARD.  Her  corona- 
tion was  conducted  with  all  the  ceremonial  of  the  Catholic 
Pontifical,  and  at  it  she  received  the  Sacrament  under  one 
ki.-id. 

The  following  contemporaneous  sketch  of  Elizabeth's  last 
V'  :ir  i?  not  commonly  known: — "Sir  John  Harrington,  her 
u'dil-iin,  who  visited  the  court  about  seven  months  after  the 
death  of  &>.»<jx,  Aa-  described  in  a  private  letter  the  state  in 
which  he  found  the  Queen.  She  was  altered  in  her  features 
and  reduced  to  a  skeleton.  Her  food  was  nothing  but  manchet 
bread,  and  succory  pottage.  •  *  »  For  her  protection  she  had 
ordered  «.  sword  to  be  placed  by  her  table,  which  she  often  took 
in  her  hand,  and  thrust  with  violence  into  the  tapestry  of  her 
chamber.  About  a  year  later  he  returned  to  her  presence.  'I 
found  her,'  he  says,  'in  a  n.ost  pitiable  state.  She  bade  the 
archbishop  ask  me  if  I  had  seen  Tirone.  I  replied  with  rever- 
riK  i-  that  I  had  seen  him  with  the  Lord  Deputy.  She  looked 


Glory  fadeth,  but  this  triumph  is  no  barren 

mundane  glory  ; 
Rays  of  healing  it  shall  scatter  on  the  eyes 

that  read  our  story : 
Upon   nations  bound    and   torpid,  as  they 

waken  it  shall  shine 
As  on  Peter  in  his  chains  the  angel  shone 

with  light  divine. 
From   the   unheeding,  from   the   unholy  it 

may  hide,  like  Truth,  its  ray ; 
But   when   Truth   and   Justice   conquer  on 

their  crowns  its  beam  shall  play. 
O'er  the  ken  of  troubled  tyrants  it  shall  trail 

a  meteor's  glare ; 
For  the  blameless  it  shall  glitter  as  the  star 

of  morning  fair: 
Whensoever  Erin  triumphs  then  its  dawn  it 

shall  renew, — 
Then    O'Neill    shall   be    remember'd,   and 

Tirconnell's  chief,  Red  Hugh  ! 


THE  MARCH  TO  KINSALE. 

DECEMBER,  A.  D.  1601. 
I. 

O'EK  many  a  river  bridged  with  ice, 

Through   many  a  vale   with   snow-drifts 
dumb, 

Past  quaking  fen  and  precipice 

The  Princes  of  the  North  are  come ! 


up  with  much  choler  and  grief  in  her  countenance,  and  said. 
"  O  now  it  mindeth  me  that  yon  was  one  who  saw  this  man 
elsewhere,"  and  hereat  she  dropped  a  tear  and  smote  her 
bosom.  She  held  in  her  hand  a  golden  cup  which  she  often 
put  to  her  lips  ;  but  in  truth  her  heart  seemed  too  full  to  need 
any  more  filling.'  *  *  »  At  length  she  obstinately  refused  to 
return  to  her  bed:  and  sat  both  day  and  night  on  a  stool 
bolstered  up  with  cushions,  having  her  finger  in  her  mouth, 
and  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  floor,  seldom  condescending  to 
speak,  and  rejecting  every  offer  of  nourishment.  The  bishops 
and  the  lords  of  the  council  advised  and  entreated  in  rain. 
For  them  all,  with  the  exception  of  the  Lord  Admiral,  «he 
expressed  the  most  profound  contempt.  He  was  of  her  own 
blood;  from  him  she  consented  to  accept  a  basin  of  broth  ;  hut 
when  he  nrgcd  her  to  return  to  her  bed,  she  replied  that  if  he 
had  seen  what  she  saw  there  he  would  never  make  the  reqtic-t. 
To  Cecil,  who  asked  if  she  had  seen  spirits,  she  answered  that 
it  was  an  idle  question  beneath  her  notice.  He  insisted  that 
she  must  go  to  bed,  if  only  to  satisfy  her  people.  '  Must !'  t-lu> 
exclaimed ;  '  is  mutt  a  word  to  be  addressed  to  priuces  ?  Lit  tie 
man,  little  man,  thy  father,  if  he  had  been  alive,  durst  not 
have  nsed  that  word ;  but  thou  art  grown  presumptuous 
because  thou  knowest  that  I  shall  die.'  Ordering  live  others 
to  depart,  she  called  the  Lord  Admiral  to  her,  saying  in  • 
piteous  tone,  '  My  lord,  I  am  tied  with  an  iron  collar  about 
my  neck.'  He  sought  to  console  her,  but  she  replied  •  Nc.  I 
am  tied,  and  the  case  ia  altered  with  me.'  "— LIMQARD,  roL  vl 
p.  316,  10.  Edit.  1854. 


464 


THE  POEMS  OF  AUBREY  DE  VERB. 


Lo,  these  are  they  that  year  by  year 

Roll'd  back  the  tide  of  England's  war ; — 
Rejoice,  Kinsale  !  thy  hope  is  near  ! 
That  wondrous  winter- march  is  o'er. 
And  thus  they  sang,  "  To-morrow  morn 

Our  eyes  shall  rest  upon  the  foe : 
Roll  on,  swift  night,  in  silence  borne, 
And   blow,   thou   breeze   of  sunrise, 
blow !" 

ii. 

Blithe  as  a  boy,  on  march'd  the  host 

With  droning  pipe  and  clear-voiced  harp : 
At  last  above  that  southern  coast 

Rang  out  their  war-steed's  whinny  sharp  ; 
And  up  the  sea-salt  slopes  they  wound, 

And  airs  once  more  of  ocean  quaif 'd ; — 
Those  frosty  woods  the  recks  that  crown'd, 
As  though  May  touch'd  them  waved  and 

laugh'd. 
And  thus  they  sang,  "  To-morrow  morn 

Our  eyes  shall  rest  upon  our  foe : 
Roll  on,  swift  night,  in  silence  borne, 
And   blow,   thou  breeze   of  sunrise, 
blow  !" 

in. 

Beside  their  watch-fires  couch'd  all  night, 
Some  slept,  some  laugh'd,  at  cards  some 

play'd, 
While,  chanting  on  a  central  height 

Of  moonlit  crag,  the  priesthood  pray'd. 
And  some  to  sweetheart,  some  to  wife 

Sent  message  kind ;  while  others  told 
Triumphant  tales  of  recent  fight, 
Or  legends  of  their  sires  of  old. 

And  thus  they  sang,  "  To-morrow  morn 

Our  eyes  at  last  shall  see  the  foe : 
Roil  on,  swift  night,  in  silence  borne, 
And  blow,   tbou   breeze   of  sunrise, 
blow  !" 


A.  D.  1602. 

WHAT  man  can  stand  amid  a  place  of  tombs 
Nor  yearn  to  that  poor  vanquish'd  dust 
beneath  ? — 

Above  a  nation's  grave  no  violet  blooms ; 
A  vanquish'd  nation  lies  in  endless  death. 


'Tis  past ! — the  dark  is  dense  with  ghost  and 

vision ! 
All  lost ! — the  air  is  throng'd  with  moan 

and  wail ; 

But  one  day  more,  and  hope  had  been  frui- 
tion ; — 
O  Athunree,  thy  fate  o'erhuug  Kinsale  !l 

What  Name  is  that  which  lays  on  every 

head 
A  hand  like  fire,  striking  the  strong  locks 

gray? 
What  Name  is  named  not  save  with  shame 

and  dread  ? 

Once  let  us  name  it, — then  no  more  for 
aye ! 

Kinsale !    accursed    be    he    the    first    who 

bragg'd 
"  A  city  stands  where  roam'd  but  late  the 

flock ;" 
Accursed  the  day,  when,  from  the  mountain 

dragg'd, 
Thy  corner-stone  forsook  the  mothei-rock ! 


DIRGE  OF  RORY  O'MORE 

A.  D.  1643. 

UP  the  sea-sadden'd  valley  at  evening's  de- 
cline 

A  heifer  walks  lowing — "the  silk  of  the 
kine ;" ' 

From  the  .deep  to  the  mountains  she  roams, 
and  again 

From  the  mountains'  green  urn  to  the  purple- 
rirnm'd  main. 

Whom   seek'st   thou,   sad    Mother!     Thine 

own  is  not  thine  ! 
He  dropp'd  from  the  headland ;  he  sank  in 

the  brine  ! 


1  The  wholly  inexplicable  disaster  at  Kinsale,  when,  after 
their  marvellous  winter-march,  the  two  great  northern  chief* 
of  Tirconnell  and  Tirone  had  succeeded  in  relieving  their 
Spanish  allies  there,  and  when  the  victory  seemed  almost 
wholly  in  the  hands  of  warriors  who  till  then  had  never  met 
with  a  reverse,  was  one  of  those  critical  events  upon  which 
the  history  of  a  nation  turns.  But  for  it,  Ireland  would  at  the 
death  of  Elizabeth  have  been  in  such  a  position  that  U!»ter 
would  have  had  nothing  to  fear  from  James  I. 

1  One  of  the  mystical  names  for  Ireland  used  by  the  barOa. 


THE  POEMS  OF  AUBREY  DE  VERE. 


405 


'Twas  a  dream ! — but  in  dream  at  thy  foot 

did  he  follow 
Through  the  meadow-sweet  on  by  the  marish 

and  mallow ! 

Was  he  thine  ?   Have  they  slain  him  ?   Thou 

seek'st  him  not  knowing 
Thyself  too  art  theirs,  thy  sweet  breath  and 

sad  lowing ! 
Thy  gold  horn  is  theirs  ;  thy  dark  eye,  and 

thy  silk ! 
And  that  which  torments  thee,  thy  milk,  is 

their  milk ! 

'Twas  no  dream,  Mother  Land !     'Twas  no 

dream,  Inisfail ! 
Hope   dreams,  but   grief  dreams   not — the 

grief  of  the  Gael ! 

From  Leix  and  Ikerren  to  Donegal's  shore 
Rolls  the  dirge  of  thy  last  and  thy  bravest — 

O'More  ! 


THE  BISHOP  OF  ROSS. 

A.  D.  1650. 

THEY  led  him  to  the  peopled  wall : — 

"Thy  sons  !"  they  said, "  are  those  within  ! 

If  at  thy  word  their  standards  fall. 
Thy  life  and  freedom  thou  shall  win  !" 

Then  spake  that  warrior  Bishop  old : 
"  Remove  these  chains,  that  I  may  bear 

My  crosier  staff  and  stole  of  gold : 
My  judgment  then  will  I  declare." 

They  robed  him  in  his  robes  of  state  : 
They  set  the  mitre  on  his  head  : 

On  tower  and  gate  was  silence  great : 

The  hearts  that  loved  him  froze  with  dread. 

He  spake  :   "  Right  holy  is  your  strife  ! 

Fight  for  your  country,  king,1  and  faith  : 
I  taught  you  to  be  true  in  life : 

I  teach  you  to  be  true  in  death. 


1  Charles  the  Flrvt. 


"A  priest  apart  by  God  is  set 
To  offer  prayer  and  sacrifice : 

And  he  is  sacrificial  yet, 

The  pontiff  for  his  flock  who  dies." 

Ere  yet  he  fell,  his  hand  on  high 
He  raised,  and  benediction  gave  ; 

Then  sank  in  death,  content  to  die : — 
Thy  great  heart,  Erin,  was  his  grave. 


ARCHBISHOP  PLUNKET. 

A.  D.  1681. 

(THE  LAST  VICTIM  OF  THE  "  POPISH  PLOT.") 

["The  Earl  of  Essex  went  to  the  King  (Charles  II.)  to  apply 
for  a  pardon,  and  told  his  Majesty  '  the  witnesses  mno:  needi 
be  perjured,  as  what  they  swore  could  not  possibly  be  true  .' 
bat  his  Majesty  answered  in  a  pa^f  ion.  '  Why  did  you  not  de- 
clare this  then  at  the  trial  T  I  dare  pardon  nobody— his  blood 
be  upon  your  head,  and  uot  miue !'  "— UAVKRTY'B  llitt.} 

WHY  crowd  ye  windows  thus,  and  doors  ? 

Why  climb  ye  tower  and  steeple  ? 
What  lures  you  forth,  O  senators  ? 

What  brings  you  here,  O  people  ? 

Here  there  is  nothing  worth  your  note — 

'Tis  but  an  old  man  dying : 
The  noblest  stag  this  season  caught, 

And  in  the  old  nets  lying ! 

Sirs,  there  are  marvels,  but  not  here : — 
Here's  but  the  thread-bare  fable 

Whose  sense  nor  sage  discerns  nor  seer ; — 
Unwilling  is  unable ! 

That  prince  who  lurk'd  in  bush  and  brake 
While  bloodhounds  bay'd  behind  him, 

Now,  to  his  father's  throne  brought  back, 
In  pleasure's  wreaths  doth  wind  him. 

The  primate  of  that  race,  whose  sword 
Streamed  last  to  save  that  lather, 

To-day  is  reaping  such  reward 
As  Irish  virtues  gather. 

O 

Back  to  your  councils,  courts,  and  feasta  I 

Tis  but  a  new  "  Intruder" 
Conjoin'd  with  those  incivic  priests 

That  dyed  the  blocks  of  Tudor  1 


406 


THE  POEMS  OF  AUBREY  DE  VERB. 


A  SONG  OF  THE  BRIGADE. 

RIVER  that  through  this  purple  plain 
Toilest  (once  redder)  to  the  main, 
Go,  kiss  for  me  the  banks  of  Seine ! 

Tell  him  I  loved,  and  love  for  aye, 
That  his  I  am  though  far  away, — 
More  his  than  on  the  marriage-day. 

Tell  him  thy  flowers  for  him  I  twine 
When  first  the  slow  sad  mornings  shine 
In  thy  dim  glass — for  he  is  mine. 

Tell  him  when  evening's  tearful  light 
Bathes  those  dark  towers  on  Aughrim's 

height, 
There  where  he  fought  in  heart  I  fight. 

O  O 

A  freeman's  banner  o'er  him  waves  ! 

So  be  it !  I  but  kiss  the  graves 

Where  freemen  sleep  whose  sons  are  slaves. 

Tell  him  I  nurse  his  noble  race, 
Nor  weep  save  o'er  one  sleeping  face 
Wherein  those  looks  of  his  I  trace. 

For  him  my  beads  I  count  when  falls 
Moonbeam  or  shower  at  intervals 
Upon  our  buru'd  and  blacken'd  walls : 

And  bless  him  !  bless  the  bold  Brigade, — 
May  God  go  with  them,  horse  and  blade, 
For  Faith's  defence,  and  Ireland's  aid  ! 


A  BALLAD  OF  SARSFIELD ;  OR,  THE 
BURSTING  OF  THE  GUNS. 

A.  D.  1690. 

SARSFIELP  went  out  the  Dutch  to  rout, 
And  to  take  and  break  their  cannon ; 

To  mass  went  he  at  half-past  three, 
And  at  four  he  cross'd  the  Shannon. 

Tirconnel  slept.     In  dream  his  thoughts 
Old  fields  of  victory  ran  on ; 


And  the  chieftains  of  Thomond  in  Limerick** 

towers 
Slept  well  by  the  banks  of  Shannon. 

He  rode  ten  miles  and  he  cross'd  the  ford. 
And  couch'd  in  the  wood  and  waited ; 

Till,  left  and  right,  on  march'd  in  sight 
That  host  which  the  true  men  hated. 

"  Charge  !"  Sarsfield  cried ;    and  the  green 

hill-side 

As  they  charged  replied  in  thunder ; 
They  rode  o'er  the  plain  and  they  rode  o'ec* 

the  slain, 
And  the  rebel  rout  lay  under  ! 

He  burn'd  the  gear  the  knaves  held  dear, — 
For  his  king  he  fought,  not  plunder  ; 

With   powder   he   cramm'd    the   guns,  and 

ramm'd 
Their  mouths  the  red  soil  under. 

The  spark  flash'd  out — like  a  nation's  shout 
The  sound  into  heaven  ascended  ; 

The  hosts  of  the  sky  made  to  earth  reply, 
And  the  thunders  twain  were  blended  ! 

Sarsfield  went  out  the  Dutch  to  rout, 
And  to  take  and  break  their  cannon  ; — 

A  century  after,  Sarsfield's  laughter 
Was  echo'd  from  Dungannon.1 


OH    THAT    THE    PINES    WHICH 
CROWN  YON  STEEP. 

OH  that  the  pines  which  crown  yon  steep- 
Their  fires  might  ne'er  surrender ! 

Oh  that  yon  fervid  knoll  might  keep, 
While  lasts  the  world,  its  splendor  ' 

Pale  poplars  on  the  breeze  that  lean, 

And  in  the  sunset  shiver, 
Oh  that  your  golden  stems  might  screen 

For  aye  yon  glassy  river  ! 


1  It  was  in  the  parish  church  of  Dungannon  that  the  volun 
teers  of  1782  proclaimed  the  constitutional  independence  «• 
the  Irish  Parliament. 


TIIK  POEMS  OF  AUBREY  DE  VERE. 


467 


That  yon  white  bird  on  homeward  wing 
Soft-sliding  without  motion, 

And  now  in  blue  air  vanishing 
Like  snow-flake  lost  in  ocean, 

Beyond  our  sight  might  never  flee, 

Yet  forward  still  be  flying  : 
And  all  the  dying  day  might  be 

Iin mortal  in  its  dying. 

Pellucid  thus  in  saintly  trance, 

Thus  mute  in  expectation, 
What  waits  the  earth  ?     Deliverance  ? 

Ah  no !     Transfiguration  ! 

She  dreams  of  that  new  earth  divine, 
Conceived  of  seed  immortal ; 

She  sings,  "  Not  mine  the  holier  shrine, 
Yet  mine  the  steps  and  portal !" 


THE  LAST  JVLvcCARTHYMORE. 

[Tje  !a*t  great  chief  of  the  MacCarthy  family,  which  had 
reiened  In  South  Desmond  ever  *ince  the  second  century, 
went  into  exilo  with  James  II.  Ik-  spent  the  last  years  of  his 
life  on  a  wild  island  strewn  with  wrecks  in  the  month  of  the 
Elbe.] 

ON  thy  woody  heaths,  Muskcrry — Carbery, 

on  thy  famish'd  shore, 
Hands   hurl'd   upward,   wordless    wailings, 

clamor  for  MacCarthymore  ! 
He  is  gone  ;  and  never,  never  shall  return  to 

wild  or  wood 
Till  the  sun  burns  out  in  blackness  and  the 

moon  descends  in  blood. 

He,  of  lineage  older,  nobler,  at  the  latest 
Stuart's  side 

Once  again  had  drawn  the  sword  for  Charles, 
in  blood  of  traitors  dyed  ; 

Once  again  the  stranger  fattens  where  Mac- 
Carthys  ruled  of  old, 

For  a  later  Cromwell  triumphs  in  the  Dutch- 
man's muddier  mould. 

Broken  boat  and  barge  around  him,  sea-gulls 

piping  loud  and  shrill, 
Sits  the  chief  where  bursts  the  breaker,  and 

laments  the  sea-wind  chill ; 


In  a  barren  northern  island  dinn'd  by  oeean'i 

endless  roar, 
Where  the  Elbe  with  all  his  waters  btream§ 

between  the  willows  hoar. 


Earth  is  wide  in  hill  and  valley; — palace 
courts  and  convent  piles 

Centuries  since  received  thine  outcasts,  Ire- 
land, oft  with  tears  and  smiles  ; 

Wherefore  builds  this  gray-hair'd  exile  on  a 
rock-isle's  weedy  neck? — 

Ocean  unto  ocean  calleth ;  inly  yearneth 
wreck  to  wreck ! 


He  and  his,  his  church    and  country,  king 

and  kinsmen,  house  and  home, 
Wrecks     they     are     like     broken     galleys 

strangled  by  the  yeasty  foam  ; 
Nations   past   and   nations   present   are   01 

shall  be  soon  as  these — 
Words  of  peace  to  him  come  only  from  the 

breast  of  roarinsr  seas. 


Clouds  and  sea-birds  inland  drifting  o'er  the 

sea-bar  and  sand-plain ; 
Belts  of  mists  for  weeks  unshifting  ;  plunge 

of  devastating  rain ; 
Icebergs   as    they    pass    uplifting    agueish 

gleams  through  vapors  frore, 
These,  long  years,  were  thy  companions,  O 

thou  last  MacCarthymore  ! 

When  a  rising  tide  at  midnight  rush'd 
against  the  downward  stream, 

Rush'd  not  then  the  clans  embattled,  meet- 
ing in  the  chieftafn's  dream  ? 

When  once  more  that  tide  exhausted  died 
in  murmurs  toward  the  main, 

Died  not  then  once  more  his  slogan  ebbing 
far  o'er  hosts  of  slain  ? 


Pious  river!  let  us  rather  hope  the  low 
monotonies 

Of  thy  broad  stream  seaward  toiling  and 
the  willow-bending  breeze 

Charm'd  at  times  a  midday  slumber,  tran- 
quillized tempestuous  breath — 

Music  last  when  harp  was  broken,  requiem 
sad  and  sole  in  death. 


4f>8 


THE  POEMS  OF  AUBREY  DE  VERB. 


HYMN  FOR  THE  FEAST  OF 
ST.  STEPHEN. 


PRINCES  sat  and  spake  against  me  ; 

Sinners  held  me  in  their  net ; 
Thou,  O  Lord,  shalt  save  thy  servant, 

For  on  thee  his  heart  is  set. 
Strong  is  he  whose  strength  Thou  art ; 
Plain  his  speech  and  strong  his  heart. 

u. 

Blessed  Stephen  stood  discoursing 

In  the  bud  of  spotless  youth 
With  his  judges.     Love,  not  malice, 

Edged  his  words  and  arm'd  with  truth. 
They  that  heard  him  gnash'd  their  teeth  ; 
Heard  him  speak,  and  vow'd  his  death. 

in. 

Gather'd  on  a  thousand  foreheads 
Dai-k  and  darker  grew  the  frown, 

Broad'ning  like  the  pincwood's  shadow 
While  a  wintry  sun  goes  down. 

On  the  Saint  that  darkness  fell : — 

At  last  they  spake :  it  was  his  knell. 

IV. 

As  a  maid  her  face  uplifteth 

Brightening  with  an  inward  light, 

When  the  voice  of  her  beloved 

Calls  her  from  some  neighboring  height, 

So  his  face  he  raised  on  high, 

And  saw  his  Saviour  in  the  sky  ! 

v. 

Dimm'd  a  moment  was  that  vision  : — 
O'er  him  burst  the  stony  shower ; 

Stephen  with  his  arms  extended 
For  his  murderers  pray'd  that  hour. 

To  his  prayer  Saint  Paul  was  given  : 

Then  he  slept  and  woke  in  heaven. 

VI. 

Faithful  deacon,  still  at  Christmas 

Decking  tables  for  the  poor ! 
Martyr,  at  the  bridal  banquet 

Guest  of  God  for  evermore ! 
Jn  the  realms  of  endless  day 
'For  thine  earthly  clients  pray  1 


GRATTAN. 


GOD  works  through  man,  not  hills  or  snows  ! 

In  man,  not  men,  is  the  God-like  power ; 
The  man,  God's  potentate,  God  foreknows ; 

He  sends  him  strength  at   the   destined 

hour. 

His  Spirit  He  breathes  into  one  deep  heart ; 
His  cloud  He  bids  from  one  mind  depart, 
A  Saint ! — and  a  race  is  to  God  re-born ! 
A  Man  !  One  man  makes  a  nation's  morn  ! 

ii. 

A  man,  and  the  blind  land  by  slow  degrees 
Gains  sight !     A  man,  and  the  deaf  land 

hears ! 
A  man,  and  the  dumb  land,  like  wakening 

/  t  O 

seas, 

Thunders  low  dirges  in  proud,  dull  ears  ! 
One  man,  and  the  People  a  three  days'  corse, 
Stands  up,  and  the  grave-bands  fall  off  per- 
force ; 

One  man,  and  the  Nation  in  height  a  span 
To  the  measure  ascends  of  the  perfect  man. 

in. 

Thus  wept  unto  God  the  land  of  Eire  : 
Yet  there  rose  no  man,  and  her  hope  was 

dead : 
In  the  ashes  she  sat  of  a  burn'd-out  fire ; 

And  sackcloth  was  over  her  queenly  head. 
But  a  man  in  her  latter  days  arose  ; 
Her  deliverer  stepp'd  from  the  camp  of  her 

foes: 
He  spake; — the  great  and  the  proud  gave 

way, 
And  the  dawn  began  which  shall  end  in  day  ! 


ADDUXIT  IN  TENEBRIS. 

THEY  wish   thee   strong:    they  wish   thee 
great ! 

Thy  royalty  is  in  thy  heart ! 
Thy  children  mourn  thy  widow'd  state 

In  funeral  groves.     Be  what  thou  art ' 


2 


M 

5 

5 


THK  I 'OHMS  OF  AUBREY  DE  VERE. 


469 


Across  the  world's  vainglorious  waste, 
As  o'er  Egyptian  sands,  in  thee, 

God's  hieroglyph,  His  shade  is  cast — 
A  bar  of  black  from  Calvary. 

Around  thee  many  a  land  and  race 

Have  wealth  or  sway  or  name  in  story  ; 

But  on  that  brow  discrown'd  we  trace 
The  crown  expiatory. 


THE   CAUSE. 


THE  kings  are  dead  that  raised  their  swords 

In  Erin's  right  of  old  ; 
The  bards  that  dash'd  from  fearless  chords 

Her  name  and  praise  lie  cold : 
But  flx'd  as  fate  her  altars  stand  ; 

Unchanged,  like  God,  her  faith ; 
Her  Church  still  holds  in  equal  hand 

The  keys  of  life  and  death. 


II. 

As  well  call  up  the  sunken  reefs 

Atlantic  waves  rush  o'er, 
As  that  old  time  of  native  chiefs 

And  Gaelic  kings  restore  ! 
Things  heavenly  rise :  things  earthly  sink ; 

God  works  through  Nature's  laws ; 
Sad  Isle,  'tis  He  that  bids  thee  link 

Thine  Action  with  thy  Cause ! 


GRAY  HARPER,  REST! 

GRAY  Harper,  rest !— O  maid,  the  Fates 
On  thosersad  lips  have  press'd  their  seal ! 

Thy  song's  sweet  rage  but  indicates 
That  mystery  it  can  ne'er  reveal. 

Take  comfort !  Vales  and  lakes  and  skies, 
Blue  seas,  and  sunset-girdled  shore, 

Love-beaming  brows,  love-lighted  eyes, 
Contend  like  thee.    What  can  they  more  ? 


SONNET. 

SARSFIELD    AND    CLAUE. 

SILENT  they  slumber  in   the    unwholesome 

shade : 
And   why  lament   them?    Virtue,  too,  can 

die: 

Old  wisdom  labors  in  extremity  ; 
And  greatness  stands  aghast,  and  cries  for 

aid 
Full    often :     Aye,   and    honor  grows   dis- 

mayM ; 

And  all  those  eagle  hopes,  so  pure  and  high, 
Which  soar  aloft  in  youth's  unclouded  sky, 
Drop  dust  ward,  self-subverted,  self-betray'd. 
Call  it  not  joy  to  walk  the  immortal  floor  • 
Of  this  exulting  earth,  nor  peace  to  lie 
Where  the  throng'd  marbles  awe  the  passer 

by: 

True  rest  is  this ;  the  task,  the  mission  o'er, 
To   bide  God's  time,  and  man's  neglect  to 

bear — 
Hail,   loyal    Sarsfield !     Hail,    high-hearted 

Clare ! 


SONG. 


A  BRIGHTEN'D  Sorrow  veils  her  face, 

Sweet  thoughts  with  thoughts  forlorn, 
And  playful  sadness,  like  the  grace 

Of  some  autumnal  morn  ; 
When  birds  new-waked,  like  sprightly  elves, 

The  languid  echoes  rouse, 
And  infant  Zephyrs  make  themselves 

Familiar  with  old  boughs. 


it. 

All  round  our  hearts  the  Maiden's  hair 
Its  own  soft  shade  doth  flinj;: 

O 

Her  sigh  perfumes  the  forest  air, 
Like  eve — but  eve  in  Spring ! 

When  Spring  precipitates  her  How  ; 
And  Summer,  swift  to  greet  her, 

Breathes,  every  night,  a  warmer  glow 
Half  through  the  dusk  to  meet  her. 


470 


THE  POEMS  OF  AUBREY  DE  VERE. 


ST.    COLUMKILL'S    FAREWELL    TO 
THE  ISLE  OF  ARRAN, 

ON    SETTING    SAIL   FOR   IONA. ' 

(From  the  Gaelic.) 

FAREWELL  to  Arran  Isle,"  farewell ! 

I  steer  for  Hy :'    ray  heart  is  sore : — 
The  breakers  burst,  the  billows  swell 

'Twixt  Arran  Isle  and  AlbaV  shore. 

Thus  spake  the  Son  of  God,  "Depart !" 

0  Arran  Isle,  God's  will  be  done  ! 
By  Angels  throng'd  this  hour  thou  art : 

1  sit  within  my  bark  alone. 

O*Modan,  well  for  thee  the  while! 

Fair  falls  thy  lot.  and  well  art  thou  ! 
Thy  seat  is  set  in  Arran  IsJe  : 

Eastward  to  Alba  turns  my  prow. 

O  Arran,  Sun  of  all  the  West ! 

My  heart  is  thine  !    As  sweet  to  close 
Our  dying  eyes  in  thee,  as  rest 

Where  Peter  and  where  Paul  repose ! 

O  Arran,  Sun  of  all  the  West ! 

My  heart  in  thee  its  grave  hath  found : 
He  walks  in  regions  of  the  blest 

The    man    that    hears    thy   church-bells' 
sound  ! 

0  Arran  blest,  O  Arran  blest  ! 

Accursed  the  man  that  loves  not  thee  ! 
The  dead  man  cradled  in  thy  breast — 

No  demon  scares  him:  well  is  he. 

Each  Sunday  Gabriel  from  on  high 
(For  so  did  Christ  our  Lord  ordain) 

Thy  masses  comes  to  sanctify, 
With  fifty  Angels  in  his  train. 

Each  Monday  Michael  issues  forth 
To  bless  anew  each  sacred  fane  : 

Each  Tuesday  cometh  Raphael 

To  bless  pure  hearth  and  golden  grain. 


'•  Prom  the  prose  translation  in  vol.  i.  of  the  Transactions  of 
Ju.  Gaelic  Society,  Dublin,  1808. 

2  In  the  Bay  of  Galway.  It  was  one  of  the  chief  retreats  of 
the  Irish  monks  and  missionaries,  and  still  abounds  in  relig- 
ious memorials. 

1  lona. 

*  Scotland. 


Each  Wednesday  cometh  Uriel, 

Each  Thursday  Sariel,  fresh,  from  God ; 

Each  Friday  cometh  Ramael 

To  bless  thy  stones  and  bless  thy  sod. 

Each  Saturday  comes  Mary, 

Comes  Babe  OH  arm,  'rnid  heavenly  hosts  ! 
O  Arran,  near  to  heaven  is  he 

That  hears  God's  Angels  bless  thy  coasts  1 


SONNET. 

CHRISTIAN    EDUCATION. 

WHAT  man  can  check  the  aspiring  life  that 

thrills 
And  glows   through   all  this   multitudinous 

wood  ; 

That  throbs  in  each  minutest  leaf  and  bud, 
And,  like  a  mighty  wave  ascending,  tills 
More  high  each  day  with  flowers  the  encir- 
cling hills  ? — 
From   earth's   maternal    heart    her   ancient 

blood 
Mounts  to  her  breast  in  milk  !    her  breath 

doth  brood 
O'er   fields   Spring-flush'd    round   unimpris- 

on'd  rills ! 

Such  life  is  also  in  the  breast  of  Man  ; 
Such  blood  is  at  the  heart  of  every  Nation, 
Not  to  be  chain'd  by  Statesman's  frown  or 

ban. 
Hope  and   be   strong:    fear  and  be  weak! 

The  seed 
Is  sown  :    be  ours  the  prosperous  growth  to 

feed 
With  food,  not  poison — Christian  Education! 


DEATH. 

GOD'S  creature,  Death  !    thou  art  not  God's 

compeer  ! 

An  Anarch  sceptred  in  primordial  night ; 
Immortal  Life's  eternal  opposite  : — 
Nor  art  thou  some  new  Portent  sudden  and 

drear 
Blotting,    like   sea-born   cloud,   a    noontide 

sphere : 


THE  POKMS  0V  AUBREY  DE  VERB. 


471 


Thou  art  but  Adam's  forfeit  by  the  might 
Of  Calvary  sunset-steep'd,  and  changed  to 

light ; 
To  God  man's  access  through  the  gates  of 

Fear ! 
Penance   thou    art   for  them    that  penance 

need  ; 

To  ecu  Is  detach'd  a  gentle  ritual ; 
Time's  game  reiterate,  and  with  lightning 

speed 
Play'do'er;   through  life  a  desert  Baptist's 

call. 
Judgment  and  Death  are  woful  things,  we 

know : 
Yet  Judgment  without  Death  were  tenfold 

o 

woe ! 


THE  GRAVES  OF  TY11CONNEL  AND 
TYRONE, 

ON    SAN    PIETRO,    IN    MONTOKIO. 

WITHIN    Saint    Peter's    fane,   that    kindly 

hearth 
Where   exiles  crown'd   their    earthly  loads 

down  cast, 
The  Scottish  Kings  repose,  their  wanderings 

past, 
in   death  more  royal  thrice   than   in   their 

birth. 


Near  them,  within  a  church  of  narrower  girth 
But  with  dilated  memories  yet  more  vast, 
Sad  Ulster's  Princes  find  their  rest  at  last, 
Their   home   the  holiest  spot,  save  one,  on 

earth. 
This  is  that  Mount  which  saw  Saint  Petei 

die! 
Where  stands   yon   dome   stood    once  tlui 

Cross  reversed : 

From  this  dread  Hill,  a  Western  Calvary, 
The  Empire  and  that  Synagogue  accurst 
Clash'd  two  ensanguined  hands — Hke  Cain — 

in  one. 
Sleep  where   the   Apostle   slept,  Tyrconnel 

and  Tyrone ! 


WAYSIDE   FOUNTAINS. 

As  o'er  the  marble  brink  you  lean, 

This    Well,   glad    guest,    becomes    your 

mirror : — 

May  every  glass  in  which  are  seen 

Your  spirit's  face,  your  moral  mien, 

Cause  you  as  little  terror. 

In  this  cool  shadow,  grateful  guest ! 

Repose,  and  humbly  drink; 
And  muse  on  Him  who  found  no  rest : 

And  now,  and  always  think 
Of  that,  His  last  great  thirst,  which  He 
Endured  for  those  thou  lov'st,  and  thee. 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  PARNELL 


THE  HERMIT. 


FAR  m  a  wild,  unknown  to  public  view, 
From  youth  to  age  a  reverend  hermit  grew ; 
The  moss  his  bed,  the  cave  his  humble  cell, 
His  food  the   fruits,  his   drink  the  crystal 

well : 
Remote  from  men,  with  God  he  pass'd  the 

days, 
Prayer   all   his   business,   all    his    pleasure 

praise. 

A  life  so  sacred,  such  serene  repose, 
Seem'd   Heaven   itself,  till    one   suggestion 

rose — 
That   Vice   should    triumph,   Virtue,    Vice 

obey. 
This   sprung   some   doubt   of  Providence's 

sway : 

His  hopes  no  more  a  certain  prospect  boast, 
And  all  the  tenor  of  his  soul  is  lost. 
So  when  a  smooth  expanse  receives  imprest 
Calm  Nature's  image  on  its  watery  breast, 
Down  bend  the  banks,  the  trees  depending 

grow, 
And   skies  beneath   with   answering   colors 

glow: 

Hut  if  a  stone  the  gentle  sea  divide, 
Swift  ruffling  circles  curl  on  every  side, 
And  glimmering  fragments  of  a  broken  Sun, 
Banks,  trees,  and  skies,  in  thick  disorder  run. 
To  clear  this  doubt,  to  know  the  world  by 

sight, 

To  find  if  books,  or  swains,  report  it  right, 
(For  yet  by  swains  alone  the  world  he  knew, 
Whose  feet  came  wandering  o'er  the  nightly 

dew), 
lie  quits  his  cell ;  the  pilgrim-staff  he  bore, 


And  fix'd  the  scallop  in  his  hat  before ; 

Then  with  the  Sun  a  rising  journey  went, 

Sedate  to  think,  and  watching  each  event. 
The   morn   was   wasted   in   the    pathless 
grass, 

And   long   and   lonesome   was  the  wild  to 
pass  ; 

But  when  the  southern  Sun  had  warm'd  the 
day, 

A  youth  came  posting  o'er  a  crossing  way ; 

His  raiment  decent,  his  complexion  fair, 

And  soft  in  graceful  ringlets  waved  his  hair. 

Then  near  approaching,  "  Father,  hail !"  he 
cried, 

"And  hail,  my  son,"   the  reverend  sire  re- 
plied ; 

Words  follow'd  words,  from  question  answer 
flow'd, 

And  talk  of  various  kind  deceived  the  road ; 

Till   each   with  other  pleased,  and  loth  to 
part, 

While  in  their  age  they  differ,  join  in  heart. 

Thus  stands  an  aged  elm  in  ivy  bound, 

Thus  youthful  ivy  clasps  an  elm  around. 
Now  sunk  the  Sun ;  the  closing  hour  of  day 

Came  onward,  mantled  o'er  with  sober  gray ; 

Nature  in  silence  bid  the  world  repose ; 

When  near  the  road  a  stately  palace  rose  : 

There  by  the  Moon  through  ranks  of  trees 
they  pass. 

Whose  verdure  crown'd  their  sloping  sides 
of  grass. 

It  chanced  the  noble  master  of  the  dome 

Still  made  his  house  the  wandering  stran- 
ger's home  • 


THE  POEMS  OF  THOMAS  PARNELL. 


411 


Yet  still  the  kindness,  from  a  thirst  of  praise, 
Proved  the  vain  flourish  of  expensive  ease. 
The  pair  arrive :  the  liveried  servants  wait ; 
Their   lord  receives  them  at  the  pompous 

gate. 

The  table  groans  with  costly  piles  of  food, 
And  all  is  more  than  hospitably  good. 
Then  led  to  rest,  the  day's  long  toil  they 

drown, 
Deep  sunk  in  sleep,  and  silk,  and  heaps  of 

down. 
At  length  'tis  morn,  and  at  the  dawn  of 

day, 

Along  the  wide  canals  the  zephyrs  play ; 
Fresh   o'er   the  guy   parterres   the   breezes 

creep, 
And  shake  the  neighboring  wood  to  banish 

sleep. 

Up  rise  the  guests,  obedient  to  the  call : 
An  early  banquet  deck'd  the  splendid  hall; 
Rich  luscious  wine  a  golden  goblet  graced, 
Which  the  kind  master  forced  the  guests  to 

taste. 
Then,  pleased  and  thankful,  from  the  porch 

they  go : 

And,  but  the  landlord,  none  had  cause  of  woe: 
His  cup  was  vanish'd  ;  for  in  secret  guise 
The  younger  guest  purloin'd  the  glittering 

prize. 

As  one  who  spies  a  serpent  in  his  way, 
Glistening  and  basking  in  the  summer  ray, 
Disorder'd  stops  to  shun  the  danger  near, 
Then   walks    with   faintness  on,  and   looks 

with  fear, 

So  seern'd  the  sire ;  when  far  upon  the  road, 
The  shining  spoil  his  wily  partner  show'd. 
He  stopp'd  with  silence,  walk'd  with  trem- 
bling heart, 
And  much  he  wish'd,  but  durst  not  ask  to 

part : 
Murmuring  he  lifts  his  eyes,  and  thinks  it 

hard 

That  generous  actions  meet  a  base  reward. 
While  thus  they  pass,  the  Sun  his  glory 

shrouds, 
The   changing   skies   hang   out   their  sable 

clouds ; 

A  sound  in  air  presaged  approaching  rain, 
And  beasts  to  covert  scud  across  the  plain. 
Warn'd  by  the  signs,  the  wandering  pair 

retreat, 
To  seek  for  shelter  at  a  neighboring  seat. 


'Twas  built  with  turrets  on  a  rising  ground, 

And   strong,  and    large,   and    unimproved 
around  ; 

Its  owner's  temper,  timorous  and  severe, 

Unkind  and  griping,  caused  a  desert  there. 
As   near  the   miser's   heavy    doors   they 
drew, 

Fierce  rising  gusts  with  sudden  fury  blew ; 

The   nimble  lightning  mix'd   with  showers 
began, 

And  e'er  their  heads  loud  rolling  thunders 
ran. 

Here  long  they  knock,  but  knock  or  call  in 
vain, 

Driven  by  the  wind,  and  batter'd  by  the  rain. 

At   length  some  pity  warm'd  the  master's 
breast, 

('Twas  then  his  threshold  first  received  a 
guest) ; 

Slow  creaking  turns  the  door  with  jealous 
care, 

And  half  he  welcomes  in  the  shivering  pair; 

One  frugal  fagot  lights  the  naked  walls, 

And  Nature's  fervor  through  their  limbs  re- 
calls: 

Bread  of  the  coarsest  sort,  with  eager  wine, 

(Each  hardly  granted),  served  them  both  to 
dine  ; 

And    when   the   tempest   first   appear'd    to 
cease, 

A  ready  warning  bid  them  part  in  peace. 
With  still  remark  the  pondering   hermit 
view'd, 

In  one  so  rich,  a  life  so  poor  and  rude ; 

"And  why  should  such,"  within  himself  ho 
cried, 

"  Lock  the  lost  wealth  a  thousand  want  be- 
side?" 

But  what  new  marks  of  wonder  soon  take 
place 

In  every  settling  feature  of  his  face  ; 

When  from  his  vest  the  young  companion 
•bore 

That  cup,  the  generous  landlord  own'd  be- 
fore, 

And  paid  profusely  with  the  precious  bowl 

The  stinted  kindness  of  this  churlish  soul. 
But  now  the  clouds  in  airy  tumult  fly  ! 

The  Sun  emerging  opes  an  azure  sky  ; 

A  fresher  green  the  smelling  leaves  display, 

And,  glittering  as  they  tremble,  cheer  the 
day : 


474 


THE  POEMS  OF  THOMAS  PARNELL. 


.The  weather  courts  them  from  the  poor  re- 
treat, 

And  the  glad  master  bolts  the  wary  gate. 
While   hence    they    walk,    the    pilgrim's 

bosom  wrought 

With  all  the  travel  of  uncertain  thought; 
His   partner's  acts  without  their  cause  ap- 
pear, 
'Twas  there  a  vice,  and  seem'd  a  madness 

here  : 

Detesting  that,  and  pitying  this,  he  goes, 
Lost  and  confounded  with  the  various  shows. 
Now   Night's  dim  shades  again   involve 

the  sky, 

Again  the  wanderei's  want  a  place  to  lie, 
Again  they  search,  and  find  a  lodging  nigh, 
The  soil  improved  around,  the  mansion  neat, 
And  neither  poorly  low,  nor  idly  great : 
It  seem'd  to  speak  its  master's  turn  of  mind, 
Content,  and  not  to  praise,  but  virtue  kind. 
Hither  the  walkers  turn  with  weary  feet, 
Then    bless   the   mansion,   and   the   master 

greet : 
Their  greeting  fair,  bestow'd   with  modest 

guise, 

The  courteous  master  hears,  and  thus  replies : 
"  Without   a  vain,    without    a   grudging 

heart, 

To  him  who  gives  us  all,  I  yield  a  part ; 
From  him  you  come,  for  him  accept  it  here, 
A  frank  and  sober,  more  than  costly  cheer." 
He  spoke,  and  bid  the  welcome  table  spread, 
Then  talk  of  virtue  till  the  time  of  bed. 
When  the  grave  household  round  his  hall 

repair, 
Warn'd  by  a  bell,  and  close  the  hours  with 

prayer. 

At  length  the  world,  renew'd  by  calm  re- 
pose, 
Was   strong    for    toil,   the   dappled    Morn 

arose ; 

Before  the  pilgrims  part,  the  younger  crept 
Near  the  closed  cradle  where  an  infant  slept, 
And  writhed  his  neck  :  the  landlord's  little 

pride, 
O  strange  return  !  grew  black,  and  gasp'd, 

and  died. 

Horror  of  horrors!  what !  his  only  son  ! 
How  look'd  our  hermit  when  the  fact  was 

done ; 

>*>  Hell,  though  Hell's  black  jaws  in  sunder 
part, 


And  breathe    blue  tire,  could  moie  assault 

his  heart. 
Confused,   and   struck   with   silence  at    the 

deed, 
Ho   flies,  but   trembling,  i'ails   to   fly    with 

speed. 
His  steps  the  youth  pursues;  the  country 

lay 
Perplex'd  with  roads,  a  servant  show'd  the 

way. 

A  river  cross'd  the  path ;  the  passage  o'er 
Was  nice  to  find  ;  the  servant  trod  before ; 
Long  arms  of  oaks  an  open  bridge  supplied, 
And  deep  the   waves  beneath  the   bending 

glide. 

The  youth,  who  seem'd  to  watch  a  time  to  sin, 
Approach'd  the  careless  guide,  and  thrust 

him  in ; 

Plunging  he  falls,  and  rising  lifts  his  head, 
Then  flashing  turns,  and  sinks  among  the 

dead. 
Wild,  sparkling  rage  inflames  the  father' d 

eyes, 

He  bursts  the  bands  of  fear,  and  madly  cries, 
"  Detested  wretch  !" — But  scarce  his  speech 

began, 
When  the  strange  partner  seem'd  no  longer 

man: 

His  youthful  face  grew  more  serenely  sweet , 
His  robe  turn'd  white,  and  flow'd  upon  his 

feet ; 

Fair  rounds  of  radiant  points  invest  his  hair , 
Celestial  odors  breathe  through  purpled  air ; 
And  wings,  whose  colors  glitter'd  on  the 

day, 

Wide  at  his  back  their  gradual  plumes  dis- 
play. 

The  form  ethereal  burst  upon  his  sight, 
And  moves  in  all  the  majesty  of  light. 
Though  loud  at  first  the  pilgrim's  passion 

grew, 

Sudden  he  gazed,  and  wist  not  what  to  do  ; 
Surprise  in  secret  chains  his  words  suspends, 
And  in  a  calm  his  settling  temper  ends. 
But  silence  here  the  beauteous  angel  broke, 
(The  voice  of  music  ravish'd  as  he  spoke). 
"Thy  prayer,  thy  praise,  thy  life  to  vice 

unknown, 

In  sweet  memorial  rise  before  the  throne  : 
These  charms,  success  in  our  bright  region 

find, 
And  force  an  angel  down,  to  calm  thy  mind  ; 


THE  POEMS  OF  THOMAS  I'AUNELL. 


475 


For  this,  conunissioiiM,  I  forsook  tlie  sky: 
Nay,  cease  to  kneel — thy  fellow-servant  1. 
"Then    know   the    truth    of  government 

divine, 

And  let  these  scruples  be  no  longer  thine. 
"The  Maker  justly  claims  that  worM  he 

made, 

In  this  the  right  of  Providence  is  laid  ; 
Its  sacred  majesty  through  all  depends 
On  using  second  means  to  work  his  ends : 
'Tis  thus,  withdrawn  in  state  from  human 

eye, 

The  power  exerts  his  attributes  on  high, 
Your  actions  uses,  nor  controls  your  will, 
And  bids  the  doubting  sons  of  men  be  still. 
"  What  strange   events  can    strike   with 

more  surprise, 

Than  those  which  lately  struck  thy  wonder- 
ing eyes  ? 
Yet,  taught  by  these,  confess  th'  Almighty 

just, 
And    where    you   can't   unriddle,   learn    to 

trust ! 
"  The  great,  vain  man,  who  fared  on  costly 

food, 

Whose  life  was  too  luxurious  to  be  good  ; 
Who  made  his  ivory   stands  with  goblets 

shine, 
And  forced  his  guests  to  morning  draughts 

of  wine, 

Has,  with  the  cup,  the  graceless  custom  lost, 

And  still  he  welcomes,  but  with  less  of  cost. 

"The    mean,    suspicious    wretch,    whose 

bolted  dooi 

Ne'er  moved  in  duty  to  the  wandering  poor; 
With  him  I  left  the  cup,  to  teach  his  mind 
That  Heaven  can  bless,  if  mortals  will  be 

kind. 
Conscious  of  wanting  worth,  he  views  the 

bowl, 

And  feels  compassion  touch  his  grateful  soul 
Thus  artists  melt  the  sullen  ore  of  lead, 
With  heaping  coals  of  tire  upon  his  head ; 
In  the  kind  warmth  the  metal  learns  to  glow, 
And  IOOM-  from  dross  the  silver  runs  below. 
"  Long  had  our  pious  friend  in  virtue  trod, 
But    now    the   child    half-wean'd   his    heart 

from  God ; 

(Child  of  his  age)  for  him  he  lived  in  pain, 
And  measured  back  his  steps  to  Earth  again. 
To  what  excesses  had  his  dotage  run  ? 
But  God,  to  save  the  lather,  took  the  son. 


To  all  but  thee.  in  tits  he  seem'd  to  go, 

(And  'twas  my  ministry  to  deal  the  blow  :) 

The  poor  fond  parent,  humbled  in  the  dust, 

Now  owns  in  tears  the  punishment  was  just. 
"  But  now  had  all  his  fortune  felt  a  wrack, 

Had  that  false  servant  sped  in  safety  bark  ; 

This  night  his  treasured  heaps  he  meant  to 
steal, 

And  what  a  fund  of  charity  would  fail ! 

Thus  Heaven  instructs  thy  mind :  this  trial 
o'er, 

Depart  in  peace,  resign,  and  sin  no  more." 
On  sounding  pinions  here  the  youth  with- 
drew : 

The  sage  stood   wondering   as   the  seraph 
flew. 

Thus  look'd  Elisha  when,  to  mount  on  high, 

7  O         * 

His  master  took  the  chariot  of  the  sky  ; 
The  fiery  pomp  ascending  left  to  view ; 
The  prophet  gazed,  and  wish'd  to  follow  too. 
The  bending  hermit  here  a  prayer  begun, 
'•''Lord!  as  in  Heaven,  on  Earth  thy  will  be 

done." 
Then   gladly    turning    sought    his    ancient 

place, 
And  pass'd  a  life  of  piety  and  peace. 


A  NIGHT-PIECE  ON  DEATH. 

BY  the  blue  taper's  trembling  light, 
No  more  I  waste  the  wakeful  night, 
Intent  with  endless  view  to  pore 
The  schoolmen  and  the  sages  o'er : 
Their  books  from  wisdom  widely  stray, 
Or  point  at  best  the  longest  way. 
I'll  seek  a  readier  path,  and  go 
Where  wisdom's  surely  taught  below. 
How  deep  yon  a/ure  dyes  the  sky  ! 
Where  orbs  of  gold  unnumber'd  lie, 
While  through  their  ranks  in  silver  pride 
The  nether  crescent  seems  to  glide. 
The  slumbering  bree/.e  forgets  to  breath* , 
The  lake  is  smooth  and  clear  beneath, 
Where  once  again  the  spangled  show 
Descends  to  meet  our  eyes  below. 
The  grounds,  which  on  the  right  aspire, 
In  dimness  from  the  view  retire: 
The  left  presents  a  place  of  graves, 
Whose  wall  the  silent  water  laves. 


476 


THE  POEMS  OF  THOMAS  PARNELL. 


That  steeple  guides  thy  doubtful  sight 
Among  the  livid  gleams  of  night. 
There  pass  with  melancholy  state 
By  all  the  solemn  heaps  of  Fate. 
And  think,  as  softly-sad  you  tread 
Above  the  venerable  dead, 
Time  was,  like  thee,  they  life  possest, 
And  time  shall  be,  that  thou  shall  rest. 

Those  with  bending  osier  bound, 
That  nameless  heave  the  crumbled  ground, 
QHck  to  the  glancing  thought  disclose 
Where  toil  and  poverty  repose. 

The  flat  smooth  stones  that  bear  a  name, 
The  chisel's  slender  help  to  fame, 
(Which  ere  our  set  of  friends  decay 
Their  frequent  steps  may  wear  away), 
A  middle  race  of  mortals  own, 
Men,  half-ambitious,  all  unknown. 

The  marble  tombs  that  rise  on  high, 
Whose  dead  in  vaulted  arches  lie, 
Whose  pillars  swell  with  sculptured  stones, 
Arms,  angels,  epitaphs,  and  bones, 
These,  all  the  poor  remains  of  state, 
Adorn  the  rich,  or  praise  the  great ; 
Who,  while  on  Earth  in  fame  they  live, 
Are  senseless  of  the  fame  they  give. 
Ha  !  while  I  gaze,  pale  Cynthia  fades, 
The  bursting  earth  unveils  the  shades  ! 
All  slow,  and  wan,  and  wrapp'd  with  shrouds, 
They  rise  in  visionary  crowds, 
And  all  with  sober  accent  cry, 
"  Think,  mortal,  ivhat  it  is  to  die" 

Now  from  yon  black  and  funeral  yew, 
That  bathes  the  charnel-house  with  dew, 
Methinks,  I  hear  a  voice  begin  ; 
(Ye  ravens,  ceuse  your  croaking  din, 
Ye  tolling  clocks,  no  time  resound 
O'er  the  long  lake  and  midnight  ground  !) 
It  sends  a  peal  of  hollow  groans, 
Thus  speaking  from  among  the  bones  : 

"  When  men  my  scythe  and  darts  supply, 
I  low  great  a  king  of  fears  am  I ! 
They  view  me  like  the  last  of  things  ; 
They  make,  and  then  they  draw,  my  strings. 
Fools !  if  you  less  provoked  your  fears, 
No  more  my  spectre-form  appears. 
Death's  but  a  path  that  must  be  trod, 
If  man  would  ever  pass  to  God; 
A  port  of  calms,  a  state  to  ease 
From  the  rough  rage  of  swelling  seas." 

Why  then  thy  flowing  sable  stoles, 
Deep  pendent  cypress,  mourning  poles, 


Loose  scarfs  to  fall  athwart  thy  weedu, 
Long  palls,  drawn  hearses,  cover'd  steeds, 
And  plumes  of  black,  that,  as  they  tread, 
Nod  o'er  the  escutcheons  of  the  dead  ? 

Nor  can  the  parted  body  know, 
Nor  wants  the  soul  these  forms  of  woe; 
As  men  who  long  in  prison  dwell, 
With  lamps  that  glimmer  round  the  tell. 
Whene'er  their  suffering  years  are  icui, 
Spring  forth  to  greet  the  glittering  Sun . 
Such  joy,  though  far  transcending  sense. 
Have  pious  souls  at  parting  hc^ce. 
On  Earth,  and  in  the  body  pl/.ced, 
A  few,  and  evil  years,  they  v/aste : 
But  when  their  chains  are  jast  aside, 
See  the  glad  scene  unfolding  wide, 
Clap  the  glad  wing,  and  tawer  away, 
And  mingle  with  the  blaxe  of  day. 


AN  ALLEGORY  ON  MAN. 

A  THOUGHTFUL  being,  long  and  spare, 

Our  race  of  mortals  call  him  Care, 

(Were  Homer  living,  well  he  knew 

What  name  the  gods  have  call'd  him  too)r 

With  fine  mechanic  genius  wrought, 

And  loved  to  work,  though  no  one  bought. 

This  being,  by  a  model  bred 

In  Jove's  eternal  sable  head, 

Contrived  a  shape  empower'd  to  breathe, 

And  be  the  worldling  here  beneath. 

The  man  rose,  staring  like  a  stake; 
Wondering  to  see  himself  awake  ! 
Then  look'd  so  wise,  before  he  knew 
The  business  he  was  made  to  do — 
That,  pleased  to  see  with  what  a  grace 
He  gravely  show'd  his  forward  face, 
Jove  talk'd  of  breeding-  him  on  high, 
An  under-something  of  the  sky. 

But  ere  he  gave  the  mighty  nod, 
Which  ever  binds  a  poet's  god, 
(For  which  his  curls  ambrosial  shake, 
And  mother  Earth's  obliged  to  quake) r 
He  saw  old  mother  Earth  arise, 
She  stood  confess'd  before  his  eyes  ; 
But  not  with  what  we  read  she  wore, 
A  castle  for  a  crown  before, 
Nor  with  long  streets  and  longer  road* 
Dangling  behind  her,  like  commodes: 


THE  POEMS  OF  THOMAS  PARK  ELL. 


4—  - 
; ; 


As  yet  with  wreaths  alone  she  drest, 
And  trail'd  a  landscape-painted  vest. 
Then  thrice  she  raised,  as  Ovid  said, 
And  thrice  she  bow'd  her  weighty  head  : 

Her  honors  made,  "  Great  Jove,"  she  cried, 
"  This  thing  was  fashion'd  from  my  side: 
His  hands,  his  heart,  his  head  are  mine ; 
Then  what  hast  thou  to  call  him  thine  ?" 

"  Nay,  rather  ask,"  the  monarch  said, 
"  What  boots  his  hand,  his  heart,  his  head  ? 
Were  what  I  gave  removed  away, 
Thy  part's  an  idle  shape  of  clay." 

"  Halves,  more  than  halves  !"  cried  honest 

Care, 

"  Your  pleas  would  make  your  titles  fair. 
You  claim  the  body,  you  the  soul, 
But  I,  who  join'd  them,  claim  the  whole." 

Thus  with  the  gods  debate  began, 
On  such  a  trivial  cause  as  man. 
And  can  celestial  tempers  rage? 
<^uoth  Virgil,  in  a  later  age. 

As  thus  they  wrangled,  Time  came  by  ; 
(There's  none  that  paint  him  such  as  I, 
For  what  the  fabling  ancients  sung 
Makes  Saturn  old,  when  Time  was  young). 
As  yet  his  winters  had  not  shed 
Their  silver  honors  on  his  head ; 
He  just  had  got  his  pinions  free 
From  his  old  sire,  Eternity. 
A  serpent  girdled  round  he  wore, 
The  tail  within  the  mouth,  before; 
By  which  our  almanacs  are  clear 
That  learned  Egypt  meant  the  year. 
A  staff  he  carried,  where  on  high 
A  glass  was  fix'd  to  measure  by, 
As  amber  boxes  made  a  show 
For  heads  of  canes  an  age  ago. 

His  vest,  for  day  and  night,  was  pied  ; 
A  bending  sickle  arm'd  his  side ; 
And  Spring's  new  months  his  train  adorn  : 
The  other  seasons  were  unborn. 

Known  by  the  gods,  as  near  he  draws, 
They  make  him  umpire  of  the  cause. 
O'er  a  low  trunk  his  arm  he  laid, 
Where  since  his  hours  a  dial  made ; 
Then  leaning  heard  the  nice  debate, 
And  thus  pronounced  the  words  of  Fate  : 

"  Since  body  from  the  parent  Earth, 
And  soul  from  Jove  received  a  birth, 
Return  they  where  they  first  began ; 
But  since  their  union  makes  the  man, 


Till  Jove  and  Earth  shall  part  these  two, 
To  Care  who  join'd  them,  man  is  due." 
He  said,  and  sprung  with  swift  career 
To  trace  a  circle  for  the  yew : 
Where  ever  since  the  seasons  wheel, 
And  tread  on  one  another's  heel. 

"  'Tis  well,"  said  Jove,  and  for  consent 
Thundering  he  shook  the  firmament. 
"  Our  umpire  Time  shall  have  his  way, 
With  Care  I  let  the  creature  stay : 
Let  business  vex  him,  avarice  blind, 
Let  doubt  and  knowledge  rack  his  mind, 
Let  error  act,  opinion  speak, 
And  want  afflict,  and  sickness  break, 
And  anger  burn,  dejection  chill, 
And  joy  distract,  and  sorrow  kill, 
Till,  arm'd  by  Care,  and  taught  to  mow. 
Time  draws  the  long  destructive  blow  ; 
And  wasted  man,  whose  quick  decay 
Comes  hurrying  on  before  his  day, 
Shall  only  find  by  this  decree, 
The  soul  flies  sooner  back  to  me." 


HYMN  TO  CONTENTMENT. 

LOVELY,  lasting  peace  of  mind, 
Sweet  delight  of  human  kind  ! 
Heavenly  born,  and^  bred  on  high, 
To  crown  the  favorites  of  the  sky 
With  more  of  happiness  below 
Than  victors  in  a  triumph  know ! 
Whither,  oh  whither  art  thou  fled, 
To  lay  thy  meek  contented  head ; 
What  happy  region  dost  thou  please 
To  make  the  seat  of  calms  and  ease? 

Ambition  searches  all  its  sphere 
Of  pomp  and  state  to  meet  thee  there 
Increasing  avarice  would  find 
Thy  presence  in  its  gold  enshrined. 
The  bold  adventurer  ploughs  his  way 
Through  rocks  amidst  the  foaming  sea, 
To  gain  thy  love,  and  then  perceives 
Thou  wert  not  in  the  rocks  and  waves. 
The  silent  heart,  which  grief  assails, 
Treads  soft  and  lonesome  o'er  the  vales, 
Sees  daisies  open,  rivers  run, 
And  seeks  (as  I  have  vainly  done) 


178 


THE  POEMS  OF  THOMAS  PARNELL. 


Amusing  thought  ;  but  learns  to  know 

That  solitude's  the  nurse  of  woe. 

No  real  happiness  is  found 

In  trailing  purple  o'er  the  ground  : 

Or  in  a  soul  exalted  high, 

To  range  the  circuit  of  the  sky, 

Converse  with  stars  above,  and  know 

All  nature  in  its  forms  below : 

The  rest  it  seeks,  in  seeking  dies, 

And  doubts  at  last,  for  knowledge,  rise. 

Lovely,  lasting  peace,  appear: 
This  world  itself,  if  thou  art  here, 
Is  once  again  with  Eden  blest, 
And  man  contains  it  in  his  breast. 

'Twas  thus,  as  under  shade  I  stood, 
I  sung  my  wishes  to  the  wood, 
And,  lost  in  thought,  no  more  perceived 
The  branches  whisper  as  they  waved : 
It  secm'd  as  all  the  quiet  place 
Confess'd  the  presence  of  His  grace. 
When  thus  she  spoke :  Go,  rule  thy  will, 
Bid  thy  wild  passions  all  be  still, 
Know   God — and   bring   thy   heart    to 

know 

The  joys  which  from  religion  flow: 
Then  every  grace  shall  prove  its  guest, 
And  I'll  be  there  to  crown  the  rest. 

Oh !  by  yonder  mossy  seat, 
In  my  hours  of  sweet  retreat, 


Might  I  thus  my  soul  employ, 
With  sense  of  gBatitude  and  joy  ; 
Raised  as  ancient  prophets  were, 
In  heavenly  vision,  praise,  and  prayer,. 
Pleasing  all  men,  hurting  none, 
Pleased  and  bless'd  with  God  alone : 
Then  while  the  gardens  take  my  sight 
With  all  the  colors  of  delight : 
While  silver  waters  glide  along, 
To  please  my  ear  and  court  my  song : 
I'll  lift  my  voice,  and  tune  my 'string, 
And  thee,  great  Source  of  nature,  sing. 

The  sun  that  walks  his  airy  way, 
To  light  the  world  and  give  the  day; 
The   moon   that   shines  with   borrow'd 

light; 

The  stars  that  gild  the  gloomy  night ; 
The  seas  that  roll  unnumber'd  waves ; 
The  wood  that  spreads  its  shady  leaves ;. 
The  field  whose  ears  conceal  the  grain, 
The  yellow  treasure  of  the  plain  ; — 
All  of  these,  and  all  I  see, 
Should  be  sung,  and  sung  by  me : 
They  speak  their  Maker  as  they  can, 
But  want  and  ask  the  tongue  of  man. 

Go  seai-ch  among  your  idle  dreams,, 
Your  busy  or  your  vain  extremes  ; 
And  find  a  life  of  equal  bliss, 
Or  own  the  next  begun  in  this. 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  DAVIS, 

INTRODUCTION  AND  MEMOIR 

BY    JOHN   MITCH  KL. 


Ax  Mallow,  on  the  river  Blackwater,  in  the  county  of  Cork,  and  some  time  in  the 
year  1S14.  THOMAS  OSBORXE  DAVIS  was  born.  His  father  was  by  birth  a  Welshman,  but 
long  settled  in  the  south  of  Ireland,  and  Davis,  ever  proud  of  his  Cymric  blood,  and  of  his 
kindred  with  the  other  Gaelic  family  of  Milesians,  named  himself  through  life  a  Celt. 
"The  Celt"  was  his  now  de  plume;  and  the  Celtic  music  and  literature,  the  Celtic  lan- 
guage, and  habits,  and  history,  were  always  his  fondest  study.  Partly  from  the  profound 
sympathy  of  his  nature  with  the  fiery,  vehement,  affectionate,  gentle,  and  bloody  race  that 
bred  him, — his  affinity  with  ''the  cloudy  and  lightning  genius  of  the  Gael," — partly  from 
his  hereditary  aversion  to  the  coarser  and  more  energetic  Anglo-Saxon, — and  partly  from 
the  chivalry  of  his  character,  which  drew  him  to  the  side  of  all  oppressed  nations  every- 
where over  the  earth, — he  chose  to  write  Celt  upon  his  front;  he  would  live  and  die  a  Celt. 

The  scenes  of  his  birth  and  boyhood  nursed  and  cherished  this  feeling.  Amongst  the 
hills  of  Munster — on  the  banks  of  Ireland's  most  beauteous  river,  the  AvondJieu,  Spenser's 
••  Auniduff," — and  amidst  a  simple  people  who  yet  retained  most  of  the  venerable  usages 
of  olden  time,  their  wakes  and  f  \u\ern\-caoines,  their  wedding  merrymakings,  and  simple 
hospitality  with  a  hundred  thousand  welcomes,  he  imbibed  that  passionate  and  deep  love, 
not  for  the  people  only,  but  for  the  very  soil,  rocks,  woods,  waters,  and  skies  of  his  native 
land,  which  gives  to  his  writings,  both  in  prose  and  poetry,  their  chief  value  and  charm. 

He  received  a  good  education,  and  entered  Trinity  College,  Dublin.  During  his 
university  course  his  reading  was  discursive,  omnivorous,  by  no  means  confined  within  the 
text-books  and  classic  authors  prescribed  for  study  within  the  current  terms  of  the  college 
i-iirrii-ulum.  Therefore  he  was  not  a  dull,  plodding,  blockhead  "premium-man."  He 
came  through  the  course  creditably  enough,  but  without  distinction;  and  Wallis,  an  early 
friend  and  comrade  of  Davis,  and  the  author  of  the  first  tribute  to  his  memory  and  his 
genius,  in  the  "  Introduction  "  prefixed  to  this  edition  of  his  Poems,  says  that  "  during 
his  college  course,  and  for  some  years  after,  while  he  \v:is  very  generally  liked,  he  had, 
unless,  perhaps,  with  some  few  who  knew  him  intimately,  but  a  moderate  reputation  for 
high  ability  of  any  kind."  In  short,  his  moral  and  intellectual  growth  was  slow:  he  had 
no  personal  ambition  for  mere  distinction,  and  never  through  all  his  life  did  anything  for 
effect.  Thus  he  spent  his  youth  in  storing  his  own  mind  and  training  his  own  heart: 
never  wrote  or  spoke  for  the  public  till  he  approached  his  thirtieth  year;  exerted  faculty 
after  faculty  (unsuspected  by  himself  as  well  as  by  others)  just  as  the  occasion  for  their 
exertion  arose,  and  nobody  else  was  at  hand  able  or  willing  to  do  the  needful  work;  and 
when  he  died  at  the  age  of  thirty-one,  those  only  who  knew  him  best  felt  that  the  world 
had  been  permitted  to  see  but  the  infancy  of  a  great  genius. 


480  INTRODUCTION  AND  MEMOIR. 

His  poetry  is  but  a  fragment  of  the  man.  He  was  no  boy-rhymer;  and  brimful  as  his 
eye  and  soul  were  of  the  beauties  and  glories  of  Nature,  he  never  felt  a  necessity  to  utter 
them  in  song.  In  truth  he  did  not  himself  suspect  that  he  could  make  verses  until  the 
establishment  of  the  "Nation"  newspaper,  in  which,  from  the  first,  he  was  the  principal 
writer;  and  then,  from  a  calm,  deliberate  conviction  that  amongst  other  agencies  for 
arousing  national  spirit,  fresh,  manly,  vigorous,  national  songs  and  ballads  must  by  no 
means  be  neglected,  he  conscientiously  set  to  work  to  manufacture  the  article  wanted. 
The  result  Avas  that  torrent  of  impassioned  poesy  which  flashed  through  the  columns  of 
the  "  Nation,"  week  by  week,  and  made  many  an  eager  boy,  from  the  Giant's  Causeway 
to  Cape  Clear,  cut  open  the  weekly  sheet  with  a  hand  shaken  by  excitement, — to  kindle 
his  heart  with  the  glowing  thought  of  the  nameless  "  Celt." 

The  defeat  of  Ireland  and  her  cause,  and  the  utter  prostration  into  which  she  has 
fallen,  may,  in  the  minds  of  many,  deprive  the  labors  of  Davis  of  some  portion  of  their 
interest.  If  his  aspirations  had  been  made  realities,  and  his  lessons  had  ripened  into 
action;  if  the  British  standard  had  gone  down,  torn  and  trampled  before  the  green  banner, 
in  this  our  day,  as  it  had  done  before  on  many  a  well-fought  field. — then  all  men  would 
have  loved  to  trace  the  infancy  and  progress  of  the  triumphant  cause, — the  lives  and 
actions  of  those  who  had  toiled  in  the  sweat  of  their  brows  to  make  its  triumph  possible. 
It  is  the  least,  indeed,  of  the  penalties,  yet  it  is  one  of  the  surest  penalties  of  defeat — that 
the  world  will  neglect  you  and  your  claims;  will  not  care  to  ask  why  you  were  defeated, 
nor  care  to  inquire  whether  you  deserved  success. 

Yet  to  some  minds  it  will  be  always  interesting  to  understand  instead  of  misunder- 
standing even  a  baffled  cause.  And  to  such,  the  Poems  of  Davis  are  presented  as  the 
fullest  and  finest  expression  of  the  national  sentiment  that  in  1843  shook  the  British 
empire  to  its  base,  and  was  buried  ignominiously  in  the  Famine-graves  of  '48 — not  without 
hope  of  a  happy  resurrection. 

To  characterize  shortly  the  poetry  of  Davis — its  main  strength  and  beauty  lies  in  its 
simple  passion.  Its  execution  is  unequal;  and  in  some  of  the  finest  of  his  pieces  any 
magazine-critic  can  point  out  weak  or  unmusical  verses.  But  all  through  these  ringing 
lyrics  there  is  a  direct,  manly,  hearty,  human  feeling,  with  here  and  there  a  line  or  passage 
of  such  passing  melody  and  beauty  that  once  read  it  haunts  the  ear  and  heart  forever. 

"  What  thoughts  were  mine  in  early  youth  ! 

Like  some  old  Irish  song, 
Brimful  of  love,  and  life,  and  truth, 
My  spirit  gushed  along." 

And  in  that  exquisite  song,  "The  Rivers."    Let  any  one  who  has  an  ear  to  hear,  and  a 
tongue  to  speak,  read  aloud  the  fifth  stanza — 

"But  far  kinder  the  woodlands  of  rich  Convamore, 
And  more  gorgeous  the  turrets  of  saintly  Lismore  ; 
There  the  stream,  like  a  maiden 
With  love  overladen, 
Pants  wild  on  each  shore.." 

Who  that  has  once  seen  will  ever  forget  old  Lord  Clare  rising  at  the  head  of  his  mess-table 
in  the  "  Battle-eve  of  the  Brigade  " — 

"  The  veteran  arose,  like  an  uplifted  lance, 
Saying,  Comrades,  a  health  to  the  monarch  of  France  ! " 


INTRODUCTION  AND  MEMOll;.  481 

His  "  Lament  for  the  death  of  Owen  Roe"  is  the  very  heart  and  soul  of  a  musical,  wild, 
and  miserable  Irish  caoine  (the  coronach,  or  noeniae) — 

"Wail,  wail  him  through  the  Island  !    Weep,  weep  for  our  pride  I 
Would  that  on  the  battle-field  our  gallant  chief  had  died  ! 
Weep  the  victor  of  Benburb — weep  him,  young  men  and  old  ; 
Weep  for  him,  ye  women— your  Beautiful  lies  cold  1 

"We  thought  you  would  not  die — we  were  sure  you  would  not  go, 
And  leave  us  in  our  utmost  need  to  Crom well's  cruel  blow — 
Sheep  without  a  shepherd,  when  the  snow  shuts  out  the  sky— 
Oh  !  why  did  you  leave  us,  Owen  ?    Why  did  you  die  ?  " 

For  his  battle-ballads  may  be  instanced  "  Fontenoy,"  and  the  "  Sack  of  Baltimore."  And 
his  love-songs  are  the  genuine  pleadings  of  longing,  yearning,  devouring  passion.  Perhaps, 
however,  the  most  characteristic,  though  far  from  the  finest  of  all  these  songs,  is  that  be- 
ginning "  Oh  !  for  a  steed  !"  There  he  gives  bold  and  broad  expression  to  that  feeling 
which  we  have  already  described  as  a  leading  constituent  of  his  noble  nature, — sympathy 
with  conquered  nations,  assertion  and  espousal  of  their  cause  against  force  and  fate, — and 
u  mortal  detestation  and  defiance  of  that  conquering  "  energy"  which  impels  the  civilizing 
bullies  of  mankind  to  "  bestride  the  narrow  world  like  a  Colossus."  This  sympathy  it 
was,  which  so  strongly  attracted  him  to  the  books  of  Augustin  Thierry,  whose  writings  he 
often  recommended  as  the  most  picturesquely  faithful  and  heartily  human  of  all  historical 
works. 

Spa/je  would  fail  us  to  give  anything  like  an  adequate  narrative  of  Davis's  political 
toils  through  the  three  last  busy  years  of  his  life.  It  is  not  detracting  from  any  man's 
just  claims  to  assert,  what  all  admit,  that  he,  more  than  any  one  man,  inspired,  created, 
and  moulded  the  strong  national  feeling  that  possessed  the  Irish  people  in  '43,  made 
O'Connell  a  true  uncrowned  king,  and 

.     "  Placed  the  strength  of  all  the  land 
Like  a  falchion  in  his  hand." 

The  "government,"  at  last,  with  fear  and  trembling,  came  to  issue  with  the  "  Repeal 
Conspirators  "  in  the  law  courts.  Well  they  might  fear  and  tremble.  One  movement  of 
O'Connell's  finger — for  only  he  could  give  the  signal — and  within  a  month  no  vestige  of 
British  power  could  have  remained  in  Ireland.  For  O'Connell's  refusal  to  wield  that 
power,  then  unquestionably  in  his  hands,  may  God  forgive  him  !  He  went  into  prison  on 
the  30th  of  May,  1844,  stayed  there  three  months — came  out  in  a  triumph  of  perfect 
juiroxysm.  of  popular  enthusiasm  stronger  than  ever.  Yet  from  that  hour  the  cause  de- 
clined; nothing  answering  expectation,  or  commensurate  with  the  power  at  his  command, 
was  done  or  attempted.  "  Physical  force"  was  made  a  bugbear  to  frighten  women  and 
children;  priests  were  instructed  to  denounce  "  rash  young  men  "  from  their  altars;  and 
"  Law" — London  law,  was  thrust  down  the  national  throat. 

Davis  saw  this,  vainly  resisted  it,  and  made  head  against  it  for  awhile.  He  labored 
in  the  "Nation"  more  zealously  than  ever;  but  his  intimate  comrades  perceived  him 
changed;  and  after  a  short  illness  he  died  at  his  mother's  house,  Baggot- street,  Dublin,  on 
the  16th  of  September,  184.~>. 

The  "  Nation  "  lost  its  strength  and  its  inspiration.  The  circle  of  friends  and  comrades, 
— the  "Young  Ireland  party,"  as  they  were  called, — that  revolved  around  this  central  figure, 


INTRODUCTION  AND  MEMOIK. 


that  were  kept  in  tlieir  spheres  by  the  attraction  of  his  strong  nature,  taking  their  literary 
tasks  from  his  hands,  drawing  instruction  from  his  varied  accomplishments,  and  courage  and 
zeal  from  his  kindly  and  cheerful  converse,  soon  fell  into  confusion,  alienation,  helplessness. 
Gloom  gathered  round  the  cause,  and  famine,  wasting  the  bone  and  vigor  of  the  nation, 
made  all  his  friends  feel,  as  the  confederate  Irish  felt  when  Owen  Roe  died  of  poison,  like 

"  Sheep  without  a  shepherd,  when  snow  shut  out  the  sky." 

MacISTevin,  who  idolized  him,  was  cut  suddenly  from  all  his  moorings,  and  like  a  rudderless 
ship  drifted  and  whirled,  until  he  died  in  a  mad-house.  Of  others,  it  would  be  invidious 
to  trace  the  career  in  this  place.  Enough  to  say,  that  the  most  dangerous  foe  English 
dominion  in  Ireland  has  had  in  our  generation  is  buried  in  the  cemetery  of  Mount  Jerome, 
in  the  southern  suburbs  of  Dublin. 

Fragmentary  and  hasty  as  are  the  compositions  in  prose  or  verse  which  Davis  left 
behind  him,  they  are  the  best  and  most  authentic  exponent  of  the  principles  and  aspira- 
tions of  the  remnant  of  his  disciples. 


TIIK  PATRIOT  BISHOP  OF  ROSS- 


THE  POEMS  OF  THOMAS  DAVIS. 


I. 


ftattonal  $allabs  anb  Songs. 


"  RATIONAL  POETRY  Is  the  very  flowering  of  the  soul,  the  great- 
Mt  evidence  of  Ita  health,  the  greatest  excellence  of  Its  beauty. 
lu  melody  ti  balsam  to  the  senses.  It  Is  the  playfellow  of  Child- 
h< :0,  '.p-»l  aio  ths  companion  of  Manhood,  consoles  Aire.  It 
presents  the  most  dramatic  events,  the  largest  characters,  the 
most  impressive  scenes,  anil  the  deepest  passions,  in  the  language 
most  familiar  to  us.  It  magnifies  and  ennobles  our  hearts,  our  in- 
tellects, our  country,  and  our  countrymen  ;  binds  us  to  the  land  by 
Ita  condensed  and  gem-like  history — to  the  future  by  example  and 
by  aspiration.  It  solaces  us  in  travel,  fires  us  in  action,  prompts 
our  invention,  tdieds  a  grace  beyond  the  power  of  luxury  round 
»nr  homes,  is  the  recognized  envoy  of  our  minds  among  all  man- 
kind, and  to  all  time."— DATIS'B  KSSATR. 


THE  MEN  OF  TIPPERARY. 

AIR — Original.* 


LET  Britain  boast  her  British  hosts, 
About  them  all  right  little  care  we; 

Not  British  seas  nor  British  coasts 
Can  match  the  man  of  Tipperary ! 

ii. 
Tall  is  his  form,  his  heart  is  warm, 

His  spirit  light  as  any  fairy  ; 
His  wrath  is  fearful  as  the  storm 

That  sweeps  The  Hills  of  Tipperary  ! 

i  VitU  "Spirit  of  the  Nation,"  4to,  p.  84. 


III. 


Lead  him  to  fight  for  native  land, 
His  is  no  courage  cold  and  wary  ; 

The  troops  live  not  on  earth  would  stand 
The  headlong  Charge  of  Tipperary  t 


IV. 


Yet  meet  him  in  his  cabin  rude, 

Or  dancing  with  his  dark-haired  Mary 

You'd  swear  they  knew  no  other  mood 
But  Mirth  and  Love  in  Tipperary ! 


v. 


You're  free  to  share  his  scanty  meal, 
His  plighted  word  he'll  never  vary — 

In  vain  they  tried  with  gold  and  steel 
To  shako  The  Faith  of  Tipperary  \ 


VI. 


Soft  is  his  cailin's  sunny  eye, 

Her  mien  is  mild,  her  step  is  airy, 

Her  heart  is  fond,  her  soul  is  high — 
Oh  !  she's  the  pride  of  Tipperary  I 


VII 


Let  Britain  brag  her  motley  rag  ; 

We'll  lift  the  Green  more  proud  and  airy ; 
Bo  mine  the  lot  to  bear  that  tiag, 

And  huad  The  Men  of  Tipperary  ! 


484 


THE   POEMS   OF   THOMAS   DAVIS. 


rnr. 


Though  Britain  boasts  her  British  hosts, 
About  them  all  right  little  care  we ; 

Give  us,  to  guard  our  native  coasts, 
The  Matchless  Men  of  Tipperary  ! 


THE  RIVERS. 

AIR — Kathleen  O^More. 

I. 

THIKE'S  a  far-famed  Blackwater  that  runs  to 

Loch  Neagh, 

There's  a  fairer  Blackwater  that  runs  to  the  sea, 
The  glory  of  Ulster, 
The  beauty  of  Muuster, 

These  twin  rivers  be. 


From  the  banks  of  that  river  Benburb's  towers 

arise ; 

This   stream    shines  as  bright   as  a  tear   from 
sweet  eyes ; 

This,  fond  as  a  young  bride ; 
That,  with  foeman's  blood  dyed — 
Both  dearly  we  prize. 

in. 

Deep  sunk  in  that  bed  is  the  sword  of  Monroe, 
Since,  'twixt  it  and  Donagh,  he  met  Owen  Roe, 
And  Charlemont's  cannon 
Slew  many  a  man  on 

These  meadows  below. 


The  shrines  of  Armagh  gleam  far  over  yon  lea, 
Nor  afar  is  Dungannon  that  nursed  liberty, 

And  yonder  Red  Hugh 

Marshal  Bagenal  o'erthrew 

On  Beal-an-atha-Buidhe.1 

v. 

Bat  far  kinder  the  woodlands  of  rich  Convamore, 
And  more  gorgeous  the  turrets  of  saintly  Lis- 
more ; 

There  the  stream,  like  a  maiden 
With  love  overladen, 

Pants  wild  on  each  shore. 

•\Vulyo,  Ballanabwee — the  mouth  of  tli«  yellow  ford. 


VI. 

Its  rocks  rise  like  statues,  tall,  stately,  and  fair, 
And  the  trees,  and  the  flowers,  and  the  moun- 
tains, and  air, 

With  Wonder's  soul  near  you, 
To  share  with,  and  cheer  you, 
Make  Paradise  there. 

VII. 

I  would  rove  by  that  stream,  ere  my  flag  I  un- 
rolled ; 

I  would  fly  to  these  banks,  my  betrothed  to  en- 
fold— 

The  pride  of  our  sire-land, 
The  Eden  of  Ireland, 

More  precious  than  gold. 

VIII. 

May  their  borders  be  free  from  oppression  and 

blight ; 

May  their  daughters  and  sons  ever  fondly  unite — 
The  glory  of  Ulster, 
The  beauty  of  Munster, 

Our  strength  and  delight. 


GLENGARIFF. 

AIR — O*  Sullivan?  8  March. 

I. 

I  WANDERED  at  eve  by  Glengariffs  sweet  water, 

Half  in  the  shade,  and  half  in  the  moon, 
And  thought  of  the  time  when  the  Sacsanach 

slaughter 

Reddened  the  night  and  darknened  the  noon  ; 
Mo  nuar  !  mo  nuar  !  mo  nuar  /*  I  said — 
When  I  think,  in  this  valley  and  sky — 
Where  true  lovers  and  poets  should  sigh — 
Of  the  time  when  its  chieftain  O'Sullivan  fled.3 

u. 

Then   my   mind    went   along   with    O'Sullivaii 

marching 

Over  Musk'ry's  moors  and  Ormond's  plain, 
His  curachs  the  waves  of  the  Shannon  o'erarch- 

And  his  pathway  mile-marked  with  the  slain  : 

8  Vide  pout,  page  l'J6. 


TIIK    I'oKMS  OF  THOMAS   DAVIS. 


Afo  nnar  !  mo  nuar  !  mo  nuarf  I  said — 
Yet  'twas  better  far  from  you  to  go, 
And  to  battle  with  torrent  and  foe, 

Than  linger  as  slaves  where  your  sweet  waters 
spread. 

in. 
But  my  fancy  burst  on,  like  a  clan  o'er  the  border, 

To  times  that  seemed  almost  at  hand, 
Wben  grasping  her  banner,  old   Erin's  Lamh 

Laidir 

Alone  shall  rule  over  the  rescued  land  ; 
0  baotho  !   0  baotho  !   0  baotho  ! '  I  said — 
Be  our  marching  as  steady  and  strong, 
And  freemen  our  valleys  shall  throng, 
When  the  last  of  our  foemen  is  vanquished  and 
lied. 


THE  WEST'S  ASLEEP. 

Are—  Tht  Brink  of  the  White  Kocki. 


WHEN  all  besides  a  vigil  keep, 
The  West's  asleep,  the  West's  asleep — 
Alas!  and  well  may  Erin  weep, 
When  Connaught  lies  in  slumber  deep. 
There  lake  and  plain  smile  fair  and  free, 
'Mid  rocks — their  guardian  chivalry — 
Sing  oh !  let  man  learn  liberty 
From  crashing  wind  and  lashing  sea. 

n. 

That  chainless  wave  and  lovely  land 
Freedom  and  Nationhood  demand — 
Be  sure,  the  great  God  never  planned, 
For  slumbering  slaves,  a  home  so  grand. 
And,  long,  a  brave  and  haughty  race 
Honored  and  sentinelled  the  place — 
Sing  oh  !  not  even  their  sons'  disgrace 
Can  quite  destroy  their  glory's  trace. 

in. 

For  often,  in  O'Connor's  van, 
To  triumph  dashed  each  Connaught  clan- 
And  fleet  as  deer  the  Normans  ran 
Through  Corlieu's  Pass  and  Ardrahan. 
And  later  times  saw  deeds  as  brave ; 
And  glory  guards  Clanricard's  grave — 


Sing  oh  !  they  died  their  land  to  sat  e, 
At  Aughrim's  slopes  and  Shannon's  wave. 

IV. 

And  if,  when  all  a  vigil  keep, 

The  West's  asleep,  the  West's  asleep — 

Alas !  and  well  may  Erin  weep, 

That  Connanght  iics  in  slumber  deep. 

But — hark! — some  voice  like  thunder  spake, 

"  The  WesCs  awake,  the   WesCs  awake" — 

"  Sing  oh  !  hurra !  let  England  quake, 

We'll  watch  till  death  for  Erin's  sake !" 


OH!  FOR  A   STEED. 

AIB — Original. 
I. 

OH  !  for  a  steed,  a  rushing  steed,  and  a  blazing 

scimitar, 

To  hunt  from  beauteous  Italy  the  Austrian's  red- 
hussar. 

To  mock  their  boasts, 
And  strew  their  hosts, 
And  scatter  their  flags  afcu. 

ii. 

Oh !  for  a  steed,  a  rushing  steed,  and  dear  Po- 
land gathered  aroujd, 

To  smite  her  circle  vf  savage  foes,  and  smash 
them  upon  the  ground ; 

Nor  hold  my  hand 
While  on  the  land, 
A  foreigner  foe  was  found. 

in. 
Oh  !  fvr  a  steed,  a  rushing  steed,  and  a  rifle  that 

never  failed, 

Aod  a  tribe  of  terrible  prairie  men,  by  desperate 
valor  mailed, 

'Till  "stripes  and  stars," 
And  Russian  czars, 
Before  the  Red  Indian  quailed. 

IV. 

Oh !  for  a  steed,  a  rushing  steed,  on  the  plains 

of  Hindustan, 

And  a  hundred   thousand  cavaliers,  to  cbargt 
like  a  single  man. 

Till  our  shirts  were  red, 
And  the  English  tied, 
Like  a  cowardly  caravan. 


486 


THE  POEMS  OF  THOMAS  DAVIS. 


v. 

Oh!  for  a  steed,  a  rushing  steed,  with  the  Greeks 

at  Marathon, 

Or  a  place  in  the  Switzer  phalanx,  when  the 
Moral  men  swept  on, 

Like  a  pine-clad  hill 
By  an  earthquake's  will 
Hurled  the  valleys  upon. 

VI. 

Oh !  for  a  steed,  a  rushing  steed,  when  Brian 

smote  down  the  Dane, 

Or  a  place  beside   great  Aodh  O'Neill,  when 
Bagenal  the  bold  was  slain, 
Or  a  waving  crest 
And  a  lance  in  rest, 
With  Bruce  upon  Bannoch  plain. 

VII. 

Oh  !  for  a  steed,  a  rushing  steed,  on  the  Curragh 

of  Kildare, 

And  Irish  squadrons  ready  to  do,  as  they  are 
ready  to  dare — 

A  hundred  yards, 
And  Holland's  guards 
Drawn  up  to  engage  me  there. 

VIII. 

Oh  !  for  a  steed,  a  rushing  steed,  and  any  good 

cause  at  all, 

Or  else,  if  you  will,  a  field  on  foot,  or  guarding 
a  leaguered  wall 

For  freedom's  right ; 
In  flushing  fight 
To  conquer  if  then  to  fall. 


CYMRIC  RULE  AND  CYMRIC  RULERS.1 

AIR—  Tkt  March  of  the  Men  nf  Ilarlech* 
I. 

ONCE  there  was  a  Cymric  nation : 
Few  its  men,  but  high  its  station — 
Freedom  is  the  soul's  creation, 

Not  the  work  of  hands. 
Coward  hearts  are  self-subduing; 
Fetters  last  by  slaves'  renewing — 
Edward's  castles  are  in  ruin, 

Still  his  empire  stands. 
Still  the  Saxon's  malice 
Blights  our  beauteous  valleys; 


1  rid*  Aooendix 


2  Welsh  »ir 


Ours  the  teil,  but  his  the  spoil,  and  his  the  law* 

we  writhe  in ; 

Worked  like  beasts,  that  Saxon  priests  may  riot 
in  our  tithing; 

Saxon  speech  and  Saxou  teachers 
Crush  our  Cymric  tongue  ! 

•J  O 

Tolls  our  traffic  binding 

O ' 

Rents  our  vitals  grinding — 
Bleating  sheep,  we  cower  and  weep,  when,  by 

one  bold  endeavor, 

We  could  drive  from  out  our  hive  the  Saxon 
drones  for  ever. 

"  CYMRIC  RULE  AND  CYMRIC  RULERS"-- 
Pass  along  the  word  ! 

ii. 

We  should  blush  at  Arthur's  glory — 
Never  sing  the  deeds  of  Rory — 
Caratach's  renowned  story 
Deepens  our  disgrace. 
By  the  bloody  day  of  Banchor ! 
By  a  thousand  years  of  rancor! 
By  the  wrongs  that  in  us  canker! 

Up  !  ye  Cymric  race — 
Think  of  Old  Llewellyn,— 
Owen's  trumpets  swelling : 
Then  send  out  a  thunder  shout,  and  every  tru« 

man  summon, 

Till  the  ground  shall  echo  round  from  Severn  to 
Plinlimmon, 

"Saxon  foes,  and  Cyrn-ic  brothers, 
"Arthur's  con.e  ajjain  !" 

•     O 

Not  his  bone  and  smew, 
But  his  soul  wiVnin  you, 
Prompt  and  true  t-    plan  and  do,  and  firm  a? 

Monmouth  i-on 

For  our  cause  though  crafty  laws  and  charging 
troop?  environ — 

"CYMRIC  RULE  AND  CYMRIC  RULERST" — 
Pass  along  the  word  ! 


A  BALLAD  OF  FREEDOM. 


THE  Frenchman   sailed  in  Freedom's  name  tc 

smite  the  Algerine, 
The  strife  was  short,  the-  crescent  sunk,  and  then 

his  guile  was  seen  ; 
For,  nestling  in  the  pirate's  hold — a  fiercer  pirate 


THE   POEMS  OF  THOMAS   DAVIS. 


487 


lie   bade  the  tribes  yield  up  their  flocks,  the 

towns  their  gates  unbar. 
Right  on   he  pressed  with   freemen's  hands  to 

subjugate  the  free, 
The  Berber  in  old  Atlas  glens,  the    Moor   in 

Titteri ; 
And  wider  have  his  razzias  spread,  his  cruel  con- 

q,ucsts  broader, 
But  God  sent  down,  to  face  his  frown,  the  gallant 

Abdel-Kader — 

The  faithful  Abdel-Kader!  unconquercd  Abdel- 
Kadcr ! 

Like  falling  rock, 
Or  fierce  siroc — 
No  savage  or  marauder — 
Son  of  a  slave  ! 
First  of  the  brave  ! 
Hurrah  for  Abdel-Kader  I ' 

n. 
The    Englishman,    for    long,    long    years,   bad 

ravaged  Ganges'  side — 
A  dealer  first,  intriguer  next,  lie  conquered  far 

and  wide, 
Till,  hurried  on  by  avarice,  and  thirst  of  endless 

rule, 
His  sepoys  pierced  to  Candahar,  his  flag  waved 

in  Cabul ; 
But  still   within  the  conquered  land   was  one 

unconquered  man, 
The    fierce   Pushtani5    lion,  the   fiery    Akhbar 

Khan— 
He  slew  die  sepoys  on  the  snow,  till  ScindhV 

full  flood  they  swam  it 
Right  rapidly,  content  to  flee  the  son  of  Dost 

Mohammed, 

The  so;i  of  Dost  Mohammed,  and  brave  old  Dost 
Mohammed — 

Oh!  long  may  they 
Their  mountains  sway, 
Akhbar  and  Dost  Mohammed  ! 
Long  live  the  Dost! 
"Who  Britain  crost, 
Hurrah  for  Dost  Mohammed  ! 

in. 

The  Russian,  lord   of  million  serfs,  and  nobles 
serflicr  still, 


1  This  name  I*  pronounced  Cawder.  The  French  ujr  that  their 
(rent  f»o  wag  a  slave's  son.  Be  It  so — he  has  a  hero's  and  freeman's 
bcurt.  "  Hurrah  for  AlxU-1-Ksder !"— AUTHOR'S  NOT*. 

2ThU  Is  the  name  by  which  the  Adrians  call  themselves. 
AffKhan  Is  a  Persian  name. — /•/. 

STliv  real  name  of  the  Indus,  which  Is  a  Latinised  word.— Id, 


Indignant  saw  Circassia's  sons  bear  up  against 

his  will  ; 
With  fiery  ships  he  lines  their  coast,  his  armies 

cross  their  streams — 
He  builds  a  hundred   fortresses — his  conquests 

done,  he  deems. 
But  steady  rifles — rushing  steeds — a  crowd   of 

nameless  chiefs — 
The  plough  is  o'er  his  arsenals! — his  fleet  is  on 

the  reefs! 
The  maidens  of  Kabyntica  are  clad  in  Moscow 

dresses — 
His  slavish   herd,  how  dared  they   beard  the 

mauntain-bred  Cherkesses  ! 
The    lightening    Cherkesses! — the    thundering 
Cherkesses ! 

May  Elburz  top 
In  Azov  drop, 

Ere  Cossacks  beat  Cherkesses ! 
The  fountain  head 
Whence  Europe  spread — 
Hurra!  for  the  tali  Cherkesses!4 

IV. 

But  Russia  preys  on  Poland's  fields,  where  So- 

bieski  reigned, 
And    Austria    on     Italy — the     Roman     eagle 

chained — 
Bohemia,  Servia,  Hungary,  within  her  clutches, 

gasp; 
And    Ireland  struggles  gallantly   in    England's 

loosening  grasp. 
0 !  would  all  these  their  strength  unite,  or  battle 

on  alone, 
Like  Moor,  Pushtani,  and  Chcrkess,  they  soor 

would  have  their  own. 
Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  it  can't  be  far,  when  from  the 

Scindh  to  Shannon 
Shall  gleam  a  line  of  freemen's  flags  begirt  by 

freemen's  cannon  ! 

The  coming  day  of  Freedom— the  flashing  flags 
of  Freedom  ! 

The  victor  glaive — 

The  mottoes  brave, 

May  we  be  there  to  read  them  I 

That  glorious  noon, 

God  send  it  soon — 

Hurrah  for  human  Freedom  ! 


4Cherkeseea  or  Abdyes  is  the  right  name  of  the  to-called  Cir- 
cassians. Kniiyntica  Is  a  town  In  the  heart  of  the  Caucasus,  of 
which  Mount  Klliarz  is  the  summit,  liluinvnbacb.  and  other 
physiologists,  assert  that  the  Oner  European  raota  decoend  from  t 
Circassian  stock  —Id. 


488 


THE  POEMS   OF  THOMAS  DAVIS 


THE  IRISH   HURRAH. 

A'B — Nach  m-baineann  tin  do. 

I. 

HAVE  you  hearkened  the  eagle  scream  over  the 

sea  ? 
Have  you   hearkened  the  breaker  beat  under 

your  lee? 
A  something  between  the  wild  waves,  in  their 

Pla7. 

And   the   kingly    bird's   scream,   is   The   Irish 
Hurrah ! 

n. 

How  it  rings  on  the  rampart  when  Saxons  assail, 
How  it  leaps  on  the  level,  and  crosses  the  vale, 
Till  the  talk  of  the  cataract  faints  on  its  way, 
And   the   echo's  voice  cracks  with  The  Irish 
Hurrah  ! 

in. 

How  it  sweeps  o'er  the  mountain  when  hounds 

are  on  scent, 

How  it  presses  the  billows  when  rigging  is  rent, 
Till  the  enemy's  broadside  sinks  low  in  dismay, 
As  our  boarders  go  in  with  The  Irish  Hurrah ! 

IV. 

Oh  !  there's  hope  in  the  trumpet  and  glee  in  the 

fife, 

But  never  such  music  broke  into  a  strife, 
As  when  at  its  bursting  the  war-clouds  give  way, 
And   there's   cold  steei  along   with  The  Irish 

Hurrah ! 

v. 

What  joy  for  a  death-bed,  your  banner  above, 
And  round  you  the  pressure  of  patriot  love, 
As  you're  lifted  to  gaze  on  the  breaking  array 
Of  the  Saxon  reserve  at  The  Irish  Hurrah  ! 


A  SONG  FOR  THE  IRISH  MILITIA. 

AIB—  Tht  Peacock. 


THE  tribune's  tongue  and  poet's  pen 
May  sow  the  seeds  in  prostrate  men ; 
But  'tis  the  soldier's  sword  alone 
Can  reap  the  crop  so  bravely  sown ! 


No  more  I'll  sing  nor  idly  pine, 
But  train  my  soul  to  lead  a  line — 
A  soldier's  life's  the  life  for  me — 
A  soldier's  death,  so  Ireland's  free  ! 

ii. 

No  foe  would  fear  your  thunder  words 
If 'twere  not  for  our  lightning  swords  — 
If  tyrants  yield  when  millions  pray, 
'Tis  lest  they  link  in  war  array  ; 
Nor  peace  itself  is  safe,  but  when 
The  sword  is  sheathed  by  fighting  men — 
A  soldier's  life's  the  life  for  me — 
A  soldier's  death,  so  Ireland's  free  ! 

in. 

The  rifle  brown  and  sabre  bright 
Can  freely  speak  and  nobly  write — 
What  prophets  preached  the  truth  so  well 
As  HOFER,  BRIAN,  BRUCE,  and  TELL  f 
God  guard  the  creed  those  heroes  tnught, — 
That  blood-bought  Freedom's  cheaply  bought 
A  soldier's  life's  the  life  for  me — 
A  soldier's  death,  so  Ireland's  free  ! 

IV. 

Then,  welcome  be  the  bivouac, 
The  hardy  stand,  and  fierce  attack, 
Where  pikes  will  tame  their  carbineer* 
And  rifles  thin  their  bay'/ieteers, 
And  every  field  the  island  through 
Will  show  "  what  Irishmen  can  do  !" 
A  soldier's  life's  the  life  fo.T  VTJ — 
A  soldier's  death,  so  IrelanO'.i  free ! 

v. 

Yet,  'tis  not  strength,  and  'tis  rot  steel 
Alone  can  make  the  English  resl ; 
But  wisdom,  working  day  by  day, 
Till  comes  the  time  for  passion's  sway — 
The  patient  dint,  and  powder  shock, 
Can  blast  an  empire  like  a  rock. 
A  soldier's  life's  the  life  for  me— 
A  soldier's  death,  so  Ireland's  free  ! 

VI. 

The  tribune's  tongue  and  poet's  pen 
May  sow  the  seed  in  slavish  men ; 
But  'tis  the  soldier's  sword  alone 
Can  reap  the  harvest  when  'tis  grown. 
No  more  I'll  sing,  no  more  I'll  pine, 
But  train  my  soul  to  lead  a  line — 
A  soldier's  life's  the  life  for  me — 
A  soldier's  death,  so  Ireland's  free ! 


THE  TOEMS   OF  THOMAS  DAVIS. 


489 


OUR   OWN   AGAIN. 

Am — Original.^ 

I. 
LET  the  coward  shrink  aside, 

We'll  have  our  own  again; 
Let  the  brawling  slave  deride, 

Here's  for  our  own  again — 
Let  the  tyrant  bribe  and  lie, 
March,  threaten,  fortify, 
Loose  his  lawyer  and  his  spy, 

Yet  we'll  have  our  own  again. 
Let  him  soothe  in  silken  tone, 
Scold  from  a  foreign  throne  ; 
Let  him  come  with  bugles  blown, 

We  shall  have  our  own  again. 
Let  us  to  our  purpose  bide, 

We'll  have  our  own  again — 
Let  the  game  be  fairly  tried, 

We'll  have  our  own  again. 

ii. 
Send  the  cry  throughout  the  land, 

"  Who's  for  our  own  again  ?" 
Summon  all  men  to  our  band, — 

Why  not  our  own  again  ? 
Rich,  and  poor,  and  old,  and  young, 
Sharp  sword,  and  fiery  tongue — 
Soul  and  sinew  firmly  strung, 

All  to  get  our  own  again. 
Brothers  thrive  by  brotherhood — 
Trees  in  a  stormy  wood — 
Riches  come  from  Nationhood — 

Sha'n't  we  have  our  own  again  ? 
Munstcr's  woe  is  Ulster's  bane  ! 

Join  for  our  OAvn  again — 
Tyrants  rob  as  well  as  reign, — 

We'll  have  our  own  again. 

in. 
Oft  our  fathers'  hearts  it  stirred, 

44  Rise  for  our  own  again  !" 
Often  passed  the  signal  word, 

'•  Strike  for  our  own  again  !" 
Rudely,  rashly,  and  untaught, 
Uprose  they,  ere  they  ought, 
Failing,  though  they  nobly  fought, 

Dying  for  their  own  again. 
Mind  will  rule  and  muscle  yield, 
In  senate,  ship,  and  field — 
When  we've  skill  our  strength  to  wield 

Let  us  take  our  own  again. 

1  Firf«  "  Spirit  of  the  Nation."  4to,  p.  80S. 

t  Written  in  r«p*y  to  some  very  beautiful  rcnes  prlrvted  In  the 


By  the  slave  his  chain  is  wrought, — 
Strive  for  our  own  again. 

Thunder  is  less  strong  than  thought,- 
We'll  have  our  own  again. 

IV. 

Calm  as  granite  to  our  foes, 

Stand  for  our  own  again ; 
Till  his  wrath  to  madness  grows 

Firm  for  our  own  again. 
Bravely  hope,  and  wisely  wait, 
Toil,  join,  and  educate ; 
Man  is  master  of  his  fate  ; 

We'll  enjoy  our  own  again. 
With  a  keen  constrained  thirst — 
Powder's  calm  ere  it  burst — 
Making  ready  for  the  worst, 

So  we'll  get  our  own  again. 
Let  us  to  our  purpose  bide, 

We'll  have  our  own  again. 
God  is  on  the  righteous  side, 

We'll  have  our  own  again. 


CELTS  AND  SAXONS.5 


WE  hate  the  Saxon  and  the  Dane, 

We  hate  the  Norman  men — 
We  cursed  their  greed  for  blood  and  gain, 

We  curse  them  now  again. 
Yet  start  not,  Irish  born  man, 

If  you're  to  Ireland  true, 
We  heed  not  blood,  nor  creed,  nor  clan — 

We  have  no  curse  for  you. 

ii. 

We  have  no  curse  for  you  or  yours, 

But  Friendship's  ready  grasp, 
And  faith  to  stand  by  you  and  yours 

Unto  our  latest  gasp — 
To  stand  by  you  against  all  foes, 

llowe'er  or  whence  they  come, 
With  traitor  arts,  or  bribes,  or  blows, 

From  England,  France,  or  Rome. 

in. 

What  matter  that  at  different  shrines 
We  pray  unto  one  God — 

"Evening  Mall."  deprecating  and  defying  the  atwnmM  bMtflltj  a* 
the  Irlsli  (Vlt*  to  the  I  rink  Saxons. — AUTHOR'S  Sort 


THE   POEMS   OF  THOMAS  DAVIS. 


What  matter  that  at  different  times 
Our  fathers  won  this  sod — 

In  fortune  and  in  name  we're  bound 
By  stronger  links  than  steel ; 

And  neither  can  be  safe  nor  sound 
But  in  the  other's  weal. 


As  Nubian  rocks,  and  Ethiop  sand 

Long  drifting  down  the  Nile, 
Buijt  up  old  Egypt's  fertile  land 

For  many  a  hundred  mile; 
So  Pagan  clans  to  Ireland  came, 

And  clans  of  Christendom, 
Yet  joined  their  wisdom  and  their  fame 

To  build  a  nation  from. 

v. 

Here  came  the  brown  Pho3nician, 

The  man  of  trade  arid  toil — 
Here  came  the  proud  Milesian, 

Ahungering  for  spoil ; 
And  the  Firbolg  and  the  Cymry, 

And  the  hard,  enduring  Dane, 
And  the  iron  Lords  of  Normandy, 

With  the  Saxons  in  their  train. 

VI. 

And  oh  !  it  were  a  gallant  deed 

To  show  before  mankind, 
IIow  every  race  and  every  creed 

Might  be  by  love  combined — 
Might  be  combined,  yet  not  forget 

The  fountain  whence  they  rose, 
As,  filled  by  many  a  rivulet 

The  statelv  Shannon  flows. 


Nor  would  wo  wreak  our  ancient  feud 

On  Belgian  or  on  Dane, 
Nor  visit  in  a  hostile  mood 

The  hearths  of  Gaul  or  Spain  ; 
But  long  as  on  our  country  lies 

The  Anglo-Norinan  yoke, 
Their  tyranny  we'll  signalize, 

And  God's  revenge  invoke. 

VIII. 

We  do  not  hate,  we  never  cursed, 
Nor  spoke  a  foeman's  word 

Against  a  man  in  Ireland  nursed, 
iiowe'er  we  thought  he  erred  ; 


So  start  not,  Irish  barn  man,. 

If  you're  to  Ireland  true, 
We  heed  not  race,  nor  creed,  nor  cian, 

WeVe  hearts  and  hands  for  vou. 


ORANGE    AND    GREEN    WILL    CARRY 
THE  DAY. 

Am — The  Protestant  Boy*. 


IRELAND  !  rejoice,  and,  England  !  deplore— 
Faction  and  feud  are  passing  away. 

'Twas  a  low  voice,  but  'tis  a  loud  roar, 
"  Orange  and  green  will  carry  the  day." 
Orange !  Orange ! 

O  O 

Green  and  Orange  ! 
Pitted  together  in  many  a  fray — 

Lions  in  tight ! 

And  linked  in  their  might, 
Orange  and  Green  will  carry  the  day. 

Orange !  Orange ! 

Green  and  Orange  ! 
Wave  together  o'e    mountain  and  bay. 

Orange  and  Green  ! 

Our  King  and  our  Queen  ! 
"Orange  and  Green  will  carrv  the  dav !" 

ii. 

Rusty  the  swords  our  fathers  unsheathed — 
William  and  James  are  turned  to  clay — 
Long  did  we  till  the  wrath  they  bequeathed  ; 
Red  was  the  crop,  and  bitter  the  pay  ! 

Freedom  fled  us ! 

Knaves  misled  us ! 
Under  the  feet  of  the  foemen  we  lay — 

Riches  and  strength 

We'll  win  them  at  length, 
For  Orange  and  Green  will  carry  the  day  ! 

Landlords  fooled  us  ; 

England  ruled  us, 
Hounding  our  passions  to  make  us  their  picv 

But,  in  their  spite, 

The  Irish  UNITE, 
And  Orange  and  Green  will  carry  the  day  ! 

in. 

Fruitful  our  soil  where  honest  men  starve  ; 

Empty  the  mart,  and  shipless  the  bay  ; 
Out  of  our  want  the  Oligarchs  carve  ; 
Foreigners  fatten  on  our  decay  ! 
Disunited, 
Therefore  bHghted, 


THE   POEMS   OF  TIIOMAS   DAVIS 


491 


Rained  ami  rent  by  the  Englishman's  s\v;iy, 

Party  and  creed 

For  once  have  agreed — 
Orange  and  Green  will  carry  the  day  ! 

Boy  no's  old  water, 

Red  with  slaughter! 
Now  is  .is  pure  as  an  :nfant  at  play  ; 

So,  in  our  souls, 

Its  history  rolls, 
And  Orange  and  Green  will  carry  the  day. 

IV. 

English  deceit  can  rule  us  no  more, 

Bigots  and  knaves  are  scattered  like  spray — 


Deep  was  the  oath  the  Orangeman  swore, 
**  Orange  and  Green  must  carry  the  Jay  !M 

Orange  !  Orange  ! 

1'lcss  the  Orange  ! 
Tories  and  Whigs  grow  pale  with  dismay 

When,  from  the  North, 

Burst  the  cry  forth, 
"  Orange  and  Green  will  carry  the  day ;" 

No  surrender ! 

No  Pretender 
Never  to  falter  and  never  betray — 

With  an  Amen, 

We  swear  it  again, 
ORANGE  AND  GKEKN  SHALL  CARRY  THE  DAT. 


n. 


$jUti0nal  Songs  anb 


"  Tfc««  greatest  achievement  of  the  Irish  people  is  their  music. 
It  tells  tliolr  history,  climate,  and  character:  tint  it  too  much 
love*  to  weep.  Lot  us,  when  so  many  of  our  chains  have  been 
broken — wliile  our  strength  is  great,  and  our  hopes  high — cultl- 
»atc  Its  holder  strains — its  raging  nml  rejoicing  :  or  If  we  woep,  lot 
It  be  like  men  who-*  eyes  nre  lifted,  though  their  tears  full. 

••  Music  Is  the  flrst  faculty  of  the  Irish  ;  and  scarcely  any  thing 
ban  snrh  power  fur  eood  over  them.  The  use  of  this  faculty  ana 
lhl«  power,  pnblicly  and  constantly,  to  keep  up  their  spirits,  re- 
fine their  tastes,  warm  their  courage,  increase  their  union,  and 
renew  their  real—  is  the  duty  of  every  patriot." — DAVIS'S  ESSAYS. 


THE  LOST  PATH. 


AiK—GrddJi  mo 


SWEET  thoughts,  bright  dreams,  my  comfort  be 

All  comfort  else  has  flown  : 
For  every  hope  was  false  to  mo, 

And  here  I  am,  alone. 
NVhat  thoughts  were  mine  in  early  youth  ! 

Like  some  old  Irish  song, 


Brimful  of  love,  and  life,  and  truth, 
My  spirit  gushed  along. 

II. 
I  hoped  to  right  my  native  isle, 

I  hoped  a  soldier's  fame, 
I  hoped  to  rest  in  woman's  smile, 

And  win  a  minstrel's  name. 
Oh  !  little  have  I  served  my  land, 

No  laurels  press  my  brow, 
I  have  no  woman's  heart  or  hand, 

Nor  min-trcJ  honors  now 

in. 

But  fancy  has  a  magic  power, 

It  brings  me  wreath  and  crown, 
And  woman's  love,  the  self-same  hour 

It  smites  oppression  down. 
Sweet  thoughts,  bright  dreams,  my  comfort  bo, 

I  have  no  joy  beside  ; 
Oh  !  throng  around,  and  be  to  me 

Power,  country,  fame,  and  bride. 


492 


THE  POEMS  OF  THOMAS   DAVIS. 


LOVE'S   LONGINGS. 


To  the  conqpaeror  his  crowning, 

First  freedom  to  the  slave, 
And  air  unto  the  drowning, 

Sunk  in  the  ocean's  wave — 
And  succor  to  the  faithful, 

Who  fight  their  flag  above, 
Are  sweet,  but  far  less  grateful 

Than  were  my  lady's  love. 


1  know  I  am  not  worthy 

Of  one  so  young  and  bright ; 
And  yet  I  would  do  for  thee 

Far  more  than  others  might; 
I  cannot  give  you  pomp  or  gold, 

If  you  should  be  my  wife, 
But  I  can  give  you  love  untold, 

And  true  in  death  or  life. 

in. 
Methinks  that  there  are  passions 

Within  that  heaving  breast 
To  scorn  their  heartless  fashion, 

And  wed  whom  you  love  best. 
Methinks  you  would  be  prouder 

As  the  struggling  patriot's  bride, 
Than  if  rank  your  home  should  crowd,  or 

Cold  riches  round  you  glide. 

IV. 

Oh !  the  watcher  longs  for  morning, 

And  the  infant  cries  for  light, 
And  the  saint  for  heaven's  warning, 

And  the  vanquished  pray  for  might ; 
But  their  prayer,  when  lowest  kneeling, 

And  their  suppliance  most  true, 
Are  cold  to  the  appealing 

Of  this  longing  heart  to  you. 


HOPE   DEFERRED. 

Aim — OKI  art  thou  gone,  my  Mary  dear  f 
I. 

TIB  long  since  we  were  forced  to  part,  at  least  it 

seems  so  to  my  grief, 
For  sorrow   wearies  us  like  time,  but  ah      it 

brings  not  time's  relief; 


As  in  our  days  of  tenderness,  before  me  still  she- 
seems  to  glide ; 

And,  though  my  arms  are  wide  as  then,  yet  she- 
will  not  abide. 

The  daylight  and  the  starlight  shine,  as  if  her 
eyes  were  in  their  light, 

And,  whispering  in  the  panting  breeze,  her  love- 
songs  come  at,  lonely  night ; 

While,  far  away  with  those  less  dear,  she  tries  to 
hide  her  grief  in  vain, 

For,  kind  to  all  while  true  to  me,  it  pains  her  1>- 
give  pain. 

ii. 

I  know  she  never  spoke   her  love,  she  never 

breathed  a  single  vow, 
And  yet  I'm  sure  she  loved  me  then,  and  still 

doats  on  me  now; 
For  when  we  met,  her  eyes  grew  glad,  and  heavy 

when  I  left  her  side, 
And  oft  she  said  she'd  be  most  happy  as  a  poor 

man's  bride ; 
I  toiled  to  win  a  pleasant  home,  and  make  it 

ready  by  the  spring  ; 
The  spring  is  past — what  season  now  my  girl 

unto  our  home  will  bring? 
I'm    sick    and   weary,    very   weary — watching,. 

morning,  night,  and  noon ; 
How  long  you're  coming — I  am  dying — will  you 

not  come  soon  ? 


EIBHLIN   A   RtJIN. 


AIR — Mbhlin  a  ruin. 


WHEN  I  am  far  away, 
Eibhlin  a  ruin, 
Be  gayest  of  the  gay, 
Eibhlin  a  rui», 
Too  dear  your  happiness, 
For  me  to  wish  it  less — 
Love  has  no  selfishness, 
Eibhlin  a  ruin. 

ii. 
And  it  must  be  our  pride, 

Eibhlin  a  r&in, 
Our  trusting  hearts  to  hide, 

Eibhlin  a  ruin. 


THE   POEMS   OF  THOMAS   DAVIS. 


493 


They  wish  our  love  to  blight, 

We'll  wait  for  Fortune's  light, 

The  flowers  close  up  at  night, 

Eibhlin  a  ruin. 

in. 

And  when  we  meet  alone, 

Eibhlin  a  ruin, 
Upon  my  bosom  thrown, 

Eibhlin  a  ruin  ; 
That  hour,  with  light  bedecked, 
Shall  cheer  us  and  direct, 
A  beacon  to  the  wrecked, 
Eibhlin  a  ruin. 

IV. 

Fortune,  thus  sought,  will  corae, 

Eibhlin  a  ruin, 
We'll  win  a  happy  home, 

Eibhlin  a  ruin. 
And,  as  it  slowly  rose, 
'Twill  tranquilly  repose, 
A  rock  'mid  melting  snows, 

Eibhlin  a  ruin. 


THE  BANKS  OF  THE  LEE. 

AIR — A  Trip  to  the  Gottaye. 


OH  !  the  banks  of  the  Lee,  the  banks  of  the  Lee, 
And  love  in  a  cottage  for  Mar.y  and  me  ; 
There's  not  in  the  land  a  lovelier  tide, 
And  I'm  sure  that  there's  no  one  so  fair  as  my 
bride. 

She's  modest  and  meek, 

There's  a  down  on  her  cheek, 

And  her  skin  is  as  sleek 
As  a  butterfly's  wing — 

Then  her  step  would  scarce  show 

On  the  fresh-iallen  snow, 

And  her  whisper  is  low, 

But  as  clear  as  the  spring. 
Oh  !  the  banks  of  the  Lee,  the  banks  of  the  Lee, 
And  love  i-n  a  cottage  for  Mary  and  me, 
I  know  not  how  love  is  happy  elsewhere, 
I  know  not  how  any  but  lovers  are  there  ! 

n. 

Oh  !  so  green  is  the  grass,  so  clear  is  the  stream, 
So  mild  is  the  mist,  and  so  rich  is  the  beam, 


That  beauty  should  ne'er  to  other  lands  roam, 
But  make  on  the  banks  of  the  river  its  home. 
When  dripping  with  dew, 
The  roses  peep  through, 
'Tis  to  look  in  at  you 

They  are  growing  so  fast ; 
While  the  scent  of  the  flowers 
Must  be  hoarded  for  hours, 
'Tis  poured  in  such  showers 

When  ray  Mary  goes  past, 
the  banks  of  the  Lcc,  the  banks  of  the 

Lee, 

And  love  in  a  cottage  for  Mary  and  me — 
Oh,  Mary  for  me — oh,  Mary  for  me  ! 
And  'tis  little  I'd  sigh  for  the  banks  of  the 
Lee! 


Oh 


THE  GIRL  OF  DUNBWY 


'Tis  pretty  to  see  the  girl  of  Dunbwy 
Stepping  the  mountain  statelily — 
Though  ragged  her  gown,  and  naked  her  feet, 
No  lady  in  Ireland  to  match  her  is  meet. 

n. 

Poor  is  her  diet,  and  hardly  she  lies — 
Yet  a  monarch  might  kneel  for  a  glance  of  her 

eyes; 
The  child  of  a  peasant — yet  England's  proud 

Queen 
Has  less  rank  in  her  heart,  and  less  gra-.e  in  her 

mien. 

in. 

Her  brow  'neath  her  raven  haii  gleams,  just  as  if 
A  breaker  spread  white  'ncath  a  shadowy  cliff — 
And  love,  and  devotion,  and  energy  speak 
From  her  beauty-proud  eye,  and  her  passion- 
pale  cheek. 

IV. 

But,  pale  as  her  cheek  is,  there's  fruit  on  her 

lip, 
And   her  teeth  flash  as  white  as  the  crescent 

moon's  tip, 
And  her  form  and  her  step,  like  the  red-deer's 

go  past — 
As  lightsome,  as  lovely,  as  haughty,  aa  fast. 


494 


THE  POEMS  OF  THOMAS   DAVIS. 


v. 

I  saw  her  but  once,  and  I  looked  in  her  eye, 
And  sh'e  knew  that  I  worshipped  in  passing  her  by, 
The   saint   of  the    wayside — she   granted    my 

prayer, 
Though  we  spoke  not  a  word,  for  her  mother 

was  there. 

VI. 

I  never  can  think  upon  Bantry's  bright  hills, 
But  her  image  starts  up,  and  my  longing  eye  fills ; 
And  I  whisper  her  softly,  "  Again,  love,  we'll 

meet, 
And  I'll  lie  in  your  bosom,  and  live  at  your  feet." 


DUTY  AND  LOVE. 

AIB — My  lodging  is  on  the  cold  ground. 


OH  !  lady,  think  not  that  my  heart  has  grown  cold, 

If  I  woo  not  as  once  I  could  woo  ; 
Though  sorrow  has  bruised  it,  and  long  years 
have  rolled, 

It  still  doats  on  beauty  and  you , 
And  were  I  to  yield  to  its  inmost  desire, 

I  would  labor  by  night  and  by  day^ 
Till  I  won  you  to  flee  from  the  home  of  your  sire, 

To  live  with  your  love  far  away. 

ii. 

But  it  is  that  my  country's  in  bondage,  and  I 

Have  sworn  to  shatter  her  chains  ! 
By  my  duty  and  oath  I  must  do  it,  or  lie 

A  corse  on  her  desolate  plains  : 
Then,  sure,  dearest  maiden,  'twere  sinful  to  sue, 

And  crueller  far  to  win, 
But,  should  victory  smile  on  my  banner,  to  you 

I  shall  fly  without  sorrow  or  sin 


ANNIE,  DEAR. 

AIB— Maidt  in  May. 


OUR  mountain  brooks  were  rushing, 
Annie,  dear, 

The  Autumn  eve  was  flushing, 

Annie,  dear; 


But  brighter  was  yo-ur  blushing, 
When  first,  your  murmurs  hushing, 
I  told  my  love  outgushing. 

Annie,  dear. 

n. 
Ah  !  but  our  hopes  were  splendid. 

Annie,  dear ; 
How  sadly  they  have  ended, 

Annie,  dear ! 

The  ring  betwixt  us  broken, 
When  our  vows  of  love  were  spoken, 
Of  your  poor  heart  was  a  token, 

Annio  dear. 

in. 
The  primrose  flowers  were  shining 

Annie,  dear, 
When,  on  my  breast  reclining, 

Annie,  dear, 

Began  our  Mi-na-meala  ; 
And  many  a  month  did  follow 
Of  joy — but  life  is  hollow, 

Annie,  dear. 

IV. 

For  once,  when  home  returning, 

Annie,  dear, 

I  found  our  cottage  burning, 

Annie,  dear ; 

Around  it  were  the  yeomen, 

Of  every  ill  an  omen, 

The  country's  bitter  focmen, 

Annie,  dear. 

v. 
But  why  arose  a  morrow, 

Annie,  dear, 
Upon  that  night  of  sorrow, 

Annie,  dear  f 
Far  better,  by  thee  lying, 
Their  bayonets  defying, 
Than  live  an  exile  sighing, 

Annie,  dear. 


BLIND  MARY. 

AIB — Blind  Mary. 
I. 


THERE  flows  from  her  spirit  such  love  an  1  delight, 
That  the  face  of  Blind  Mary  is  radiant  with  light — 


THE   POEMS   OF  THOMAS   DAVIS. 


41)5 


As  the  gleam  from  a  homestead  through  dark- 
ness will  show, 

Cr  the  moon  glimmer  soft  through  the  fast  fall- 
ing snow. 

ii. 

Yet  there's  a  keen  sorrow  comes  o'er  her  at 

times, 

As  an  Indian  might  feel  in  our  northerly  climes; 
And   she  talks  of  the  sunset,   like  parting  of 

friends, 
And  the  starlight,  as  love,  that  nor  changes  nor 

ends. 

HI. 

Ah  !  grieve  not,  sweet  maiden,  for  star  or  for  sun, 
For  the  mountains  that  tower,  or  the  rivers  that 

run — 

For  beauty  and  grandeur,  and  glory,  and  light, 
Are  seen  by  the  spirit,  and  not  by  the  sight. 

IV. 

In  vain  for   the  thoughtless  are  sunburst  and 

shade, 

In  vain  for  the  heartless  flowers  blossom  and  fade ; 
While  the  darkness  that  seems  your  sweet  being 

to  bound 
Is  one  of  the  guardians,  an  Eden  around  ! 


THE  BRIDE  OF  MALLOW. 


TWAS  dying  they  thought  her, 
And  kindly  they  brought  her 
To  the  banks  of  Blackwatcr, 

Where  her  forefathers  lie  ; 
Twaa  the  place  of  her  childhood, 
And  they  hoped  that  its  wild  wood, 
And  air  soft  and  mild  would 

Soothe  her  spirit  to  die. 

ii. 

But  she  met  on  its  border 
A  lad  who  adored  her — 
No  rich  man,  nor  lord,  or 

A  coward,  or  slave  ; 
But  one  who  had  worn 
A  green  coat,  and  borne 
A  pike  from  Slieve  Mourne, 

With  the  patriots  brave. 


HI. 

Oh!  the  banks  of  the  stream  arc 

Than  emeralds  greener : 

And  how  should  they  wean  her 

From  loving  the  earth  ': 
While  the  song-birds  so  sweet, 
And  the  waves  at  their  feet, 
And  each  young  pair  they  meet, 

Are  all  flushing  with  mirth. 

IV. 

And  she  listed  his  talk, 

And  he  shared  in  her  walk — 

And  how  could  she  baulk 

One  so  gallant  and  true  ? 
But  why  tell  the  rest  ? 
Her  love  she  confest, 
And  sunk  on  his  breast, 

Like  the  eventide  dew. 

v. 

Ah  !  now  her  cheek  glows 
With  the  tint  of  the  rose, 
And  her  healthful  blood  flows, 

Just  as  fresh  as  the  stream ; 
And  her  eye  flashes  bright, 
And  her  footstep  is  light, 
And  sickness  and  blight 

Fled  away  like  a  d rerun. 

VI. 

And  soon  by  his  side 
She  kneels  a  sweet  bride, 
In  maidenly  pride 

And  maidenly  fears ; 
And  their  children  were  fair, 
And  their  home  knew  no  care, 
Save  that  all  homesteads  were 

Not  as  happy  as  theirs. 


THE  WELCOME. 

Am — An  buac/iailin  buidht. 
I. 

COMB  in  the  evening,  or  come  in  the  morning, 
Come  when  your  looked  for,  or  come  without 

warning, 

Kisses  and  welcome  you'll  find  here  before  you, 
And  the  oftener  you  come  here  the  more  I'll 

adore  you. 


406 


THE  POEMS   OF  THOMAS   DAVIS. 


Light   is  ray  heart  since  the  day   we  were 

plighted, 
Red    is   my   cheek   that   they  told   me  was 

blighted ; 
The  green  of  the  trees  looks  far  greener  than 

ever, 
And   the  -innets  are  singing,   "True  lovers! 

don't  sever." 

ii. 

I'll  pull  you  sweet  flowers,  to  wear  if  you  choose 

them; 
Or,  after  you've  kissed  them,  they'll  lie  on  my 

bosom. 
I'll  fetch  from  the  mountain  its  breeze  to  inspire 

you; 
I'll  fetch  from  my  fancy  a  tale  that  won't  tire 

you. 

Oh !  your  step's  like  the  rain  to  the  summer- 
vexed  farmer, 

Or  sabre  and  shield  to  a  knight  without  armor; 
I'll  sing  you  sweet  songs  till   the  stars  rise 

above  me, 

Then,  wandering,  I'll  wish  you,  in  silence,  to 
love  me 

in. 

We'll  look  through  the  trees  at  the  cliff,  and  the 

eyrie, 
We'll  tread  round  the  rath  on  the  track  of  the 

fairy, 
We'll  look  on  the  stars,  and  we'll  list  to  the 

river, 
Fill  you  ask  of  your  darling  what  gift  you  can 

give  her. 

Oh!  she'll  whisper  you  :   "Love  as  unchange- 
ably beaming, 
And   trust,   when   in   secret,   most   tunefully 

streaming, 
Till   the  starlight  of  heaven  above   us  shall 

quiver, 

As  our   souls   flow   in   one  down  eternity's 
river." 


IV. 

So  come  in  the  evening,  or  come  in  the  morn- 

ing, 
Come  when  you're  looked  for,  or  come  without 

warning, 
Kisses   and    welcome   you'll   find    here   before 

you, 

And  the  oftener  you  come  here  the  more  I'll 
adore  vou ! 


Light  is  my  heart  since   the  day   we  were 

plighted, 
Red    is   my  cheek   that   they  told    me   was 

blighted ; 
The  green  of  the  trees  looks  far  greener  than 

ever, 
And  the   linnets  are  singing,  "True  lover*! 

don't  sever !" 


THE  Ml-NA-MEALA. 


LIKE  the  rising  of  the  sun, 

Herald  of  bright  hours  to  follow, 
Lo !  the  marriage  rites  are  done, 

And  begun  the  Mi-na-meala. 


ii. 


Heart  to  heart,  and  hand  to  hand, 
Vowed  'fore  God  to  love  and  cherish, 

Each  by  each  in  grief  to  stand, 
Never  more  apart  to  flourish. 


in. 


Now  their  lips,  low  whisp'ring,  speak 

Thoughts  their  eyes  have  long  been  saying, 

Softly  bright,  and  richly  meek, 

As  seraphs  first  their  wings  essaying, 


IV. 


Deeply,  wildly,  warmly  love — • 
'Tis  a  heaven-sent  enjoyment, 

Lifting  up  our  thoughts  above 

Selfish  aims  and  cold  employment. 


v. 


Yet,  remember,  passion  wanes, 
Romance  is  parent  to  dejection  ; 

Naught  our  happiness  sustains 

But  thoughtful  care  and  firm  affection. 


VI. 


When  the  Mi-na-meala1  s  flown, 
Sterner  duties  surely  need  you; 

Do  their  bidding, — 'tis  love's  own, — 
Faithful  love  will  say  God  speed  you. 


VII. 


Guard  her  comfort  as  'tis  worth, 
Pray  to  God  to  look  down  on  her; 

And  swift  as  cannon-shot  go  forth 

To  strive  for  freedom,  truth,  and  honor. 


THE  POEMS  OF  THOMAS   DAVIS. 


497 


VIII. 

Oft  recall — and  never  swerve — 

Your  children's  love  and  hers  will  follow  ; 
Guard  yonr  home,  and  there  preserve 

For  vou  an  endless  Mi-na-mcala.1 


MAIRE  BIIAN  A  ST6IR. 

Am — Original. 


IN  a  valley,  far  away, 

With  mv  ^fdil•e  blidn  a  $t6ir* 
Short  would  be  the  summer-day, 

Ever  loving  more  and  more ; 
Winter-days  would  all  grow  long, 

With  the  light  her  heart  would  pour, 
With  her  kisses  and  her  song, 
And  her  loving  maith  go  Ie6r.* 
Fond  is  Mdire  bhdn  a  st6ir, 
Fair  is  Mdire  bhan  a  sldir, 
Sweet  as  ripple  on  the  shore, 
Sings  my  Mdire  bhdn  a  st6ir. 

ii. 
Oh  !  her  sire  is  very  proud, 

And  her  mother  cold  as  stone ; 
But  her  brother  bravely  vowed 

She  should  be  my  bride  alone ; 
For  he  knew  I  loved  her  well, 

And  he  knew  she  loved  me  too, 
So  he  sought  their  pride  to  quell, 
But  'twas  all  in  vain  to  sue. 

True  is  Mdire  bhdn  a  stdir, 
Tried  is  Mdire  bhdn  a  stdir, 
Had  I  wings  I'd  never  soar 
From  my  Mdire  bhdn  a  stdir. 

HI. 
There  are  lands  where  manly  toil 

Surely  reaps  the  crop  it  sows, 
Glorious  woods  and  teeming  soil, 

Where  the  broad  Missouri  flows; 
Through  the  trees  the  smoke  shall  rise, 

From  our  hearth  with  maith  «/o  ledr, 
There  shall  shine  the  happy  eyes 

Of  my  Mdire  bhdn  a  stdir. 


1  Money  i  n  DO  n. 

•H  Which  means  "fair  M»ry  my  treasure."  If  we  are  to  writ* 
to  enable  tome  of  our  reader*  to  pronounce  this,  we 
u(  do  no  thai,  Maur-ya  taun  nttfuu-e,  and  pretty  looking »tuff 


Mild  is  Mdire  bhdn  a  stdir, 
Mine  is  Mdire  bhdn  a  stdir, 
Saints  will  watch  about  the  door 
Of  my  Mdire  bhdn  a  stdir. 


OH !  THE  MARRIAGE. 

AIR — Tfa  Swaggering  Jig. 


On  !  the  marriage,  the  marriage, 

With  love  and  mo  bhuachaill  for  me, 
The  ladies  that  ride  in  a  carriage 

Might  envy  my  marriage  to  me ; 
For  Eoghan4  is  straight  as  a  tower, 

And  tender  and  loving  and  true, 
He  told  me  more  love  in  an  hour 

Than  the  'Squires  of  the  county  could  do. 
Then,  Oh  !  the  marriage,  &c. 

ii. 
His  hair  is  a  shower  of  soft  gold, 

His  eye  is  as  clear  as  the  day, 
His  conscience  and  vote  were  unsold 

When  others  were  carried  away  ; 
His  word  is  as  good  as  an  oath, 

And  freely  'twas  given  to  me  : 
Oh  !  sure  'twill  be  happy  for  both 

The  day  of  our  marriage  to  see. 
Then,  Oh  !  the  marriage,  <fec. 

in. 

His  kinsmen  are  honest  and  kind, 

The  neighbors  think  much  of  his  skill, 
And  Eoghan's  the  iad  to  my  mind, 

Though  he  owns  neither  castle  nor  mill 
But  he  has  a  tilloch  of  land, 

A  horse  and  a  stocking  of  coin, 
A  foot  for  the  dance,  and  a  hand 

In  the  cause  of  his  country  to  join. 
Then,  Oh  !  the  marriage,  «k«» 

IV. 

We  meet  in  the  market  and  fair — 
We  meet  in  the  morning  and  night — 

llu  sits  on  the  half  of  my  chair, 
And  my  people  are  wild  with  delight. 


it  i>      Really  It  la  Urn*  for  the  ir.habiuaw  of  Ireland  to  learn  Ir 
ii  Much  plenty,  or  In  abundauc*.  — Avrruou'i  NOTI. 
4  r*lffo  Owen  ;  but  that  Is.  piuperly,  a  naiae  among  the  I'ym 

(Welsh).— M 


498 


THE  POEMS   OF  THOMAS   DAVIS 


Yet  I  long  through  the  winter  to  skim, 

Though  Eoghan  longs  more  I  can  see, 
When  I  will  be  married  to  him, 
And  he  will  be  married  to  me. 

Then,  Oh  !  the  marriage,  the  marriage, 
With  love  and  mo  bkuachaill  for  me, 
The  ladies  that  ride  in  a  carnage, 
Might  envy  my  marriage  to  me. 


A  PLEA  FOR  LOVE. 


THE  summer  brook  flows  in  the  bed 

The  winter  torrent  tore  asunder ; 
The  skylark's  gentle  wings  are  spread, 

Where  walk  the  lightning  and  the  thunder : 
And  thus  you'll  find  the  sternest  soul 

The  greatest  tenderness  concealing, 
And  minds,  that  seem  to  mock  control, 

Are  ordered  by  some  fairy  feeling. 

n. 

Then,  maiden !  start  not  from  the  hand 

That's  hardened  by  the  swaying  sabre — 
The  pulse  beneath  may  be  as  bland 

As  evening  after  day  of  labor  : 
Aud,  maiden  !  start  not  from  the  brow 

That  thought  has  knit,  and  passion  darkened  ; 
In  twilight  hours,  'neath  forest  bough, 

The  tenderest  tales  are  often  hearkened. 


THE  BISHOP'S  DAUGHTER. 

AIK — The  Maid  of  Killala. 


KILLALA'S  halls  are  proud  and  fair  ; 
Tyrawley's  hills  are  cold  and  bare  ; 
Yet,  in  the  palace,  you  were  sad, 
While,  here,  your  heart  is  safe  and  glad. 

11. 

No  satin  couch,  no  maiden  train, 
Are  here  to  soothe  each  passing  pain  ; 
Yet  lay  your  head  my  breast  upon, — 
'Twill  turn  to  down  for  you,  sweet  one ! 


Your  fathers  halls  are  nch  and  fair, 
And  plain  the  home  you've  come  to 
But  happy  love's  a  fairy  king, 
And  sheds  a  grace  on  every  thing. 


THE  BOATMAN  OF  KIN  >ALB. 

AIR  —  An  Cota  Gaol. 

I. 

His  kiss  is  sweet,  his  word  is  kind, 

His  love  is  rich  to  me  ; 
I  could  not  in  a  palace  find 

A  truer  heart  than  he. 
The  eagle  shelters  not  his  nest 

From  hurricane  and  hail, 
More  bravely  than  he  guards  my  breast—- 

The Boatman  of  Kinsale. 

ii. 

The  wind  that  round  the  Fastnet  sweep*. 

Is  not.  a  whit  more  pure  — 
The  goat  that  down  Cnoc  Sheeliy  leaps 

Has  not  a  foot  more  sure. 
No  firmer  hand  nor  freer  eye 

E'er  faced  an  Autumn  gale  — 
De  Courcy's  heart  is  not  so  high  — 

The  Boatman  of  Kinsale. 


in. 

The  brawling  squires  may  heed  him 

The  dainty  stranger  sneer  — 
But  who  will  dare  to  hurt  our  cot, 

When  Mylcs  O'llea  is  here  ! 
The  scarlet  soldiers  pass  along  — 

They'd  like,  but  fear  to  rail  — 
His  blood  is  hot,  his  blow  is  strong  — 

The  Boatman  of  Kinsale. 

IV. 

His  hooker's  i»  the  Scilly  van, 

When  seines  are  in  the  foam  : 
But  money  never  made  the  man, 

Nor  wealth  a  happy  home. 
So,  blest  with  love  and  liberty, 

While  he  can  trim  a  sail, 
He'll  trust  in  God,  and  cling  to  me  — 

The  Boatman  of  Kinsale. 


THE  POEMS  OF  THOMAS  DAVIS. 


DARLING  NELL. 


WHY  should  not  I  take  her  unto  my  heart  ? 
She  has  not  a  morsel  of  guile  or  art; 
Why  should  not  I  make  her  my  happy  wife, 
And  love  her  and  cherish  her  all  my  life? 
I've  met  with  a  lew  of  as  shining  eyes, 
I've  met  with  H  hundred  of  wilder  sighs, 
I  think  I  met  some  whom  I  loved  as  well — 
But  none  who  loved  me  like  my  Darling  Nell. 

ii. 

She's  ready  to  cry  when  I  seem  unkind, 
But  she  smothers  her  grief  within  her  mind  ; 
And  when  ray  spirit  is  soft  and  fond, 
She  sparkles  the  brightest  of  stars  beyond. 
Oh  !  'twould  teach  the  thrushes  to  hear  her  siug, 
And    her  sorrow    the    heart  of  a   rock  would 

wring ; 

There  never  was  saint  but  would  leave  his  cell, 
If  he  thought  he  could  marry  my  Darling  Nell  I 


LOVE  CHANT. 


I  THINK  I've  looked  on  eyes  that  shone 

With  equal  splendor, 
And  some,  but  they  are  dimmed  and  gone, 

As  wildly  tender. 
I  never  looked  on  eyes  that  shed 

Such  home-light  mingled  with  such  beauty- 
That  'mid  all  lights  and  shadows  said, 
"I  love  and  trust  and  will  be  true  to  ye." 

n. 
I've  seen  some  lips  almost  as  red, 

A  form  as  stately  ; 
And  some  such  beauty  turned  my  head 

Not  very  lately. 
But  not  till  now  I've  seen  a  girl 

With  form  so  proud,  lips  so  delicious, 

Vith  hair  like  night,  arid  teeth  of  pearl — 

Who  was  not  haughty  and  capricious. 

in. 

Oh,  fairer  than  the  dawn  of  day 
On  Erne's  islands ! 


Oh,  purer  than  the  thorn  sp-  <y 

In  Bantry's  highlands ! 
In  sleep  such  visions  crossed  mv  view, 

And  when  I  woke  the  phantom  faded  ; 
But  now  I  find  the  fancy  true, 

And  fairer  than  the  vision  made  it. 


A  CHRISTMAS  SCENE; 

OR,  LOVK    IN  THE  COUNTRT. 


THP  mil    blast   comes    howling   through    leaf 

rifted  trees 
That  late  were  as  harp-strings  to  each    gentle 

breeze ; 

The  strangers  and  cousins  and  everv  one  flown, 
While  we  sit  happy-hearted — together — alone. 

ii. 

Some  are  off  to  the  mountain,  and  some  to  the  fair, 
The  snow  is  on  their  cheek,  on  mine  your  black 

hair ; 

Papa  with  his  farming  is  busy  to-day, 
And  mamma's  too  good-natured  to  ramble  this 

way. 

in. 

The  girls  are  gone — are  they  not  ? — into  town, 
To  fetch  bows  and  bonnets,  perchance  a  beau, 

down  ; 
Ah !    tell    them,   dear   Kate,   'tis   not    fair    to 

coquette — 
Though  you,  you  bold  lassie,  are  fond  of  it  yet  1 

IV. 

You're  not — do  you  say  ? — just  remember  last 

night, 
You  gave  Harry  a  rose,  and  you  dubbed  him 

your  knight ; 

Poor  lad  !  if  he  loved  you — but  no,  darling !  no, 
You're  too  thoughtful  and  good  to  fret  any  one  so. 

v. 

The  painters  arc  raving  of  light  and  of  shade, 
And  Harry,  the  poet,  of  lake,  hill,  and  glade; 
While  the  light  of  your  eye  and  your  soft 

wavy  form 
Suit  a  proser  like  me,  by  the   hearth   bright 

and  warm. 


500 


THE  POEMS  OF  THOMAS   DAVIS. 


VI. 


The  snow  on  those  hills  is  uncommonly  grand, 
But  you  know.  Kate,  it's  not  half  so  white  as 

your  hand, 
And  say  what  you  will  of  the  gray  Christmas  sky, 

I  sliyhtly  prefer  my  dark  girl's  gray  eye. 


Be  quiet,  and  sing  me  "  The  Bonny  Cuckoo," 
For  it  bids    us   the  summer   and   winter   love 

through  ; 

And  then  I'll  read  out  an  old  ballad  that  shows 
IIow  Tyranny  perished,  and  Liberty  rpse. 


My  Kate  !  I'm  so  happy,  your  voice  whispers  soft, 
And  your  cheek  flushes  wilder  from  kissing  so 

oft, 

For  town  or  for  country,  for  mountains  or  farms, 
What  care  I  ? — My   darling's  entwined   in  ray 

arms. 


THE  INVOCATION. 

AIR — Fanny  Power. 


BRIGHT  fairies  by  GlengarifFs  bay, 
Soft  woods  that  o'er  Killarney  sway, 
Bold  echoes  born  in  Ceim-an-eich, 

Your  kinsman's  greeting  hear  ! 
He  asks  you,  by  old  friendship's  name, 
By  all  the  rights  that  minstrels  claim, 
For  Erin's  joy  and  Desmond's  fame, 

Be  kind  to  Fanny  dear  ! 

n. 

Her  eyes  are  darker  than  Dunloe, 
Her  soul  is  whiter  than  the  snow, 
Her  tresses  like  arbutus  flow, 

Her  step  like  frighted  deer : 
Then,  still  thy  waves,  capricious  lake ! 
And  ceaseless,  soft  winds,  round  her  wake, 
Yet  never  bring  a  cloud  to  break 

The  smile  of  Fanny  dear  I 

in. 

Oh !  let  her  see  the  trance-bound  men, 
And  kiss  the  red  deer  in  his  den, 
And  spy  from  out  a  hazel  glen 

O'Donoghue  appear ; — 


Or,  should  she  roam  by  wild  Dunbwy, 
Oh !  send  the  maiden  to  hei  knee, 
I  sung  whilome,1  — but  then,  ah  !  me, 
I  knew  not  Fanny  dear ! 

IV. 

Old  Mangerton  !  thine  eagles  plume — 

Dear  Innisfallen!  brighter  bloom — 

And  Mucruss !  whisper  through  the  gloom 

Quaint  legends  to  her  ear ; 
Till  strong  as  ash-tree  in  its  pride, 
And  gay  as  sunbeam  on  the  tide, 
We  welcome  back  to  Liffey's  side 

Our  brightest,  Fanny  dear. 


LOVE   AND   WAR. 

i. 

How  soft  is  the  moon  on  Glengariff! 

The  rocks  seem  to  melt  with  the  light  • 
Oh  !  would  I  were  there  with  dear  Fanny, 

To  tell  her  that  love  is  as  bright ; 
And  nobly  the  sun  of  July 

O'er  the  waters  of  Adragoole  shines — 
Oh !  would  that  I  saw  the  green  banner 

Blaze  there  over  conquering  lines. 

ii. 
Oh  !  love  is  more  fair  than  the  moonlight, 

And  glory  more  grand  than  the  sun ; 
And  there  is  no  rest  for  a  brave  heart. 

Till  its  bride  and  its  laurels  are  won  ; 
But  next  to  the  burst  of  our  banner, 

And  the  smile  of  dear  Fanny,  I  craTg 
The  moon  on  the  rocks  of  Glengariff — 

The  sun  upon  Adragoole's  wave. 


MY   LAND. 

i. 

SHE  is  a  rich  and  rare  land ; 
Oh !  she's  a  fresh  and  fair  land — 
She  is  a  dear  and  rare  land — 
This  native  land  of  mine. 

n. 

No  men  than  hers  are  braver — 
Her  women's  hearts  ne'er  waver  : 
I'd  freely  die  to  save  her, 

And  think  my  lot  divine. 


1  ride  ante,  page  27. 


THE   POEMS  OF  THOMAS   DAVIS. 


501 


in. 


Site's  not  a  dull  or  cold  land ; 
No !  she's  a  warm  and  bold  land ; 
Oh  !  she's  a  true  and  old  land — 
This  native  land  of  mine. 


IV. 


Could  beauty  ever  guard  her, 
And  virtue  still  reward  her, 
No  foe  would  cross  her  border — 
No  friend  within  it  pine ! 


v. 


Oh,  she's  a  fresh  and  fair  land ; 
Oh,  she's  a  true  and  rare  land; 
Yes,  she's  a  rare  and  fair  land — 
This  native  land  of  mine. 


THE  RIGHT  ROAD, 
i. 

LET  the  feeble-hearted  pine 
Let  the  sickly  spirit  whine, 
But  work  and  win  be  thine, 
While  you've  life. 


God  smiles  upon  the  bold — 
So,  when  your  flag's  unrolled, 
Bear  it  bravely  till  you're  cold 
In  the  strife. 

II. 

If  to  rank  or  fame  you  soar, 
Out  your  spirit  frankly  pour — 
Men  will  serve  you  and  adore, 

Like  a  king. 

Woo  your  girl  with  honest  pride, 
Till  you've  won  her  for  your  bride- 
Then  to  her,  through  time  and  tide, 

Ever  cling 

in. 

Never  under  wrongs  despair ; 
Labor  long,  and  everywhere, 
Link  your  countrymen,  prepare, 

And  strike  home. 

Thus  have  great  men  ever  wrought, 
Thus  must  greatness  still  be  sought, 
Thus  labored,  loved  and  fought 

Greece  and  Rome. 


in. 

antr  Swrtgs  ilhtstratibe  0f  Irisjr  fjhl0rg. 


THIS  country  of  ours  is  no  sand-bank,  thrown  up  by  some 
recent  caprice  of  earth.  It  Is  an  ancient  land,  honored  in  the 
archives  of  civilization,  traceable  into  antiquity  by  its  pi'  ty, 
its  valor,  and  Its  sufferings.  Every  great  European  race  has 
sent  Its  strtani  to  the  river  of  Irish  mind.  Long  wars,  vast 
optimizations,  subtle  codes,  beacon  crimes,  leading  virtues, 
and  self-mighty  men  were  here.  If  we  lived  influenced  by 
win. I.  and  sun,  and  tree,  and  not  by  the  passions  and  deeds  of 
the  PAST,  we  are  a  thriftless  and  hopeless  people."— DAVIS'S 
ESSAYS. 


A  NATION  ONCE  AGAIN.11 

i. 
WHEN  boyhood's  fire  was  in  my  blood, 

I  read  of  ancient  freemei  , 
For  Greece  and  Rome  who  bravely  stood, 
THREE  HUNDRED  MEN  AND  THREE  MEN.' 


1  This  little  poem,  though  not  strictly  belonging  to  the  his- 
torical class,  is  placed  first  •  as  striking  more  distinctly  than 
iinv  ,.fii.-r  In  the  collection,  the  key-note  of  the  author's 
theme.— ED. 


And  then  I  prayed  I  yet  might  see 

Our  fetters  rent  in  twain, 
And  Ireland,  long  a  province,  be 

A  NATION  ONCE  AGAIN. 

n. 
And,  from  that  time,  through  wildest  woe, 

That  hope  has  shown,  a  far  light; 
Nor  could  love's  bright  i-st  summer  glow 

Outshine  that  solemn  starlight ; 
It  seemed  to  watch  above  my  head 

In  forum,  field,  and  fane ; 
Its  angel  voice  sang  round  my  bed, 

"A  NATION  ONCE  AGAIN." 


3 Set  to  original  music  in  the  "Spirit  of  the  Nation,"  4to,  p. 
272. 

3 The  Three  Hundred  Greek*  who  died  at  Thermopylae,  and 
the  Three  Romans  who  kept  the  Subltclan  Bridge.— AUTHoR*t 
NOTE. 


502 


THE   POEMS   OF.  THOMAS   DAVIS. 


in. 
It  whispered,  too,  that  "  freedom's  ark 

And  service  high  and  holy, 
Would  be  profaned  by  feelings  dark 

And  passions  vain  or  lowly  ; 
For  freedom  comes  from  God's  right  hand, 

A.nd  needs  a  godly  train  ; 
And  righteous  men  must  make  our  land 

A  NATION  ONCE  AGAIN." 


So,  as  I  grew  from  boy  to  man, 

I  bent  me  to  that  bidding — 
My  spirit  of  each  selfish  plan 

And  cruel  passion  ridding ; 
For,  thus  I  hoped  same  day  to  aid — 

Oh  !  can  such  hope  be  vain  ? — 
When  my  dear  country  shall  be  made 

A  NATION  ONCE  AGAIN. 


LAMENT  FOR  THE  MILESIANS. 

AIR— An  bruach  na  ca.rra.ige  bdine.1 
I. 

OH  !  proud  were  the  chieftains  of  green  Inis-Fail! 

As  truagh  gan  oidhir  'n-a  bh-farradh !  * 
The  stars  of  our  sky,  and  the  salt  of  our  soil ; 

As  truagh  gan  oidhir  'n-a  bh-farradh  ! 
Their  hearts  were  as  soft  as  a  child  in  the  lap, 
Yet  they  were  "  the  men  in  the  gap" — 
And  now  that  the  cold  clay  their  limbs  doth 
enwrap  ; — 

A  s  truagh  gan  oidhir  'n-a  bh-farradh  ! 

ii. 

'Gainst  England  long  battling,  at  length  they 
went  down ; 

As  truagh  gan  oidhir  'n-a  bh-farradh  ! 
But  they  left  their  deep  tracks  on  the  road  of 
renown  ; 

As  truagh  gan  oidhir  'n-a  bh-farradh  ! 
We  are  heirs  of  their  fame,  if  we're  not  of  their 

race, — 

And  deadly  and  deep  our  disgrace, 
If  we  live  o'er  their  sepulchres,  abject  and  base ; 
As  truagh  gan  oidhir  'n-a  bh-farradh  ! 


1  Set  to  this  beautiful  Tipperary  air  In  the  "  Spirit  of  the  Na- 
tion," 4to,  p.  236. 

2"  That  Is  pity,  without  heir  In  their  company1' — i.  e.,  What 
a  pity  that  there  Is  no  heir  of  their  company.  See  the  poem 
Of  Giolla  losa  Mor  Mao  Firblslgh  In  The  Genealogies,  Tribes. 


III. 

Oh !  sweet  were  the   minstrels  of   kind   Inis- 
Fail ! 

As  truagh  gan  oidhir  'n-a  bh-farradh  ! 
Whose  music,  nor  ages  nor  sorrow  can  spoil ; 
As  truagh  gan  oidhir  ''n-a  bh-farradh  / 
But  their  sad  stifled  tones   are   like  streams 

flowing  hid, 

Their  caoine3  and  their  piopracht*  were  chid, 
And  their  language,  "  that   melts  in  music," 
forbid ; 

As  truagh  gan  oidhir  'n-a  bh-farradh  ! 

IV. 

How  fair  were  the  maidens  of  fair  Inis-Fail ! 

As  truagh  gan  oidhir  Jn-a  bh-farradh! 
As  fresh  and  as  free  as  the  sea-breeze  from  soil, 

As  truagh  gan  oidhir  'n-a  bh-farradh ! 
Oh  !  are  not  our  maidens  as  fair  and  as  pure  ? 
Can  our  music  no  longer  allure  ? 
And  can  we   but  sob,  as  such  wrongs  we  en- 
dure ? 

As  truagh  gan  oidhir  'n-a  bh-farradh! 


Their  famous,  their  holy,  their  dear  Inis-Fail ! 

As  truagh  gan  oidhir  'n-a  bh-farradh  ! 
Shall  it  still  be  a  prey  for  the  stranger  to  spoil  ? 

As  truagh  gan  oidhir  'n-a  bh-farradh  ! 
Sure,  brave  men  would  labor  by  night  and  by 

day 

To  banish  that  stranger  away  ; 
Or,  dying  for  Ireland,  the  future  would  say 

As  truagh  gan  oidhir  'n-a  bh-farradh  ! 


Oh !  shame — for  unchanged  is  the  face  of  our 
isle ; 

As  truagh  gan  oidhir  'n-a  bh-farradh  ! 
That  taught  them  to  battle,  to  sing,  and  to 
smile  ; 

As  truagh  gan  oidhir  'n-a  bh-farradh  ! 
We  are  heirs  of  their  rivers,  their  sea,  and  their 

land, — 

Our  sky  and  our  mountains  as  grand — 
We  are  heirs — oh  !  we're  not — of  their  heart 
and  their  hand  ; 

As  truagh  gan  oidhir  'n-a  bh-farradh ! 

and  Customs  of  the  Vi  FiachrackorO'Dubhda's  Country,  print- 
ed for  the  Irish  Arch.  Soc.,  p.  230.  line  2,  and  note  d.  Also, 
O'Reilly's  Diet  voce—farradh.— AUTHOR'S  NOTE. 

3  Anglice,  keen. 

4  Anglice,  pibroch. 


THE  FATE  OF  KING  DATHI. 


THE   POEMS   OF  THOMAS   DAVIS. 


503 


THE   FATE   OF   KING    DATHI.1 
(A.  D.  428.)' 


DARKLY  their  glibs  o'erhang, 
Sharp  is  their  wolf-dog's  fang, 
Bronze  spear  and  falchion  clang — 

Brave  men  might  shun  them 
Heavy  the  spoil  they  bear — 
Jewels  and  gold  are  there — 
llostage  and  maiden  fair — 

How  have  they  won  them  ? 

ii. 

From  the  soft  sons  of  Gaul, 
Roman,  and  Frank,  and  thrall, 
Borough,  and  hut,  and  hall, — 

These  have  been  torn. 
Over  Britannia  wide, 
Over  fair  Gaul  they  hied, 
Often  in  battle  tried, — 

Enemies  mourn  ! 

in. 

Fiercely  their  harpers  sing, — 
Led  by  their  gallant  king, 
They  will  to  EIR£  bring 

Beauty  and  treasure. 
Britain  shall  bend  the  knee — 
Rich  shall  their  households  be — 
When  their  long  ships  the  sea 

Homeward  shall  measure. 

IV. 

Barrow  and  Rath  shall  rise, 
Towers,  too,  of  wondrous  size, 
Tdillin  they'll  solemnize, 

Feis-Teamhrach  assemble. 
Samhain  and  Beal  shall  smile 
On  the  rich  holy  isle — 
Nay  !  in  a  little  while 

CEtius  shall  tremble !' 

v. 

Up  on  the  glacier's  snow, 
Down  on  the  vales  below, 
Monarch  and  clansmen  go — 
Bright  is  the  morning. 

1  This  and  '.lie  remaining  poems  In  Part  I.  have  been  arranged 
l  nearly  as  possible  In  chronological  sequence.— Eo. 
•   Vi<l«  Appendix. 
I  Toe  consul  (Kiln*,  the  shield  of  Italy,  and  Urror  of  "  the  bar- 


Never  their  march  they  slack, 
Jura  is  at  their  back, 
When  falls  the  evening  black, 
Hideous,  and  warning. 

VI. 

Eagles  scream  loud  on  high  ; 
Far  off  the  chamois  fly  ; 
Hoarse  comes  the  torrent's  cry, 

On  the  rocks  whitening. 
Strong  are  the  storm's  wings  ; 
Down  the  tall  pine  it  flings  ; 
Hailstone  and  sleet  it  brings — 

Thunder  and  lightning. 

VII. 

Little  these  veterans  mind 
Thundering,  hail,  or  wind ; 
Closer  their  ranks  they  bind — 

Matching  the  storm. 
While,  a  spear-cast  or  more, 
On,  the  front  ranks  before, 
DAT  HI  the  sunburst  bore — 

Haughty  his  form. 

VIII. 

Forth  from  the  thunder-cloud 
Leaps  out  a  foe  as  proud — 
Sudden  the  monarch  bowed — 

On  rush  the  vanguard  ; 
Wildly  the  king  they  raise — 
Struck  by  the  lightning's  blaze — 
Ghastly  his  dying  gaze, 

Clutching  his  standard ! 


Mild  is  the  morning  beam, 
Gently  the  rivers  stream, 
Happy  the  valleys  seem  ; 

But  the  lone  Islanders — 
Mark  how  they  guard  their  king! 
Hark  to  the  wail  they  sing  ! 
Dark  is  their  counselling — 

Helvetia's  high  landers. 


Gather,  like  ravens,  near  — 
Shall  DATHI'S  soldiers  fcarf 
Soon  their  home-path  they  clear 
Rapid  and  daring; 


barlan."  was  a  contemporary  of  King  Dathl.  F« 
the  Parliament  of  Txru.  Ttiltin,  games  held  at  Tallite,  count; 
Meath.  S,itnlmin  and  lif<tl,  the  moon  and  sun,  wui.-u  Ireland 
worshipped.—  Aoruua'a  NOT*. 


604 


THE  POEMS   OF  THOMAS   DAVIS. 


On  through  the  pass  and  plain, 
Until  the  shore  they  gain, 
And,  with  their  spoil,  again, 
Landed  in  EIRINN. 


Little  does  EIRE'  care 
For  gold  or  maiden  fair — 
"Where  is  King  DATHI  ? — where, 

Where  is  my  bravest  ?" 
On  the  rich  deck  he  lies, 
O'er  him  his  sunburst  flies — 
Solemn  the  obsequies, 

EIRE  !  thou  gavest. 


See  ye  that  countless  train 
Crossing  Ros-ComainV  plain, 
Crying,  like  hurricane, 
Uile  I'm  ai ? — 
Broad  is  his  cam's  base — 
Nigh  the  "  King's  burial-place,"* 
Last  of  the  Pagan  race, 
Lieth  King  DATHI  ! 


ARGAN  M6R.4 

AIB— Argan  Mor. 


THE  Danes  rush  around,  around  ; 
To  the  edge  of  the  fosse  they  bound ; 
Hark  !  hark,  to  their  trumpets'  sound, 

Bidding  them  to  the  war  ! 
Hark !  hark,  to  their  cruel  cry, 
As  they  swear  our  hearts'  cores  to  dry, 
And  their  Raven  red  to  dye  ; 

Glutting  their  demon,  Thor. 

ii. 

Leaping  the  Rath  upon, 
Here's  the  fiery  Ceallachan — 
He  makes  the  Lochlonnach6  wan, 

Lifting  his  brazen  spear  ! 
Ivor,  the  Dane,  is  struck  down, 
For  the  spear  broke  right  through  his  crown. 
Yet  worse  did  the  battle  frown — 

Anlaf  is  on  our  rere  ! 


1  Tk«  Une  ancient  and  modern  name  of  this  island. — ED. 

2  Angl.  Boocommon. 

3  /Jiliernice,  Roilig  na  Riogh ;  vulgo,  Relignaree— "  A  famous 
kurial- place  near  Oruacban,  in  Connacht,  where  the  kings  were 


III. 

See  !  see  !  the  Rath's  gates  are  broke, 
And  in — in,  like  a  cloud  of  smoke, 
Burst  on  the  dark  Danish  folk, 

Charging  us  everywhere — 
Oh  !  never  was  closer  fight 
Than  in  Argan  Mor  that  night — 
How  little  do  men  want  light, 

Fighting  within  their  l;iir  ! 

IV. 

Then  girding  about  our  king, 
On  the  thick  of  the  foes  we  spring- 
Down — down  we  trample  and  fling, 

Gallantly  though  they  strive  ; 
And  never  our  falchions  stood, 
Till  we  were  all  wet  with  their  blood, 
And  none  of  the  pirate  brood 

Went  from  the  Rath  alive  ! 


THE  VICTOR'S  BURIAL. 


WRAP  him  in  his  banner,  the  best  shroud  of  the 

brave — 
Wrap  him  in  his  onchu*  and  take  him   to  his 

grave — 

Lay  him   not  down  lowly,  like  bulwark  over- 
thrown, 
But,  gallantly  upstanding,  as  if  risen  from  his 

throne, 
With  his  craiseach"1  in  his  hand,  and  his  sword 

on  his  thigh, 
With  his  war-belt  on  his  waist,  and  his  cath- 

bharr*  on  high — 
Put  his  Jleasff9   upon  his  neck — his  green  flag 

round  him  fold, 
Like  ivy  round   a  castle  wall — not  conquered, 

but  grown  old — 
'Mhuire  as   iruaf/h !     A  mhuire  as  truagh ! 

A  mhuire  as  truagh!  ochon  /" 
Weep  for  him  !     Oh  !  weep  for  him  ;  but  re- 
member, in  your  moan, 

That   he  died,  in    his   pride, — with   his  fooa 
about  him  strown. 


usually  interred,  before  the  establishment  of  the  Christian  rellgioc 

in  Ireland." — O'Srien's  It:  Diet. 

4  Vide  Appendix.          5  Northmen.  6  Flag.  7  Spear 

8  Helmet.         9  Collar.  10  Anglice,  Wirrasthrue,  ochon* 


THE  POEMS  OF  THOMAS   DAVIS. 


505 


Oh !  shrine  him  in  Bcinn-Edair,1  with  his  face 

towards  the  foe, 
As  an  emblem  that  not  death  our  defiance  can 

lay  low — 

Let  him  look  across  the  waves  from  the  prom- 
ontory's breast, 
To  menace  back  The  East,  and  to  sentinel  The 

West; 
Sooner  shall  these  channel  waves  the  iron  coast 

cut  through, 
Than  the  spirit  he  has  left,  yield,  Easterlings  !  to 

you — 
Let  his  coffin  be  the  hill,  let  the  eagles  of  the 

sea 
Chorus  with  the  surges  round,  the  tuireamh*  of 

the  free ! 
''Mhuire  as  Iruayh!     A  mhuire  as  truagh  ! 

A  mhuire  as  truagh  !  oclion  ! 
Weep  for  him  !    Oh  !  weep  for  him,  but  re- 
member, in  your  moan, 

That  he  died,  in    his   pride — with   his  foes 
about  him  strown  ! 


THE  TRUE  IRISH  KING.' 


THE  Caesar  of  Rome  has  a  wider  demesne, 
And  the  Ard  Riyh  of  France  has  more  clans  in 

his  train ; 

The  sceptre  of  Spain  is  more  heavy  with  gems, 
And    our  crowns   cannot  vie    with    the   Greek 

diadems ; 

But  kinglier  far  before  heaven  and  man 
Are  the  Emerald  fields,  and  the  fiery-eyed  clan, 
The  sceptre,  and  state,  and  the  poets  who  sing, 
And  the  swords  that  encircle  A  TRUE    IKJSH 

KING  ! 

n. 

For  he  must  have  come  from  a  conquering  race — 
The  heir  of  their  valor,  their  glory,  their  grace ; 
His  frame  must  be  stately,  his  step  must  be  fleet, 
His  hand  must  be  trained  to  each  warrior  feat, 


1  Howth. 

8    F'i</«  Appendix. 

4Angl.  O'Hagnn.  O'ShM. 

6  Angl.  O'Cnhan,  or  Kane,  O'Hanlon. 

I  Aral.  The  Ar.ls. 


9  A  masculine  lament. 


7  AnffL  Donrgn.. 


His  face,  as  the  harvest-moon,  steadfast  and  clear, 
A  head  to  enlighten,  a  spirit  to  cheer  ; 
While  the  foremost  to  rush  where  the  battle- 
brands  ring, 
And  the  last  to  retreat  is  A  TRUE  IRISH  Kiso  ! 

in. 
Yet,  not  for  his  courage,  his  strength,  or  hi» 

name, 

Can  he  from  the  clansmen  their  fealty  claim. 
The  poorest,  and  highest,  choose  freely  to-day 
The  chief,  that  to-night  they'll  as  truly  obey  ; 
For  loyalty  springs  from  a  people's  consent, 
And  the  knee  that  is  forced  had  been  better  un- 
bent— 

The  Sacsanach  serfs  no  such  homage  can  bring 
As   the    Irishmen's   choice   of  A   TRUE    IRISH 
KINO  ! 

IV. 

Come,  look  on  the  pomp  when  they  "  make  an 
O'NEILL  ;" 

The  muster  of  dynasts — O'h- Again,4  O'Shiad- 
hail, 

O'Cathain,  O'h-Anluain,s  O'Bbrpislein,  and  all, 

From  gentle  Aird  Uladli*  to  rude  Dun  na 
n-gall ;' 

"  St.  Patrick's  com/tarba"6  with  bishops  thir- 
teen, 

And  olLimhs*  and  breitheamhs™  and  minstrels, 
are  seen, 

Round  Tulach-Og11  Rath,  like  the  bees  in  the 
spring, 

All  swarming  to  honor  A  TRUE  IRISH  KINO  ! 

v. 

Unsandalled  he  stands  on  the  foot-dinted  rock ; 
Like  a  pillar-stone  fixed  against  every  shock, 
Round,  round  is  the  Rath  on  a  far-seeing  hill; 
Like  his  blcmishless  honor,  and  vigilant  wiJI. 
The  gray  beards  are  telling  how  chiefs  by  the 

score 
Have    been    crowned   on   "  The    llath    of    the 

Kings"  heretofore, 
While,  crowded,  yet  ordered,  within  its  green 

ring, 
Are  the  dynasts  and  priests  round  THK  THCK 

IRISH  KINO! 


6  Successor— comfuirba  Phofiruig—thv  Arcbblabop  of  (A  r4- 
maffut)  Armagh. 

9  Doctors  or  learn*)  men.  10  .Tud^e*.     An\fL  Br*bon«. 

11  In  the  county  ( Tir-Soghain)  Tyrone,  between  U»okau>w» 
and  9tewari*town. 


60(5 


THE  POEMS  OF  THOMAS  DAVIS. 


VI. 

The  chronicler  read  him  the  laws  of  the  clan, 
And  pledged  him  to  bide  by  their  blessing  and 

ban; 

His  skian  and  his  sword  are  unbuckled,  to  show 
Th.it  they  only  were  meant  for  a  foreigner  foe ; 
A  white  willow  wand  has  been  put  in  his  hand — 
A  type  of  pure,  upright,  and  gentle  command — 
While  hierarchs  are  blessing,  the  slipper  they 

fling, 
And  O'Cathain  proclaims  him  A  TRUE   IRISH 

KINO  ! 

VII. 

Thrice  looked  he  to  Heaven  with  thanks  and 

with  prayer — 

Thrice  looked  to  his  borders  with  sentinel  stare — 
To  the  waves  of  Loch  n-Eathach,1  the  heights 

of  Strathbhan  ? 

And  thrice  on  his  allies,  and  thrice  on  his  clan — 
One  clash  on  their  bucklers ! — one  more — they 

are  still — 
What  means  the  deep  pause  on  the  crest  of  the 

hill? 

Why  gaze  they  above  him  ? — a  war-eagle's  wing  ! 
**  'Tis  an  omen  ! — Hurrah  !  for  THE  TRUE  IRISH 

KING!" 

via. 

God  aid  him  ! — God  save  him  ! — and  smile  on 

his  reign — 

The  terror  of  England — the  ally  of  Spain. 
May  his  sword  be  triumphant  o'er  Sacsanach  arts ; 
Be  his  throne  ever  girt  by  strong  hands,  and 

true  hearts ! 
May  the  course  of  his  conquests  run  on  till  be 

see 

The  flag  of  Plantagenet  sink  in  the  sea  ! 
May  minstrels  forever  his  victories  sing, 
And  saints  make  the  bed  of  THK  TRUE  IRISH 

KING  ! 


THE  GERALDIXES. 


TUK    Geraldines !    the   Geraldines  ! — 'tis   full    a 

thousand  years 
Since,  'mid  the  Tuscan  vineyards,  bright  flashed 

their  battle-spears ; 


1  Angi.  Lough  Neagb 


»tr»tmn«. 


When  Capet  seixed  the  crown  of  France,  their 
iron  shields  were  known, 

And  their  sabre-dint  struck  terror  on  the  flank? 
of  the  Garonne  : 

Across  the  downs  of  Hastings  they  spurred  hard 
by  William's  skle, 

And  the  gray  sands  of  Palestine  with  Moslem 
blood  they  dyed  ;  — 

But  never  then,  nor  thence,  till  now,  have  false- 
hood or  disgrace 

Been  seen  to  soil  Fitzgerald's  plume,  or  mantle 
in  his  face. 

ii. 

The  Geraldines  !  the  Geraldines ! — 'tis  true,  in 

Strongbow's  van 
By  lawless  force,  as  conquerors,  their  Irish  reign 

began ; 
And,  oh  !  through  many  a  dark  campaign  they 

proved  their  prowess  stern, 
In  Leinster's  plains,  and  Minister's  vales,  on  king, 

and  chief,  and  kerne  : 
But   noble  was  the  cheer  within  the   halls   so 

rudely  won, 
And  generous  was  the  steel-gloved  hand   that 

had  such  slaughter  done  ; 

O 

How  gay  their  laugh,   how  proud   their  mien ! 

you'd  ask  no  herald's  sign — 
Among  a  thousand  you  had  known  the  princely 

Geraldine. 

in. 
These  Geraldii>es !  these  Geraldines! — not  long 

our  air  they  breathed  ; 
Not  long  they  ted  on  venison,  in  Irish   water 

seethed ; 
Not   often    had   their   children    been    by    Irish 

mothers  nursed, 
When  from  their  full  and  genial  hearts  an  Irish 

feeling  burst ! 
The   English   monarchs  strove  in   vain,  by  law, 

and  force,  and  bribe, 
To  win  from  Irish  thoughts  and  ways  this  "  111010 

than  Irish"  tribe  ; 
For  still  they  ciung  to  fosterage,  to  Lreitheamh, 

cloak,  and  bard  : 
What  king  dare  say  to  Geraldine,  "  Your  Irish 

wife  discard  ?" 

IV. 

Ye  Geraldines !  ye  Geraldines!  how   royally  ye 

reigned 
O'er   Desmond    broad,   and    rich   Kildarc,   and 

English  arts  disdained: 


THE  P;)EMS   OF  THOMAS   DAVIS 


507 


Your  sword   made   knights,  your  banner  waved, 

free  was  your  bugle  call 
By   GlcannV    green     slopes,   and     DaingeanV 

tide,  from  BearbhaV  banks  to  Eochaill.4 
What  gorgeous  slirincs,  what  brtitkeamk*   lore, 

what  minstrel  feasts  there  were 
In  and   around     Magh     NuadhaidV    keep,  and 

palace-filled  Adarc  ! 
But  not  for  rite  or  feast  ye  stayed,  when  friend 

or  kin  were  pressed  ; 
And  foemen  fled,  when  "CromAbu"'1  bespoke 

your  lance  in  rest. 

v. 

Ye   Geraldines  !    ye   Geraldincs  ! — since  Silken 

Thomas  flung 

King  Ilcnry's  sword  on  council  board,  the  Eng- 
lish thanes  among, 
Ye    never  ceased    to  battle   brave   against   the 

English  sway, 
Though    axe    and    brand    and    treachery   your 

proudest  cut  away. 
Of  Desmond's   blood,    through    woman's   veins 

passed  on  th'  exhausted  tide  ; 
llis  title   lives — a  Sacsanach  churl   usurps  the 

lion's  hide  ; 
And,  though   Kildare   tower   haughtily,  there's 

ruin  at  the  root, 
Else  why,  since  Edward  fell  to  earth,  had  such 

a  tree  no  fruit  ? 

VI. 

True  Geraldines!  brave  Geraldincs  ! — as  torrent* 
mould  the  earth, 

You  channelled  deep  old  Ireland's  heart  by  con- 
stancy and  worth  : 

When  Ginckle  'leaguerod  Limerick,  the  Irish  sol- 
diers gazed 

To  see  if  in  the  setting  sun  dead  Desmond's  ban- 
ner blazed  ! 

And  still  it  is  the  peasant's  hope  upon  the  Cuir- 
reach's*  mere, 

"  Tjcy  live  who'll  see  ten  thousand  men  with 
good  Lord  Edward  here" — 

So  let  them  dream  till  brighter  days,  when,  not 
by  Edward's  shade, 

But  by  some  leader  true  as  he,  their  lines  shall 
be  arraved  ! 


1  Anyl.  Olyn.  2  Aitgl.  I)iiii;io.  8  Atitfl.  Harrow. 

4  Angl.  YoughaL        5  A tigl.  Brehon.  6  Anyt,  Maynooth. 

7  FornuTly  the  war-cry  of  the  OcraliJInM  anil  now  their  inotio. 

8  Any!.  Cumuli. 

9  The  concluding  stnnxu.  now  first  published,  was  found  among 
til*  author's  papers. —Bo. 


VII. 

These  Geraldincs  !  these  Geraldincs! — rain  wears 

away  the  rock, 
And   time  may  wear  away  the  tribe  that  stood 

the  battle's  shock, 
But,  ever,  sure,   while  one   is  left  of  all   that 

honored  race, 
In  front  of  Ireland's  chivalry  is  that  Fiizgerald'i 

place : 
And,  though  the  last  were  dead  and  gone,  how 

many  a  field  and  town, 
From  Thomas  Court  to  Abbcyfeile,  would  cherish 

their  renown, 
And  men  would  say  of  valor's  rise,  or  ancient 

power's  decline, 
"'Twill  never  soar,  it  never  shone,  as  did  the 

Gcraldine." 

V1H. 

The  Geraldines!  the  Gcraklines! — and  are  there 

any  fears 

Within  the  sons  of  conquerors  for  full  a  thou- 
sand years  ? 
Can  treason  spring  from  out  a  soil  bedewed  with 

martyrs'  blood? 
Or  has  that  grown  a  purling  brook,  which  long 

rushed  down  a  flood  ? — 
By  Desmond  swept  with   sword  and  fire, — by 

clan  and  keep  laid  low, — 
By  Silken   Thomas   and   his   kin, — by  sainted 

Edward!  No! 
The  forms  of  centuries  rise  up,  and  in  the  Irish 

line 
COMMAND  THEIR  SON  TO  TAKE  THE  POST  THAT 

FITS  THE  GEKALDINE  !* 


O'BRIEN  OF  ARA." 

AIR—  Tk«  llptr  of  BUtsinyton. 


TAI.L  are  the  towers  of  O'Ceinneidigh11 — 
Broad  are  the  lands  of  MacCarrthaigh"- 

Dcsinond  feeds  five  hundred  men  a  day; 
Yet,  here's  to  O'Briain1*  of  Ara! 


10  Ar»  \»  a  small  mountain  tract,  south  of  Loch  LMrg<lbelrc,  and 
north  of  the  Canulltv  (v</v°.  the  Ke«-|.<-r)  bills.     It  wa*  the  scat  «M 
a  branch  of  the  Thoinond  prince*,  cnlk-il  die  O'r.ru-ti>  ..I  Ara.  wh» 
holtl  an  linportnnt  |>l»ce  in  the  Mun»U-r  Annals.— Atmioic'o  NOT* 

11  r«/(/o,  (TKomiedjr.  1*  PuZ.  MT»rtbv. 
18   F«i  0'Bri«n. 


508 


TUB  POEMS   OF  THOMAS   DAVIS. 


Up  from  the  Castle  of  Druira-aniar,1 
Down  from  the  top  of  Caraailte, 

Clansman  and  kinsman  are  coming  here 
To  give  him  the  CEAD  MILE  FAILTE. 

a. 
See  you  the  mountains  look  huge  at  eve — 

So  is  our  chieftain  in  battle — 
Welcome  he  has  for  the  fugitive, — 
Uisce-bcatha?  lighting,  and  cattle  ! 
Up  from  the  Castle  of  Druim-amar, 

Down  from  the  top  of  Camailte, 
Gossip  and  ally  are  coming  here 
To  give  him  the  CEAD  MILE  FAILTE. 

in. 
Horses  the  valleys  are  tramping  on, 

Sleek  from  the  Sacsanach  manger — 
Creachs  the  hills  are  encamping  on, 
Empty  the  bans  of  the  stranger ! 
Up  from  the  Castle  of  Druim-aniar, 

Down  from  the  top  of  Camailte, 
Ceithearn?  and  buannacht  are  coining  here 
To  give  him  the  CEAIJ  MILK  FAILTK. 

IV. 

He  has  black  silver  from  Gill  da-lua4 

Rian6  and  Cearbhall6  are  neighbors — 
"N  Aonach1  submits  with  &  fuililiu — 
Butler  is  meat  for  our  sabres ! 

Up  from  the  Castle  of  Druim-aniar, 

Down  from  the  top  of  Camailte, 
Rian  and  Cearbhall  are  coming  here 
To  give  him  the  CEAD  MILE  FAILTE. 

v. 

'Tis  scarce  a  week  since  through  Osairghe8 

Chased  he  the  Baron  of  Durmhagh' — 
Forced  him  five  rivers  to  cross,  or  he 

Had  died  by  the  sword  of  Red  Murchadh  !'° 
Up  from  the  Castle  of  Druim-aniar, 
Down  from  the  top  of  Camailte, 
All  the  Ui  Bhriain  are  coming  here 
To  give  him  the  CEAD  MILE  FAILTE. 

VI. 

Tall  are  the  towers  of  O'Ceinneidigh — 
Broad  are  the  lands  of  MacCarrthaigh — 

Desmond  feeds  five  hundred  men  a  day  ; 
Yet,  here's  to  O'Briain  of  Aral 


t    Vul.  Druniineer.      2   Vul.  Usqiu-hmigli. 
«    Vul.  Killaloe.  S    Vul.  Ryan. 


8    Vitlgo,  Kerne. 
0    Vul.  enroll 


Up  from  the  Castle  of  Druira-aniar, 
D*wn  from  the  top  of  Camailte, 
Clansman  and  kinsman  are  corning  here 

O 

To  give  him  the  CEAD  MILE  FAILTE. 


EMMELINE   TALBOT. 

A   BALLAD   OF  THE   PALE. 
(The  Scene  is  on  the  borders  of  Dublin  and  Wicklow.) 

I. 

'TWAS  a  September  day — 

In  Glenismole,11 
Emmeline  Talbot  lay 

On  a  green  knoll. 
She  was  a  lovely  thing, 
Fleet  as  a  Falcon's  wing, 
Only  fifteen  that  spring — 

Soft  was  her  soul. 


Danger  and  dreamless  sleep 

Much  did  she  scorn, 
And  from  her  father's  keep 

Stole  out  that  morn. 
Towards  Glenismole  she  hies : 
Sweetly  the  valley  lies, 
Winning  the  enterprise — 
No  one  to  warn. 

in. 

Till  by  the  noon,  at  length, 

High  in  the  vale, 
Emmeline  found  her  strength 

Suddenly  fail. 
Panting,  yet  pleasantly, 
By  Dodder  side  lay  slie — 
Thrushes  sang  merrily, 

"  Hail,  sister,  hail !" 

IV. 

Hazel  and  copse  of  oak 

Ma<le  a  sweet  lawn, 
Out  from  the  thicket  broke 

Rabbit  and  fawn. 


T    Vul.  Nenftgh. 
10    rul.  Murroueh. 


8   Vul.  Ossory.  9    V'd.  Darr»w 

1 1  Bibernic*,— Gleann-»n-sm<Jil. 


THE   POEMS   OF   THOMAS   DAVIS. 


509 


Green  were  the  mar*  round, 
Sweet  was  the  river's  sound, 
Eastwards  Hat  Cruach  frowned, 
South  lay  Sliabh  B:in. 

v. 
Looking  round  Barnakoel,1 

Like  a  tall  Moor 
Full  of  impassioned  zeal, 

Peeped  brown  Kippure.* 
Dublin  in  feudal  pride, 
And  many  a  hold  beside, 
Over  Finn-ghaill5  preside — 

Sentinels  sure  ! 

VI. 

Is  that  a  roebuck's  eye 

Glares  from  the  green  ? — 
Is  that  a  thrush's  cry 

Rings  in  the  screen  ? 
Mountaineers  round  her  sprung, 
Savage  their  speech  and  tongue, 
Fierce  was  their  chief  and  young- 
Poor  Emmeline ! 

VII. 

"  Hurrah,  'tis  Talbot's  child," 

Shouted  the  kerne, 
"  Off  to  the  mountains  wild, 

Faire4  O'Byrne !" 
Like  a  bird  in  a  net, 
Strove  the  sweet  maiden  yet, 
Praying  and  shrieking,  "  Let — 

Let  me  return." 

VIII. 

After  a  nioment's  doubt, 
Forward  he  sprung, 

With  his  sword  flashing  out- 
Wrath  on  his  tongue. 

M  Touch  not  a  hair  of  hers — 

Dies  he,  who  finger  stirs!" 

Back  fell  his  foragers — 
To  him  she  clung. 

IX. 

Soothing  the  maiden's  fear, 

Kneeling  was  he, 
When  burst  old  Talbot's  spears 

Out  on  the  lea. 


Bib.  Bcarna-chML 


i>.  Ke»p.lubhalr. 
g.  F«rr»b. 


March-men,  all  stanch  and  stout. 
Shouting  their  Belgard  shout — 
"  Down  with  the  Irish  rout, 
Prets  cf  accompli  r."  • 


Taken  thus  unawares, 

Some  fled  amain — 
Fighting  like  forest  bears, 

Others  were  slain. 
To  the  chief  clung  the  maid — 
How  could  he  use  his  bfade  ? — 
That  night,  upon  him  weighed 

Fetter  and  chain. 

XI. 

Oh  !  but  that  night  was  long, 

Lying  forlorn, 
Since,  'mid  the  wassail  song, 

These  words  were  borne — 
u  Nathless  your  tears  and  cries 
Sure  as  the  sun  shall  rise, 
Connor  O'Byrnc*  dies, 

Talbot  hath  sworn." 

XII. 

Brightly  on  Tamhlacht1  hill 

Flashes  the  sun  ; 
Strained  at  his  window-sill, 

How  his  eyes  run 
From  lonely  Sagart  slade 
Down  to  Tigh-bradan  glade, 
Landmarks  of  border  raid, 

Many  a  one. 

XIII. 

Too  well  the  captive  knows 

Belgard's  main  wall 
Will,  to  his  naked  blows, 

Shiver  and  fall, 
Ere  in  his  mountain  hold 
He  shall  again  behold 
Those  whose  proud  hearts  arc  cold, 

Weeping  his  thrall. 

XIV. 

1  Oh !  for  a  mountain  side, 
Bucklers  and  brands ! 
Freely  I  could  have  died 
Heading  my  bands, 


6  The  motto  and  cry  of  th«>  TalboU. 
6  Hib  Concbobbar  O'Broin. 


510 


THE  POEMS   OF  THOMAS  DAVIS. 


But  on  a  felon  tree'' — 
Bearing  a  fetter  key, 
By  him  all  silently 

Etnmcline  stands.     *     * 

xv. 
Late  rose  the  castellan, 

He  had  drunk  deep, — 
Warder  and  serving-man 

Still  were  asleep, — 
Wide  is  the  castle-gate, 
Open  the  captive's  grate, 
Fetters  disconsolate 

Flung  in  a  heap.     *     * 

xvr. 
'Tis  an  October  day, 

Close  by  Loch  Dan 
Many  a  creach  lay, 

Many  a  man. 

'Mongst  them,  in  gallant  mien, 
Connor  O'Bryne's  seen 
Wedded  to  Emmeline, 

Girt  by  his  clan! 


O'SULLIVAN'S  RETURN.1 

AIR — An  crulsgin  Ian."* 

I. 

O'SuiLLEBHAiN  has  come 
Within  sight  of  his  home, 

He  had  left  it  long  years  ago ; 
The  tears  are  in  his  eyes, 
And  he  prays  the  wind  to  rise, 
As  he  looks  towards  his  castle,  from  the  prow, 

from  the  prow  ; 
As  he  looks  towards  his  castle,  from  the  prow. 

ii. 

For  the  day  had  been  calm, 
And  slow  the  good  ship  swam, 

And  the  evening  gun  had  been  fired ; 
He  knew  the  hearts  beat  wild 
Of  mother,  wife,  and  child, 
And  of  clans,  who  to  see  him  long  desired,  long 

desired ; 
And  of  clans,  who  to  see  him  long  desired. 


1  Vide  Appendix. 

2  Slow  time. 

3  The  standard  bearings  of  O'SulHvan.    See  O'Donovan's  edition 
of  the  Banquet  of  Dun  na  n-Gedh,  and  the  Battle  of  Magh  Rath, 
'or  the   Archaeological  Society,  App,  p.  849 — "  Bearings  of  O'Sul- 
ti  van  at  the  Battle  of  Caisglinn." 

"  I  see,  mightily  advancing  on  the  plain, 
The  banner  of  the  race  of  noble  Finghin  ; 


in. 

Of  the  tender  ones  the  clasp, 
Of  the  gallant  ones  the  grasp, 

He  thinks,  until  his  tear-*  fall  warm 
And  full  seems  his  wide  hall, 
With  friends  from  wall  to  wall, 
Where  their  welcome  shakes  the  banners,  likb 

storm,  like  a  storm  ; 

Where  their  welcome  shakes  the  banners  like  a 
storm. 

IV. 

Then  he  sees  another  scene — 
Norman  churls  on  the  green — 

"  O'Sailleabhain  abu"  is  the  cry  ; 
For  filled  is  his  ship's  hold 
With  arms  and  Spanish  gold, 
And    he  sees  the  snake-twined  spear  wave  on 

high,  wave  on  high  ; 

And    he  sees  the  snake-twined  spear  wave  on 
high.8 

v. 

"  Finghin's  race  shall  be  freed 
From  the  Norman's  cruel  breed — 

My  sires  freed  Bear'  once  before, 
When  the  Barnvvells  were  strewn 
On  the  fields,  like  hay  in  June, 
And  but  one  of  them  escaped  from  our  shore, 

from  our  shore  ; 

And    but    one    of    them     escaped    from    our 
shore."4 

VI. 

And,  warming  in  his  drcarr, 
He  floats  on  victory's  stream, 

Till  Desmond — till  all  Erin  is  free! 
Then,  how  calmly  he'll  go  down, 
Full  of  years  and  of  renown, 
To  his  grave  near  that  castle  by  the  sea,  by  th. 

sea; 
To  his  grave  i^ar  that  castle  by  the  sea  ! 

VII. 

But  the  wind  heard  his  word, 
As  though  he  were  its  lord, 

And  the  ship  is  dashed  up  the  Bay. 

His  spear  with  »  venomous  adder  (entwined), 

His  host  all  fiery  champions." 

Finghin  was  one  of  their  mo.-t  famous  progenitors.— AUTHOR'S  NOTK. 
4  The  Barnwells  were  Normans,  who  seized  part  of  Beara  in  the 
reign  of  Henry  II. ;  but  the  O'Sullivans  came  down  on  them,  and- 
cut  off  all  save  one — a  young  man  who  settled  at  Drinmagh  Castle 
Co.  Dublin,  and  was  ancestorto  the  Barnwells,  Lords  of  Tricilestont 
and  Kingsland. — Id. 


THE  POEMS  OF  THOMAS  DAVIS. 


511 


Alas  !  for  that  proud  bark, 
The  night  has  fallen  dark, 
Tis  too  late  to  Eadarghabhal1  to  bear  away,  to 

boar  away  ; 
Tis  too  late  to  Eadarghabhal  to  bear  away. 

,  vin. 

Black  and  rough  was  the  rock, 
And  terrible  the  shock, 

As  the  good  ship  crashed  asunder ; 
And  bitter  was  the  cry, 
And  the  sea  ran  mountains  higli, 
And  the  wind  was  as  loud  as  the  thunder,  the 

thunder; 
And  the  wind  was  as  loud  as  the  thunder. 


There's  woe  in  Beara, 
There's  woe  in  Gleann-garbh,' 

And   from    Beanntniighe*  unto  Dun- 

kiarain  ;4 

All  Desmoud  hears  their  grief, 
And  wails  above  their  chief — 
u  Is  it  thus,  is  it  thus,  that  you  return,  you  re- 
turn— 
!•  it  thus,  is  it  thus,  that  you  return  ?" 


THE  FATE  OF  THE  O'SULLIVANS.' 


**  A  Bxnv  in  the  mountain  gap — 

Oh  !  wherefore  bring  it  hither? 
Restore  it  to  its  mother's  lap, 

Or  else  'twill  surely  wither. 
A  baby  near  the  eagle's  nest ! 

How  should  their  talons  spare  it  ? 
Oh  !  take  it  to  some  woman's  brc:ast, 

And  she  will  kindly  care  it" 

ii. 

"  Fear  not  for  it,"  M'Swiney  said, 
And  stroked  his  cul-fionn*  slowly, 


1   Vul.  Adragoole.  2  Vul  Olenearrlff. 

8   Vul.  Bantry.  4  Vul.  Dmikcrr.m. 

5  After  the  taking  of  Dnnbwy,  and  the  ruin  of  the  O'Sulllvan's 
country,  tlie  chief  marched  right  through  Muskerry  ami  Onnonil, 
u.>lly  j.utsueJ.  He  crossed  the  Shannon  In  runu-h*  made  of  his 
L.T-I-V  skins,  lie  then  defeated  the  English  forces  and  clew  their 
e.Mi.iii.mili-r.  M.snl.y,  and  finally  fought  his  way  Into  O'Huarc's 
country  During  his  absence  his  lady  (Btanligliearna)  and  In- 
fani  *vrt  supported  ID  the  mountains  uy  *ue  of  his  clansmen. 


And  proudly  raised  his  matted  heau, 

Yet  spoke  me  soft  arxl  lowly — 
"Fear  not  for  it,  for,  many  a  «!ay, 

I  climb  the  eagle's  eyrie, 
And  bear  the  eaglet's  food  away 

To  feed  our  little  fairy. 

in. 
"  Fear  not  for  it,  no  Bantry  bird 

Would  harm  our  chieftain's  l>ab\     — 
He  stopped,  and  something  in  him  stirred — 

'Twas  for  his  chieftain,  may  be. 
And  then  he  brushed  his  softened  eyes, 

And  raised  his  bonnet  duly, 
And  muttered,  "The  Beantiyheama  lies 

Asleep  in  yonder  buaili."'1 

IV. 

He  pointed  'twixt  the  cliff  and  lake, 

And  there  a  hut  of  heather, 
Half  hidden  in  the  craggy  brake, 

Gave  shelter  from  the  weather; 
The  little  tanist  shrieked  with  joy, 

Adown  the  gully  staring — 
The  clansman  swelled  to  see  tlu>  boy, 

O'Sullivan-like,  daring. 

v. 

Oh  !  what  a  glorious  sight  wa*  there, 

As  from  the  summit  gazing, 
O'er  winding  creek  and  islet  fair, 

And  mountain  waste  amazing; 
The  Caha  and  Dunkerroii  hills 

Cast  half  the  gulfs  in  shadow. 
While  shone  the  sun  on  Culiagh's  rills, 

And  Whiddy's  emerald  meadow — 

VI. 

The  sea  a  sheet  of  crimson  spread, 

From  Foze  to  Dursey  islands  ; 
While  flashed  the  peaks  from  Mizcnhcad 

To  Musk'ry's  distant  highlands — 
I  saw  no  kine,  I  saw  no  sheep, 

I  saw  nor  house  nor  furrow  ; 
But  round  the  tarns  the  red  deer  leap, 

Oak  and  arbutus  thorough. 

M'Swiney,  who.  tradition  says,  used  to  rob  the  eagles'  DM*  at 
their  prey  for  his  charge  O'Sulllvan  was  excepted  from  Jxiie* 
the  First'*  amnesty  on  account  of  his  persevering  resistance,  lie 
went  to  Spain,  and  was  appointed  governor  of  Corunna  and  Via- 
coum  Bcrehaven.  Ills  march  from  Glungarrlff  to  Leltrizi  l\  i-r-r- 
bap?,  the  most  romantic  and  gallant  achievement  of  bis  »|»,  — 
AUTHOR'S  NOT*. 

0  Vulffo,  co'llln. 

7  Vulgo,  t.oulle. 


THE   POEMS   OF   THOMAS    DAVIS. 


Oh  !  what  a  glorious  sight  was  there, 

That  paradise  o'ergazing — 
When,  sudden,  burst  a  smoky  glare, 

Above  Glengarriff  blazing — 
The  clansman  sprung  upon  his  feet — 

Well  might  the  infant  wonder — 
His  hands  were  clenched,  his  brow  was  knit, 

His  hard  lips  just  asunder. 


Like  shattered  rock  from  out  the  ground, 

He  stood  there  stiff  and  silent — 
Our  breathing  hardly  made  a  sound, 

As  o'er  the  baby  I  leant ; 
His  figure  then  went  to  and  fro, 

As  the  tall  blaze  would  flicker— 
And  as  exhausted  it  sunk  low, 

His  breath  came  loud  an-d  thicker. 


Then  slowly  turned  he  round  his  head 

And  slowly  turned  his  figure, 
His  eye  was  fixed  as  Spanish  lead, 

His  limbs  were  full  of  rigor — 
Then  suddenly  he  grasped  the  child, 

And  raised  it  to  his  shoulder, 
Then  pointing  where,  across  the  wild, 

The  fire  was  seen  to  smoulder : — 


•*  Look,  baby ! — look,  there  is  the  sign, 

Your  father  is  returning, 
The  'generous  hand'  of  Finghin's  line 

Has  set  that  beacon  burning. 
'  The  generous  hand' — Oh  !  Lord  of  Hosts — 

Oh,  Virgin,  ever  holy  ! 
There's  naught  to  give  on  Bantry's  coasts — 

Dunbwy  is  lying  lowly. 

XI. 

"  The  halls,  where  mirth  and  minstrelsy 

Than  Beara's  wind  rose  louder, 
Are  flung  in  masses  lonelily, 

And  black  with  English  powder — 
The  sheep  that  o'er  our  mountains  ran, 

The  kine  that  filled  our  valleys, 
Are  gone,  and  not  a  single  claH 

O'Sullivan  now  rallies. 

XII. 

••  He,  long  the  Prince  of  hill  and  bay  ! 
The  ally  of  the  Spaniard  ! 


Has  scarce  a  single  ath  to  day, 
Nor  seamen  left  to  man  yard" — 

M'Swiney  ceased,  then  fiercely  strode 
Bearing  along  the  baby, 

Until  we  reached  the  rude  abode 
Of  Bantry's  lovely  lady. 

» 

XIII. 

We  found  her  in  the  savage  shed — 

O 

A  mild  night  in  midwinter — 
The  mountain  heath  her  only  bed, 

Her  dais  the  rocky  splinter! 
The  sad  Beantiyhearn'  had  seen  the  fire-- 

'Twas  plain  she  had  been  praying — 
She  seized  her  son,  as  we  came  niftier, 

And  welcomed  me,  thus  saying — 


"  Our  gossip's  friend  I  gladly  greet, 

Though  scant'ly  I  can  cheer  him  ;" 
Then  bids  the  clansman  fly  to  meet 

And  tell  her  lord  she's  near  him. 
M'Swiney  kissed  his  foster  son, 

And  shouting  out  hisfaire — 
"  O* SuUlebhain  abu" — is  gone 

Like  Marchman's  deadly  arrow  ! 

xv. 

An  hour  went  by,  when,  from  the  shore 

The  chieftain's  horn  winding, 
Awoke  the  echoes'  hearty  roar — 

Their  fealty  reminding : 
A  moment,  and  he  faintly  gasps — 

"  These — these,  thank  heaven,  are  left  me"- 
And  smiles  as  wife  and  child  he  clasps-- 

"  They  have  not  quite  bereft>  me." 

XVI. 

I  never  saw  a  mien  so  grand, 

A  brow  and  eye  so  fearless — 
There  was  not  in  his  veteran  band 

A  single  eyelid  tearless. 
His  tale  is  short — O'Ruarc's  strength 

Could  not  postpone  his  ruin, 
And  Leitrim's  towers  he  left  at  length, 

To  spare  his  friend's  undoing. 

XVII. 

To  Spain — to  Spain,  he  now  will  SHU. 

His  destiny  is  wroken — 
An  exile  from  dear  Inis-fail, — 

Nor  yet  his  will  is  broken ; 


THE   POEMS   OF  THOMAS   DAVIS. 


For  still  he  hints  some  enterprise, 
When  fleets  shall  bring  them  over 

Dunbwy's  proud  keep  again  shall  rise, 
And  mock  the  English  rover.  *  *  * 

XVIII. 

I  saw  them  cross  Slicve  Miskisk  o'er, 

The  crones  around  thera  weeping — 
I  saw  them  pass  from  Culiagh's  shore, 

Their  galleys'  strong  oars  sweeping, 
I  saw  their  ship  unfurl  its  sail — 

I  saw  their  scarfs  long  waven — 
They  saw  the  hills  in  distance  fail — 

They  never  saw  Berehavcn ! 


THE  SACK  OF  BALTIMORE.1 


summer  sun   is  falling  soft  on  Carbery's 

hundred  isles — 
The   summer's   sun   is   gleaming   still   through 

Gabriel's  rough  defiles — 
Old   Inisherkin's   crumbled    fane    loeks    like   a 

moulting  bird ; 
And  in  a  calm  and  sleepy  swell  the  ocean  tide 

is  heard ; 
The  hookers  lie  upon  the  beach ;  the  children 

cease  their  piay ; 
The  gossips  leave  the  little  inn  ;  the  households 

kneel  to  pray — 
And  full  of  love,  and  peace,  and  rest — its  daily 

labor  o'er — 
Upon  that  cosy  creek  there  lay  the  town    of 

Baltimore. 


II. 

A  deeper  rest,  a  starry  trance,  lias  come  with 

midnight  there ; 
No  sound,  except  that  throbbing  wave,  in  earth, 

or  sea,  or  air. 


1  Baltimore  Is  •  small  xoapori  In  the  barony  of  Carbery,  In  South 
Monster.  It  grew  up  round  a  Castle  of  O'Drlacoll's,  and  was,  after 
•Is  ruin,  colonised  by  the  English.  On  the  20th  of  June,  1681,  the 
srew  of  two  Algerine  galleys  landed  In  the  dead  of  the  night,  sacked 
the  town,  and  bore  off  Into  slavery  all  who  were  not  too  old,  or  too 
f  onng,  or  too  fierce  for  their  purpose.  The  pirates  were  steered  up 
U>«  Intricate  channel  by  one  llackelt,  a  Dungarvan  fisherman,  whom 


The  massive  capes,  and  ruined  towers,  seem  con- 
scious of  the  calm ; 

The  fibrous  sod  and  stunted  trees  are  breathing 
heavy  balm. 

So  still  the  night,  these  two  long  barques,  round 
Dtmashad  that  glide, 

Must  trust  their  oars — methinks  not  few — against 
the  ebbing  tide — 

Oh !  some  sweet  mission  of  true  love  must  urge 
them  to  the  shore — 

They  bring  some  lover  to  his  bride,  who  sighs 
in  Baltimore ! 

HI. 

All,  all  asleep  within  each  roof  along  that  rocky 
street, 

And  these  must  be  the  lover's  friends,  with  gen- 
tle gliding  feet — 

A  stifled  gasp!  a  dreamy  noise!  "the  roof  is  in 
a  flame  !" 

From  out  their  beds,  and  to  their  doors,  rush 
maid,  and  sire,  and  dame — 

And  meet,  upon  the  threshold  stone,  the  gleam- 
ing sabre^s  fall, 

And  o'er  each  black  and  bearded  face  the  white 
or  crimson  shawl — 

The  yell  of  "  Allah"  breaks  above  the  prayer, 
and  shriek,  and  roar — 

Oh,  blessed  God !  the  Algerine  is  lord  of  Balti- 
more ! 

IV. 

Then  flung  the  youth  his  naked  hand  against  the 
shearing:  sword ; 

O 

Then  sprung  the   mother  on   the   brand   with 

which  her  son  was  gored  ; 
Then  sunk  the  grandsire  on  the  floor,  his  grand- 
babes  clutching  wild ; 
Then  fled  the  maiden  moaning  faint,  and  nestled 

with  the  child  ; 
But  see,  yon  pirate  strangled  lies,  and  crushed 

with  splashing  heel, 
While  o'er  him  in  an  Irish  hand  there  sweeps 

his  Syrian  steel — 
Though  virtue  sink,  and  courage  fail,  and  misers 

yield  their  store, 
There's  one  hearth  well  avenged  in  the  sack  of 

Baltimore ! 


they  had  taken  at  sea  for  the  purpose.  Two  yean  after  ••  wat 
convicted  and  executed  for  the  crime.  Baltimore  never  recovered 
this.  To  the  Hrtlst.  the  antiquary,  and  the  naturalist,  its  neighbor- 
b<>o<l  Is  most  Interesting.  — See  "The  Ancient  and  Present  Slate  o. 
the  County  and  City  of  Cork,"  by  Charles  Mmtli.  M  I).,  voL  1 
p.  S70.  Second  edition.  Dublin,  1774.— AUTHOR'S  NUT*. 


514 


THE  POEMS  OF  THOMAS   DAVIS. 


v. 

Midsummer  morn,  in  woodland  nigh,  the  birds 
began  to  sing— - 

They  see  not  now  the  milking  maids — deserted 
is  the  spring ! 

Midsummer  day — this  gallant  rides  from  distant 
Bandon's  town — 

These  hooters  crossed  from  stormy  Skull,  that 
skiff  from  Affadown  ; 

They  only  found  the  smoking  walls,  with  neigh- 
bors' blood  besprent, 

And  on  the  strewed  and  trampled  beach  awhile 
they  wildly  went — 

Then  dashed  to  sea,  and  passed  Cape  Cleire,  and 
saw  five  leagues  before 

The  pirate  galleys  vanishing  that  ravaged  Balti- 
more. 

VI. 

Oh '  some  must  tug  the  galley's  oar,  and  some 

must  tend  the  steed — 
This  boy  will  bear  a  Scheik's  chibouk,  and  that 

a  Bey's  jerreed. 
Oh  !  some  are  for  the  arsenals,  by  beauteous 

Dardanelles ; 
And  some  are  in  the  caravan  to  Mecca's  sandy 

dells. 
The  maid  that  Bandon  gallant  sought  is  chosen 

for  the  Dey — 
She's  safe — she's  dead — she  stabbed  him  in  the 

midst  of  his  Serai; 
And,  when  to  die  a  death  of  fire,  that  noble 

maid  they  bore, 
She  only  smiled — O'Driscoll's  child— she  thought 

of  Baltimore. 

vn. 

'Tis  two  long  years  since  sunk  the  town  beneath 

that  bloody  band, 
And  all  around  its  trampled  hearths  a   larger 

concourse  stand, 
Where,   high   upon    a   gallows   tree,    a   yelling 

wretch  is  seen — 
'Tis  Hackett  of  Dungarvan — he,  who  steered 

the  Algerine ! 
lie  fell  amid  a  sullen  shout,  with  scarce  a  passing 

prayer, 
F»r  he  had  slain  the  kith  and  kin  of  many  a 

hundred  there — 


1  Commonly  called  Owen  Roe  O'Neill      Vide  Appendix 


Some  muttered  of  MacMurchadh,  who  brought 

the  Norman  o'er — 
Some  cursed   him    with   Iscariot,   that   day  in 

Baltimore. 


LAMENT  FOR  THE  DEATH  OF  EOGIIAN 
RUADH  O'NEILL.1 

[Time — 10th  November,  1649.  Scene— Onnond's  Camp.  County 
Waterford.  Speakers — A  Veteran  of  Koghan  O'NeilPs  clan,  and 
one  of  the  horsemen  ji.st  arrived  with  an  account  of  his  death.] 

I. 

"  DID  they  dare,  did  they  dare,  to  slay  Eoghan 

Ruadh  O'Neill  ?" 
"  Yes,  they  slew  with   poison  him,  they  feared 

to  meet  with  steel." 
"  May  God  wither  t\p  their  hearts !     May  their 

blood  cease  to  flow  ! 
May  they  walk  in  living  death,  who  poisoned 

Eoghan  Ruadh  ! 

n. 
"  Though  it  break  my  heart  to  hear,  say  again 

the  bitter  words." 
"From  Deny,  against  Cromwell,  he  marched  to 

measure  swords ; 
But  the  weapon  of  the  Sacsanach  met  him  on 

his  way, 
And   he  died   at  Cloch   Uachtar,9  upon    Saint 

Leonard's  day." 

in. 

"  Wail,  wail  ye   for  the  Mighty  One  !     Wailr 

wail  ye  for  the  Dead  ; 
Quench  the  hearth,  and  hold  the  breath — with 

ashes  strew  the  head. 
IIow  tenderly  we  loved  him  !     How  deeply  we 

deplore  ! 
Holy  Saviour !  but  to  think  we  sball  never  set 

him  more ! 

IV. 

"Sagest  in  the  council  was  he,  khulcst  in  the 

Hall: 
Sure  we  never  won  a  battle-  -'tw«.s  Eoghan  won 

them  all. 
Had  he  lived — had  be  lived— -our  dear  country 

had  been  free  ; 
But  he's  dead,  but   he's   dead,  aud   'ti»   slave» 

we'll  ever  be. 


THE  POEMS  OF  THOMAS  DAVIS. 


515 


*  O'Farrell  and  Clanrickarde,  Preston  and  Rod 

Hugh, 
Audlcy   and   MacMahon — ye  are  valiant,  wise, 

and  true  ; 
But — what,  what  are  ye  all  to  our  darling  who 

is  gone  ? 
The  Rudder  of  our  ship  was  he,  our  Castle's 

corner-stone  ! 

VI. 

"Wail,  wail   him  through  the  Island!     Weep, 

weep  for  our  pride  ! 
Would  that  on  the  battle-field  our  gallant  chief 

had  died  ! 
Weep  the  Victor  of  Beann-bhorbh1 — weep  him, 

young  man  and  old  ; 
Weep  tor  him,  ye  women — your  Beautiful  lies 

cold! 

VII. 

"  We  thought  vou  would  not  die — we  were  sure 

O  tf 

you  would  not  go, 
And  leave  us  in  our  utmost  need  to  Cromwell's 

cruel  blow — 
Sheep  without  a  shepherd,  when  the  snow  shuts 

out  the  sky — 
Oh  !  why  did  you  leave  us,  Eoghan  ?     Why  did 

you  die  ? 

VIII. 

"  Soft    as    woman's   was    your   voice,    O'Neill ! 

bright  was  your  eye, 
Oh  !  why  did  you  leave  us,  Eoghan  ?  why  did 

you  die  ? 
Your  troubles  are  all  over,  you're  at  rest  with 

God  on  high  ; 
But  we're  slaves,  and  we're  orphans,  Eoghan  ! — 

why  did  you  die?" 


A  RALLY  FOR  IRELAND.8 
[MAY,  1689.]3 


SHOUT  it  out,  till  it  ring 

From  Beann-mhor  to  Cape  Cleire, 
For  our  country  and  king, 

And  religion  so  dear. 


1  FW.  Btntmrb. 

8  8»t  t«  original  imHc  la 


Spirit  of  Nation."  4to,  p, 


Rally,  men  !  rally — 
Irishmen !  rally  ! 
Gather  round  the  dear  flag,  that,  wet  with  on? 

tears, 

And  torn,  and  bloody,  lay  hid  for  long  years, 
And  now,  once  again,  in  its  pride  reappears. 
See !    from    The    Castle    our   green    banner 

waves, 

Bearing  fit  motto  for  uprising  slaves — 
For  Now  OK  NEVKR  ! 
Now  AND  FOKEVKR! 

Bids  you  to  battle  for  triumph  or  graves — 
Bids  you  to  burst  on  the  Sacsanach  knavea — 
Rally,  then,  rally  ! 
Irishmen,  raHy  ! 
Shout  Now  OR  NEVKR  ! 

NOW  AND  FOREVER  ! 

Heed  not  their  fury,  however  it  raves, 
Welcome  their  horsemen  with  pikes  and  with 

staves, 
Close  on  their   cannon,   their   bay'nets,  and 

glaives, 

Down  with  their  standard  wherever  it  waves ; 
Fight  to  the  last,  and  ye  cannot  be  slaves ! 
Fight  to  the  last,  and  ye  cannot  be  slaves ! 

n. 

Gallant  Sheldon  is  here, 

And  Hamilton,  too, 
And  Tirchonaill  so  dear, 

And  Mac  Carrthaigh,  so  true. 
And  there  are  Frenchmen ; 
Skilful  and  stanch  men — 
De  Rosen,  Pontec,  Pusignan,  and  Boisseleau, 
And  gallant  Lauzun  is  a  coming,  you  know, 
With  Balldears;,  the  kinsman  of  jjreat  Eo^h^n 

w  o  o 

Ruadh. 
From    Sionainn    to     Banna,    from    Life    to 

Laoi,4 

The  country  is  rising  for  Libertie. 
Though  your  arms  are  rude, 
If  your  courage  be  good, 
As  the  traitor  fled  will  the  stranger  flee, 
At  another  Drom  mor,  from  "  the  Irishry." 
Ann,  peasant  and  lord  ! 
Grasp  musket  and  sword  ! 
<  Jrusp  pike-staff  and  skian  '. 
Give  your  horses  the  rein' 
March,  in  the  name  of  his  Majesty — 
Ulster  and  Munster  unitedly — 


8  ndf  Appendix. 

4   \'ul'j".  shannon,  l'«nn, 


',  »od  L*«. 


516 


THE  POtfMS   OF  THOMAS   DAVIS. 


Townsman  and  peasant,  like  waves  of  the  sea — 
Leinster  and  Connacht  to  victory — 
Shoulder  to  shoulder  for  Liberty, 
Shoulder  to  shoulder  for  Liberty. 

ii. 
Kirk,  Schomberg,  and  Churchill 

Are  coming — what  then  ? 
We'll  drive  them  and  Dutch  Will 
To  England  again  ; 

We  can  laugh  at  each  threat, 
For  our  Parliament's  met — 
De  Courcy,  O'Briain,  Mac  Dornhnail,  Le  Poer, 
O'Neill  and  St.  Lawrence,  and  others  go  leor, 
The  choice  of  the  land  from  Athluain1  to  the 

shore  ! 
They'll  break  the  last  link  of  the  Sacsanach 

chain — 

They'll  give  us  the  lands  of  our  fathers  again ! 
Then  up  ye  !  and  fight 
For  your  King  and  your  Right, 
Or  ever  toil  on,  and  never  complain, 
Though  they  trample  your  roof-tree,  and  rifle 
your  fane. 

Rally,  then,  rally ! 
Irishmen,  rally — 

Fight  NOW  OR  NEVER, 

Now  AND  FOREVER! 

Laws  are  in  vain  without  swords  to  maintain  ; 
So,  muster  as  fast  as  the  fall  of  the  rain  : 
Serried  and  rough  as  a  field  of  ripe  grain, 
Stand  by  your  flag  upon  mountain  and  plain  ; 
Charge  till   yourselves  or  your   foemen   are 

slain ! 
Fight  till  yourselves  or  your  foemen  are  slain  ! 


THE  BATTLE  OF  LIMERICK.' 
[AUGUST  27,  1690.] 
AIR — Qarradh  Eoghain.* 


OH,  hurrah  !  for  the  men  who,  when  danger  is 

nigh, 

Are  found  in  the  front,  looking  death  in  the  eye. 
Hurrah  !  for  the  men  who  kept  Limerick's  wall, 
And  hurrah !  for  bold  Sarsfield,  the  bravest  of  all. 


.  Alhlone. 


K  Oanyowen. 


2   Vide  Appendix. 


King  William's  men  round  Limerick  lay, 
His  cannon  crashed  from  day  to  day, 
Till  the  southern  wall  was  swept  away 

At  the  city  of  Luimneach  linn-ghlas.* 
'Tis  afternoon,  yet  hot  the  sun, 
When  William  fires  the  signal  gun, 
And,  like  its  flash,  his  columns  run 

On  the  city  of  Luimneach  linn-ghlas. 

ii. 
Yet,  hurrah!  for  the  men  who,  when  danger  i* 

nigh, 
Are   found  in  the   front,  looking  death  in  the 

eye, 

Hurrah  !  for  the  men  who  kept  Limerick's  wall, 
And  hurrah  !  for  bold  Sarsfield,  the  bravest  of  all 
The  breach  gaped  out  two  perches  wide, 
The  fosse  is  filled,  the  batteries  plied  ; 
Can  the  Irishmen  that  onset  bide 

At  the  city  of  Luimneach  linn-ghlas. 
Across  the  ditch  the  columns  dash, 
Their  bayonets  o'er  the  rubbish  flash, 
When  sudden  comes  a  rending  crash 
From  the  city  of  Luimneach  linn-ghla,s. 

in. 
Then,  hurrah !  for  the  men  who,  when  danger  is 

'  '  O 

nigh, 

Are  found  in  the  front,  looking  death  in  the  eye. 
Hurrah  !  for  the  men  who  kept  Limerick's  wall, 
And  hurrah  !  for  bold  Sarsfield,  the  bravest  of  all. 
The  bullets  rain  in  pelting  shower, 
And  rocks  and  beams  from  wall  and  tower  ; 
The  Englishmen  are  glad  to  cower 

At  the  city  of  Luimneach  linn-ghlas. 
But,  rallied  soon,  again  they  pressed, 
Their  bayonets  pierced  full  many  a  breast, 
Till  they  bravely  won  the  breach's  crest 
At  the  city  of  Luimneach  linn-ghlas. 

IV. 

Yet,  hurrah !  for  the  men  who,  when  danger  is 

nigh, 

Are  found  in  the  front,  looking  death  in  the  eye. 
Hurrah  !  for  the  men  who  kept  Limerick's  wall, 
And  hurrah  !  for  bold  Sarsfield,  the  bravest  of  all. 
Then  fiercer  grew  the  Irish  yell, 
And  madly  on  the  foe  they  fell, 
Till  the  breach  grew  like  the  jaws  of  hell  — 
Not  the  city  of  Luimneach  linn-ghlas. 


4  "  Limerick  of  the  azure  river."    See  "  The  Circuit  of  Ireland  , ' 
p.  47. — AOTUOK'S  MOTH. 


THE  POEMS  OF  THOMAS  DAVIS. 


r>!7 


The  women  fought  before  the  men, 
Each  man  became  a  match  for  ten, 
So  back  they  pushed  the  villains  then, 
From  the  city  of  Luimneach  linn-ghlnt. 


Then,  hurrah  !  for  the  men  who,  when  danger  is 

nigh, 
Are   found  in  the  front,  looking   death  in   the 

eye. 
Hurrah !    for   the    men    who   kept   Limerick's 

wall, 

And  hurrah  !  for  bold  Sarsfield,  the  bravest  of  all. 
But  Bradenburgh  the  ditch  h;is  crost, 
And  gained  our  Hank  at  little  cost — 
The  bastion's  gone — the  town  is  lost; 
Oh  !  poor  city  of  Luimneach  linn-ghlas. 


When,  sudden,  Sarsfield  springs  the  mine, 
Like  rockets  rise  the  Germans  fine, 
And  come  down  dead  'mid  smoke  and  shine» 
At  the  city  of  Luimneach  linn-ghlas. 

VI. 

So,  hurrah !  for  the  men  who,  when  danger  is  nigh)x 

Are  found  in  the  front,  looking  death  in  the  eye. 

Hurrah  !   for  the  men  who  kept  Limerick's  wall, . 

And  hurrah  !  for  bold  SarsfieM,  the  bravest  of  all. 
Out,  with  a  roar,  the  Irish  sprung, 
And  back  the  beaten  English  flung, 
Till  William  fled,  his  lords  among, 

From  the  city  of  Luimneach  linn-ghlas. 
'Twas  thus  was  fought  that  glorious  fight, 
By  Irishmen,  for  Ireland's  right^- 
May  all  such  days  have  such  a  night 
As  the  battle  of  Luimneach  linn-ghlas. 


anb  Songs  illustrative  of  Jfrisjj  pstorg. 


"BT  n  Ballad  History  we  do  not  mean  a  metrical  chronicle,  or 
any  continual!  work,  but  a  string  of  ballads  chronologically 
arranged,  and  illustrating  the  main  events  of  Irish  History,  its 
characters,  customs,  scenes,  and  passions. 

"  Kxact  dates,  subtle  plots,  minute  connections  and  motives, 
rarely  appear  in  Ballads;  and  for  these  ends  the  worst  pruso  his- 
tory i.s  superior  to  the  best  Ballad  series;  but  these  are  not  tho 
highest  ends  of  history.  To  hallow  or  accurse  the  scenes  of  glory 
and  honor,  or  of  shame  and  sorrow — to  give  to  the  imagination  the 
»nns,  and  homes  and  senates,  and  battles  of  other  days— to  rouse 
and  soften  and  slrenirihrn  and  enlarge  us  with  the  passions  of  gruat 
periods — to  lend  us  into  l»ve  of  sell-denial,  of  justice,  of  beauty,  of 
valor,  of  generous  life  and  proud  death— and  to  set  up  in  our  ttouls 
the  memory  of  great  men,  who  shall  then  be  as  models  and  judges 
of  our  actions — those  are  tin-  highest  duties  of  History,  and  these 
•re  beat  taught  by  ft  Ballad  History."—  Di  vis's  ESSAYS. 


THE  PENAL  DAYS. 

A  IK—  Th»  \Vhtelicright. 
I. 

On  !  weep  those  days,  the  penal  days, 
When  Ireland  hopelessly  complained. 

Oh !  weep  those  days,  the  penal  days, 
When  godless  persecution  reigned  ; 


When,  year  by  year, 

For  serf  and  peer, 
Fresh  cruelties  were  made  by  law, 

And,  filled  with  hate, 

Our  senate  sate 

To  weld  anew  each  fetter's  flaw ; 
Oh  !  weep  those  days,  those  penal  day»— 
Their  memory  still  on  Ireland  weighs. 

n. 
They  bribed  the  flock,  they  bribed  the  SOD, 

To  sell  the  priest  and  rob  the  sire; 
Their  dogs  were  taught  alike  to  run 
Upon  the  scent  of  wolf  and  friar. 
Among  the  poor, 
Or  on  the  moor, 

Were  hid  the  pious  and  the  true — 
While  traitor  knave, 
And  recreant  slave, 
Had  riches,  rank,  and  retinue : 
And,  exiled  in  those  penal  d:ivs» 
Our  banners  over  Europe  blaze. 


THE  POEMS   OF  THOMAS  DAVIS. 


in. 

A  stranger  held  the  land  and  tower 

Of  many  a  noble  fugitive  ; 
No  popish  lord  had  lordly  power, 
The  peasant,  scarce  had  leave  to  live  ; 
Above  his  head 
A  ruined  shed, 

No  tenure  but  a  tyrant's  will — 
Forbid  to  plead, 
Forbid  to  read, 

Disarmed,  disfranchised,  imbecile — 
What  wonder  if  our  step  betrays 
The  freedman,  born  in  penal  days? 

IV. 

They're  gone,  they're  gone,  those  penal  days ! 

All  creeds  are  eqjiial  in  our  isle ; 
Then  grant,  0  Lord,  thy  plenteous  grace, 
Our  ancient  feuds  to  reconcile. 
Let  all  atone 
For  blood  and  groan, 
For  dark  revenge  and  open  wrong, 
Let  all  unite 
For  Ireland's  right, 

And  drown  our  griefs  in  freedom's  song ; 
Till  time  shall  veil  in  twilight  haze, 
The  memory  of  those  penal  days. 


THE  DEATH  OF  SARSFIELD.1 

A    CHANT    OF    THE    BRIGADE. 
I. 

SARSFIELD  has  sailed  from  Limerick  Town, 
He  held  it  long  for  country  and  crown  ; 
And  ere  he  yielded,  the  Saxon  swore 
To  spoil  our  homes  and  our  shrines  no  more. 

n. 

Sarsfield  and  a.11  his  chivalry 

Are  fighting  for  France  in  the  low  coun-trie — 

At  his  fiery  charge  the  Saxons  reel, 

They  learned  at  Limerick  to  dread  the  steel. 


1  Sarsfleld  was  slain  on  the  29th  July,  1698,  at  Landen,  heading 
hts  countrymen  in  the  van  of  victory,— King  William  flying.  He 
could  not  have  died  better.  His  last  thoughts  were  for  his  country. 
As  he  lay  on  the  field  unhelmed  and  dying,  he  put  his  hand  to  his 
treast  When  he  took  it  nway,  it  was  full  of  his  best  blood.  Look- 
\W  at  it  uulty  with  an  eye  in  which  victory  shone  a  moment  be- 


lli. 


Sarsfield  is  dying  on  Landen's  plain  ; 

His  corslet  hath  met  the  ball  in  vain — 

As  his  life-blood  gushes  into  his  hand, 

He  says,  "  Oh  !  that  this  was  for  father-land  !" 


Sarsfield  is  dead,  yet  no  tears  shed  we — 
For  he  died  in  the  arms  of  Victory, 
And  his  dying  words  shall  edge  the  brand, 
When  we  chase  the  foe  from  our  native  land ! 


THE  SURPRISE  OF  CREMONA. 

(1702.) 


FROM  Milan  to  Cremona  Duke  Villeroy  rode, 
And  soft  are  the  beds  in  his  princely  abode  ; 
In  billet  and  barrack  the  garrison  sleep, 
And  loose  is  the  watch  which  the  sentinels  keep : 
'Tis  the  eve  of  St.  David,  and  bitter  the  breeze 
Of  that  midwinter  night  on  the  flat  Cremonese; 
A  fig  for  precaution ! — Prince  Eugene  sits  clown 
In  winter  cantonments  round  Mantua  town. 


Yet  through  Ustiano,  and  out  on  the  plain, 
Horse,  foot,  and  dragoons  are  defiling  amain. 
"  That  flash  !"  said  Prince  Eugene,  "  Count  Merci, 

push  on" — 

Like  a  rock  from  a  precipice  Merci  is  gone. 
Proud  mutters  the  prince — "  That  is  CassioU'b 

sign: 
Ere  the  dawn  of  the  morning  Cremona  '11  b* 

mine — 

For  Merci  will  open  the  gate  of  the  Po, 
But  scant  is  the  mercy  Prince  Vaudemonv  will 

show !" 

in. 

Through  gate,  street,  and  square,  wita  his  keen 

cavaliers — 
A  flood  through  a  gully — Count  Merci  careers  ; 


fore,  he  said  faintly,  "Oh!  that  this  were  for  Ireland."  He  said 
no  more;  and  history  records  no  nobler  saying,  nor  any  more  be- 
coming death. — AUTHOR'S  NOTE. 

Vide  Appendix,  for  a  brief  sketch  of  the  services  of  the  Irish 
Brigade,  in  which  most  of  the  allusions  in  these  and  several  of  th« 
following  poems  are  explained. — ED. 


THE  POEMS  OF  THOMAS   DAVIS. 


519 


They  ride  without  getting  or  giving  a  blow. 
Nor  halt  'till  they  gaze  on  the  gate  of  the  Po  : 
w  Surrender  the  gate" — but  a  volley  replied, 
For  a  handful  of  Irisli  arc  posted  inside. 
By   my   faith,   Charles   Vaudemont   will    come 

rather  late, 
If  he  stay  till  Count  Merci  shall  open  that  gate  ! 

IV. 

But  in  through    St.   Margaret's   the    Austrians 

pour, 

And  billet  and  barrack  are  ruddy  with  gore ; 
Unarmed  and  naked,  the  soldiers  are  slain — 
There's  an  enemy's  gauntlet  on  Villuroy's  rein — 
"A  thousand  pistoles  and  a  regiment  of  horse — 
Release  me,  MacDonnell !" — they  hold  on  their 

course. 

Count  Merci  has  seized  upon  cannon  and  wall, 
Prince   Eugene's  headquarters  are  in  the  Town- 
hall  ! 

v. 
Here  and  there,  through  the  city,  some  readier 

band, 

For  honor  and  safety,  undauntedly  stand. 
At  the  head  of  the  regiments  of  Dillon  and  Burke 
I>  Major  O'Mahony,  tierce  as  a  Turk. 
His  sabre  is  flashing — the  major  is  drest, 
But  muskets  and  shirts  are  the  clothes  of  the 

rest! 
Yet  they  rush  to  the  ramparts— the  clocks  have 

tolled  ten — 
And  Count  Merci  retreats  with  the  half  of  his 

men. 

VI. 

44  In  on  them,"  said  Friedberg, — and  Dillon  is 

broke, 

Like  forest-flowers  crushed  by  the  fall  of  the  oak  ; 
Through   the   naked  battalions  the   cuirassiers 

go;— 

But  the  man,  not  the  dress,  makes  the  soldier,  I 

trow. 

Upon  them  with  grapple,  with  bay'net,  and  ball, 
Like   wolves  upon  gaze-hounds,   the    Irishmen 

fall- 
Black  Friedberg  is  slain  by  O'Mahony's  steel, 
And  back  from  the  bullets  the  cuirassiers  reel. 

VII. 

Oh!    hear   you   their  shout  in   your   quarters, 

Eugene  ? 
In  vain  on   Prince  Vaudemont  for  succor  you 

lean! 


The  bridge  has  been  broken,  and,  mark  !  how 

pell-mell 

Come  riderless  horses,  and  volley  and  yell ! — 
He's  a  veteran  soldier — he  clenches  his  hands, 
He  springs  on  his  horse,  disengages  his  bands — 
lie  rallies,  he  urges,  till,  hopeless  of  aid. 
He  is  chased  through   the  gates  by  the   IRISH 

BRIGADE. 

VIII. 

News,  news,  in  Vienna ! — King  Leopold's  sad. 
News,  news,  in  St.  James's ! — King  William  is 

mad. 
News,    news,    in    Versailles — "  Let    the    Irish 

Brigade 

Be  loyally  honored,  and  royally  paid." 
News,   news,  in    old    Ireland — high    rises   her 

pride, 
And  high  sounds  her  wail  for  her  cliildrcn  who 

died, 

And  deep  is  her  prayer, — "  God  send  I  may  seo 
MacDonnell  and  Mahony  fighting  for  me." 


THE  FLOWER  OF  FINAE. 


BRIGHT  red  is  the  sun  on  the  waves  of  Lough 
Sheelin. 

A  cool  gentle  breeze  from  the  mountain  is  steal- 
ing, 

While  fair   round    its   islets   the   small    ripplea 

p'ay, 

But  fairer  than  all  is  the  Flower  of  Finae. 

ii. 

Her  hair  is  like  night,  and  her  eyes  like  gray 
morning, 

She  trips  on  the  heather  as  if  its  touch  scorning, 

Yet  her  heart  and  her  lips  are  as  mild  as  May- 
day, 

Sweet  Eily  MacMahon,  the  Flower  of  Finae. 

HI. 

But  who  down  the  hill-side  than  red  deer  runs 

fleeter  ? 
And  who  on  the  lake  side  is  hastening  to  greet 

her? 

Who  but  Fergus  O'Farrell,  the  fiery  and  gar, 
The  darling  and  pride  of  the  Flower  of  Finao? 


520 


THE  POEMS   OF  THOMAS   DAVIS. 


iv.    • 

One  kiss  and  one  clasp,  and  one  wild  look  of 
gladness ; 

Ah!  why  do  they  change  on  a  sudden  to  sad- 
ness ? — 

He  has  told  his  hard  fortune,  nor  more  he  can 
stay, 

He  must  leave  his  poor  Eily  to  pine  at  Finae. 

v. 

For  Fergus  O'Farrell  was  true  to  his  sire-land, 
And  the  dark  hand  of  tyranny  drove  him  from 

Ireland  ; 

He  joins  the  Brigade,  in  the  wars  far  away, 
But  he  vows  he'll  come  back  to  the  Flower  of 

Finae 

VI. 

He  fought  at  Cremona — she  hears  of  his  story  ; 
He  fought  at  Cassano — she's  proud  of  his  glory, 
Yet  sadly  she  sings  Siubhail  a  ruin1  all  the  day, 
"  Oh,  come,  come,  my  darling,  come  home  to 
Finae." 


VII. 

Eight  long  years  have  passed,  till  she's  nigh 

broken-hearted, 
Her  reel  and   her  rock,  and   her  flax  she  has 

parted ; 
She  sails  with  the  "  Wild  Geese"  to  Flanders 

away, 
And  leaves  her  sad  parents  alone  in  Finae. 


Lord  Clare  on  the  field  of  Ramillies  is  charging — 
Before  him,  the  Sacsanach  snuadrons  enlarging — 
Behind  him  the  Cravats  their  sections  display — 
Beside  him  rides  Fergus  and  shouts  for  Finae. 

IX. 

On  the  slopes  of  La  Judoigne  the  Frenchmen  are 

flying ; 

Lord  Clare  and  his  squadrons  the  foe  still  defying, 
Outnumbered,  and  wounded,  retreat  in  array; 
And  bleeding  rides  Fergus  and  thinks  of  Finae. 


In  the  cloisters  of  Ypres  a  banner  is  swaying, 
And  by  it  a  pale  weeping  maiden  is  praying ; 
That  flag's  the  sole  trophy  of  Ramillies'  fray ; 
This  nun  is  poor  Eily,  the  Flower  of  Finae. 

1    Vulgo,  Shule  aroon. 


THE  GIRL  I  LEFT  BEHIND  ME. 

AIR — The  girl  I  left  behind  me. 
I. 

THE  dames  of  France  are  fond  and  free, 

And  Flemish  lips  are  willing, 
And  soft  the  maids  of  Italy, 

And  Spanish  eyes  are  thrilling  ; 
Still,  though  I  bask  beneath  their  smile, 

Their  charms  fail  to  bind  me, 
And  my  heart  flies  back  to  Erin's  isle, 

To  the  girl  I  left  behind  mo. 

ii. 
For  she's  as  fair  as  Shannon's  side, 

And  purer  than  its  water, 
But  she  refused  to  be  my  bride 

Though  many  a  year  I  sought  her ; 
Yet,  since  to  France  I  sailed  away, 

Her  letters  oft  remind  me 
That  I  promised  never  to  gainsay 

The  girl  I  left  behind  me. 

in. 
She  says — "  My  own  dear  love,  come  home, 

My  friends  are  rich  and  many, 
Or  else  abroad  with  you  I'll  roam 

A  soldier  stout  as  any  ; 
If  you'll  not  come,  nor  let  me  go, 

I'll  think  you  have  resigned  me." 
My  heart  nigh  broke  when  I  answered — No  I 

To  the  girl  I  left  behind  me. 

IV. 

For  never  shall  my  true  love  brave 

A  life  of  war  and  toiling  ; 
And  never  as  a  skulking  slave 

I'll  tread  my  native  soil  on  ; 
But,  were  it  free,  or  to  be  freed, 

The  battle's  close  would  find  me 
To  Ireland  bound — nor  message  need 

From  the  girl  I  left  behind  me. 


CLARE'S  DRAGOONS.1 

Am —  Viva  la. 


WHEN,  on  Ramillies'  bloody  field, 
The  baffled  French  were  forced  to  yield 

2    Fide  Appendix. 


THE   POEMS  OF  THOM\S   DAVIS. 


521 


The  victor  Saxon  backward  reeled 

Before  the  charge  of  Clare's  Dragoons. 

The  Flags,  we  conquered  in  that  fray, 

Look  lone  in  Ypres'  choir,  they  say  ; 

We'll  win  them  company  to  day, 

Or  bravely  die  like  Clare's  Dragoons. 

CHORUS. 
Viva  la.  for  Ireland's  wrong ! 

O 

Viva  la,  for  Ireland's  right ! 
Viva  la,  in  battle  throng, 
For  a  Spanish  steed,  and  sabre  bright ! 

ii. 

The  brave  old  lord  died  near  the  fight, 
But,  for  each  drop  he  lost  that  night, 
A  Saxon  cavalier  shall  bite 

The  dust  before  Lord  Clare's  Dragoons. 
For  never,  when  our  spurs  were  set, 
And  never,  when  our  sabres  met, 
Could  we  the  Saxon  soldiers  get 

To  stand  the  shock  of  Clare's  Dragoons. 

CHORUS. 
Viva  la,  the  New  Brigade ! 

Viva  la,  the  Old  One,  too  ! 
Viva  la,  the  rose  shall  fade, 

And  the  Shamrock  shine  forever  new  I 

in. 

Another  Clare  is  here  to  lead, 
The  worthy  son  of  such  a  breed  ; 
The  French  expect  some  famous  deed, 

When  Clare  leads  on  his  bold  Dragoons. 
Our  Colonel  comes  from  Brian's  race, 
His  wounds  arc  in  his  breast  and  face, 
The  bearna  baoghail '  is  still  his  place, 

The  foremost  of  his  bold  Dragoons. 

9 

CHORUS. 
Viva  la,  the  New  Brigade  ! 

Viva  la,  the  Old  One,  too ! 
Viva  la,  the  rose  shall  fade, 

And  the  Shamrock  shine  forever  new ! 

IV. 

There's  not  a  man  in  squadron  here 
Was  ever  known  to  flinch  or  fear ; 
Though  first  in  charge  and  last  in  rerc, 
Have  ever  been  Lord  Clare's  Dragoons ; 

•  O»p  of  danger. 


But,  see  !  we'll  soon  have  work  to  do, 
To  shame  our  boasts,  or  prove  them  true, 
For  hither  comes  the  English  crew, 
To  sweep  away  Lord  Clare's  Dragoons. 

CHORUS. 

Viva  la,  for  Ireland's  wrong! 

Viva  la,  for  Ireland's  right ! 
Viva  la,  in  battle  throng, 

For  a  Spanish  steed  and  sabre  bright ! 

v. 

Oh  !  comrades  !  think  how  Ireland  pines 
Her  exiled  lords,  her  rifled  shrines, 
Her  dearest  hope,  the  ordered  lines, 

And  bursting  charge  of  Ckire's  Dragoons, 
Then  bring  your  Green  Flag  to  the  sky, 
Be  Limerick  your  battle-cry, 
And  charge,  till  blood  floats  fetlock-high, 

Around  the  track  of  Clare's  Dragoons ! 

CHORUS. 
Viva  la,  the  New  Brigade ! 

Viva  la,  the  Old  One,  too  ! 
Viva  la,  the  rose  shall  fade, 

And  the  Shamrock  shine  forever  new  t 


WHEN  SOUTH   WINDS  BLOW. 

AIB—  Tht  gtntU  M<rid«n. 


WHY  sits  the  gentle  maiden  there, 

While  surfing  billows  splash  around  I 
Why  doth  she  southwards  wildly  stare 
And  sing  with  such  a  tearful  sound — 
M  The  Wild  Geese  fly  where  other  walk  ; 
The  Wild  Geese  do  what  others  talk — 
The  way  is  long  from  France,  you  know — 
He'll  come  at  last  when  south  winds  blow." 

n. 
Oh  !  softly  was  the  maiden  nurst 

In  Castle  ConnelFs  lordly  towers, 
Where  Skellig's  billows  boil  and  burst, 

And,  far  above,  Dunkorron  towers  : 
And  she  was  noble  as  the  hill — 
Yet  battle-flags  are  nobler  still  : 
And  she  was  graceful  as  the  wave — 
Yet  who  would  live  a  tranquil  slave  I 


522 


THE  POEMS  OF  THOMAS   DAVIS. 


in. 
And,  so,  her  lover  went  to  Franco, 

To  serve  the  foe  of  Ireland's  foe; 
Yet  deep  he  swore — "  Whatever  chance, 

I'll  corne  some  day  when  south  winds  blow." 
And  prouder  hopes  he  told  beside, 
How  she  should  be  a  prince's  bride, 
How  Louis  would  the  Wild  Geese1  sei^l. 
And  Ireland's  weary  woes  should  end. 

IV. 

But  tyrants  quenched  her  father's  health, 

And  wrong  and  absence  warped  her  mind  ; 
The  gentle  maid,  of  gentle  birth, 

Is  moaning  madly  to  the  wind — 
"  He  said  he'd  come,  whate'er  betide  : 
He  said  I'd  be  a  happy  bride  : 
Oh  !  long  the  way  and  hard  the  foe  — 
He'll    come   when    south — when    south     windi 
blow !" 


THE   BATTLE   EVE   OF  THE   BRIGADE. 

Am — Coutentfii  I  am. 

I. 

THE  mess-tent  is  full,  and  the  glasses  are  set, 
And   the  gallant  Count  Thomond   is  president  I 

yet; 

The  vet'ran  arose,  like  an  uplifted  lance, 

Crying — "  Comrades,  a  health   to  the  monarch  ! 

of  France !" 
With  bumpers  and  cheers  they  have  done  as  Le  ; 

bade, 
For  King  Louis  is  loved  by  The  Irish  Brigade, 

ii. 
"A  health  to  King  James,"  and  they  bent  as  they 

quaffed ; 
"  Here's  to  George  the  Elector"  and  fiercely  they 

laughed; 

41  Good  luck  to  the  girls  we  wooed  long  ago, 
Where  Shannon,  and  Barrow,  and  BlackwaU-r 

flow ;" 
44  God  prosper  Old  Ireland," — you'd  think  them 

afraid, 
So  pale  grew  the  chiefs  of  The  Irish  Brigade. 

1  The  recruiting  for  the  Brigade  was  carried  on  in  the  French 
ships  which  smuggled  brandies,  wines,  silks.  &o. ,  to  the  western 
and  southwestern  coasts.  Their  return  cargoes  were  recruits  for 
the  Brigade,  and  were  entered  io  their  books  as  Wild  Gerse.  llenc*  j 


III. 

"  But,  surely,  that  light  cannot  come  from  oui 

lamp  ? 
And  that  noise — are  they  all  getting  drunk  in 

the  camp  ?" 

"  Hurrah  !  boys,  the   morning  of  battle  is  come, 
And  the  generates  beating  on  many  a  drum." 
So  they  rush   from  the  revel  to  join  the  parade ; 
For  the  van  is  the  ri<jht  of  The  Irish  Brigade. 


They  fought  as   they   revelled,  fast,    fiery,    and 

true, 
And,  though  victors,  they  left  on  the  field  not  a 

few ; 
And  they,  who  survived,  fought  and  drank  a£Tof 

yore, 
But  the  land  of  their   heart's    hope   they  aever 

saw  more  ;  •  $•  <  (( 

For  in  far  foreign   fields,  from  Dunkirk  to  Bdl- 

grade, 
Lie  the  soldiers  and  chiefs  of  The  Irish  Brigade. 


FONTENOY.' 

(1745.) 

i. 

TiiiucK,  at  the   huts  of  Fontenoy,  the   English 

column  failed, 
And,    twice,    the    lines    of    Saint    Antoine,  the 

Dutch  in  vain  assailed  ; 
For  town  and  slope  were  filled   with  fort  and 

flanking  feattery, 
And  well   they  swept    the   English   ranks,  and 

Dutch  auxiliary. 
As  vainly,  through  l)e  Barri's  wood,  the  British 

soldiers  burst, 

The  French  artillery  drove  them  back,  diminish- 
ed and  dispersed. 
The  bloody  Duke  of  Cumberland  beheld  wiih 

anxious  eye, 
And  ordered  up  his  last  reserve,  his  latest  chance 

to  try ; 
On  Fontenoy,  on  Fontenoy,  how  fast  his  general* 

ride ! 
And   mustering   come  his  chosen  troops,   like 

clouds  at  eventide. 


this  became  the  common  name  in  Ireland  for  the  Irish  serving  in 
the  Brigade.    The  recruiting  was   chiefly  from  Clare,   Linieri"-!' 
Curk,  Kerry,  and  Galway. — AUTIIOR'S  NOTK. 
2    Vide  Appendix. 


THE   POEMS   OF  THOMAS   DAVIS. 


523 


II. 

Six  thousand  English  veterans  in  stately  column 

tread, 
Their  cannon  blaze  in  front  and  flank,  Lord  Hay 

is  at  their  head  ; 
Steady  they  step  a-down  the  slope — steady  they 

climb  the  hill ; 
Steady  they  load — steady  they  fire,  moving  right 

onward  still,  'TVfOU 

Betwixt  the  wood  and  Fontenoy,  as  througn  a 

furnace  blast, 
Through    rampart,    trench,    and    palisade,    and 

bullets  showering  fast; 
And  on   the  open   plain  above ^ they  rose,  and 

kept  their  course, 
With  ready  fire  and  grim  resolve,  that  mocked 

at  hostile  force : 
Past  Fontenoy,   past   Fontenoy,    while   thinner 

grow  their  ranks — 
They  break,  as  broke  the  Zuyder  Zee  through 

Holland's  ocean  banks. 

HI. 
More  idly  than  the  summer  flies,  French  tirailleurs 

rush  round ; 
As  stubble  to  the  lava  tide,  French  squadrons 

strew  the  ground ; 
Bomb-shell,  and  grape,  and  round-shot  tore,  still 

on  they  marched  and  fired — 
Fast,  from  each  volley,  grenadier  and  voltiguer 

retired. 
"  Push  on,  my  household  cavalry !"  King  Louis 

madly  cried  : 
To  death  they  rush,  but  rude  their  shock — not 

unavenged  they  died.  _~ 

On  through  the  camp  the  column  trod;-^ 

Louis  turns  his  rein  : 
u  Not  yet,  my  liege,"  Saxe  interposed,  "  the  irish 

troops  remain ;" 
And   Fontenoy,   famed    Fontenoy,    had  been  a 

Waterloo, 
Were  not  these  exiles  ready  then,  fresh,  vehement, 

and  true. 

IV. 

"  Lord  Clare,"  he  says,  "  you  have  your  wish, 

there  are  your  Saxon  foes !" 
The  Marshal  almost  smiles  to  see,  so  furiously 

he  goes ! 
How  fierce  the  look  these  exiles  wear,  who're 

wont  to  be  so  gay ! 
The  treasured  wrongs  of  fifty  years  arc  in  their 

hearts  to-day  — 


The  treaty  broken,  ere  the  ink  wherewith  'twas 
writ  could  dry, 

Their  plundered  homes,  their  ruined  shrines, 
their  women's  parting  cry, 

Their  priesthood  hunted  down  like  wolves,  their 
country  overthrown, — 

Each  looks,  as  if  revenge  for  all  were  staked  011 
him  alone. 

On  Fontenoy,  on  Fontenoy,  nor  ever  yet  else- 
where, 

Rushed  on  to  fight  a  nobler  band  than  these 
proud  exiles  were. 


O'Brien's  voice  is  hoarse  with  joy,  as,  halting, 

he  commands, 
"  Fix     bay'nets," — "  Charge," — Like     mountain 

storm,  rush  on  these  fiery  bands ! 
Thin  is  the  English  column  now,  and  faint  their 

volleys  grow, 
Yet,  must'ring  all  the  strength  they  have,  they 

make  a  gallant  show. 
They  dress  their  vauks  upon  the  hill  to  face  that 

battle-wind — 
Their  bayonets  the  breakers'  foam ;  like  rocks, 

the  men  behind  ! 
One  volley  crashes  from  their  line,  when,  through 

the  surging  smoke, 
With  empty  guns  clutched  in  their  hands,  the 

headlong  Irish  broke. 
On  Fontenoy,  on  Fontenoy,  hark  to  that  fierce 

huzza ! 
"  Revenge  1  remember  Limerick!  dash  down  the 

Sacsanach  !" 


Like  lions    leaping  at  a  fold,   when  mad   with 

hunger's  pang, 
Right  up  against  the  English  line  the  Irish  exiles 

sprang : 
Bright  was  their  steel,  'tis  bloody   now,   their 

guns  are  filled  with  gore  ; 
Through  shattered  ranks,  and  severed  flies,  and 

trampled  flags  they  tore  : 
The    English   strove    with   desperate    strength, 

paused,  rallied,  staggered,  fled — 
The  green  hill-side  is  matted  close  with  dying 

and  with  dead. 
Across  the  plain,  and  far  away  passed  on  that 

hideous  wrack, 
While  cavalier  and  fantassiu  dash  in  upon  their 

track. 


524 


THE  POEMS   OF  THOMAS  DAVIS. 


On  Fontenoy,  on  Fontenoy,  like  eagles  in  the 

sun, 
With  bloody  plumes  the  Irish  stand — the  field 

is  fought  and  won  ! 


THE  DUNGANNON  CONVENTION. 
(1782.) 


THE  church  of  Dungannon  is  full  to  the  door, 
And  sabre  and  spur  clash  at  times  on  the  floor, 
While  helmet  and  shako  are  ranged  all  along, 
Yet  no  book  of  devotion  is  seen  in  the  throng. 
In  the  front  of  the  altar  no  minister  stands, 
But  the  crimson-clad  chief  of  these  warrior  bands  ; 
And  though  solemn  the  looks  and  the  voices 

around, 

You'd  listen  in  vain  for  a  litany's  sound. 
Say !    what   do    they    hear    in  •  the    temple    of 

prayer  ? 
Oh !  why  in  the  fold  has  the  lion  his  lair? 

ii. 

Sad,  wounded,  and  wan  was  the  face  of  our  isle, 
By  English  oppression,  and  falsehood,  and  guile? 
Yet  when  to  invade  it  a  foreign  fleet  steered, 
To  guard  it  for  England  the  North  volunteered. 
From  the  citizen-soldiers  the  foe  fled  aghast — 
Still  they  stood  to  their  guns  when  the  danger 

had  past, 

For  the  voice  of  America  came  o'er  the  wave, 
Crying — Woe  to  the  tyrant,  and  hope  to  the 

skive  ! 
Indignation  and  shame  through  their  regiments 

speed, 
''hey  have  arms  in  their  hands,  and  what  more 

do  they  need  ? 

in. 

O'er  the  green  hills  of  Ulster  their  banners  are 

spread, 

The  cities  of  Leinster  resound  to  their  tread, 
The  valleys  of  Munster  with  ardor  are  stirred, 
And  the  plains  of  wild  Connaught  their  bugles 

have  heard  ; 

A  Protestant  front-rank  and  Catholic  rere — 
For — forbidden  the  arms  of  freemen  to  bear — 
Vet  foemen  and  friend  are  full  sure,  if  need  be, 
The  slave  for  his  country  will  stand  by  the  free. 


By  green  flags  supported,  the  Orange  flag- 
wave, 

And  the  soldier  half  turns  to  unfetter  th 
slave ! 

IV. 

More  honored  that  church  of  Dunsrannon  is  now 

O 

Than  when  at  its  altar  communicants  bow  ; 
More  welcome  to  heaven  than  anthem  or  prayer, 
Ar-e  the  rites  and  the  thoughts  of  the  warriors- 
there  ; 

In  the  name  of  all  Ireland  the  Delegates  swore  : 
"  We've  suffered  too  long,  and  we'll  suffer  no 

more — 
Unconquered  by  Force,  we  were  vanquished  by 

Fraud  ; 

And  now,  in  God's  temple,  we  vow  unto  God, 
That  never  again  shall  the  Englishman  bind 
His  chains   on  our  limbs,  or  his  laws   on    our 
mind." 

v. 

The  church  of  Dungannon  is  empty  once  more — 
No  plumes  on  the  altar,  no  clash  on  the  floor, 
But  the    counsels  of   England  are  fluttered  to- 

see, 

In  the  cause  of  their  country,  the  Irish  agree ; 
So   they   give  as  a  boon   what  they   dare    not 

withhold, 

And  Ireland,  a  nation,  leaps  up  as  of  old, 
With  a  name,  and  a  trade,  and  a  flag  of  her 

own, 

And  an  army  to  fight  for  the  people  and  throne. 
But  woe  worth  the  day  if  to  falsehood  or  fears 
She  surrender  the  guns  of  her  brave  Volunteers  ! 


SONG   OF  THE   VOLUNTEERS   OF    1782. 

AIR — Boyne  Water. 


HURRAH  !  'tis  clone — our  freedom's  wron- 

Hnrrah  for  the  Volunteers  ! 
No  laws  we  own,  but  those  alone 

Of  our  Commons,  King,  and  Peers. 
The  chain  is  broke — the  Saxon  yoke 

From  off  our  neck  is  taken  ; 
Ireland  awoke — Dungannon  spoke — 

With  tear  was  England  shaken. 


THE   POEMS  OF  THOMAS   DAVIS. 


525 


n. 
When  Grattan  rose,  none  dared  oppose 

The  claim  he  made  for  freedom  : 
They  knew  our  swords,  to  back  his  words, 

Were  ready,  did  he  need  thorn. 
Then  let  us  raise,  to  Grattan's  praise, 

A  proud  and  joyous  anthem  ; 
And  wealth,  and  grace,  and  length  of  days, 

May  God,  in  mercy,  grant  him  ! 

in. 
Bless  Harry  Flood,  who  nobly  stood 

By  us,  through  gloomy  years  ! 
Bless  Charlemont,  the  brave  and  good, 

The  Chief  of  the  Volunteers  ! 
The  North  began  ;  the  North  held  on 

The  strife  for  native  land  ; 
Till  Ireland  rose,  and  cowed  her  foes — 

God  bless  the  Northern  land  ! 

IV. 

And  bless  the  men  of  patriot  pen — 

Swift,  Molyneux,  and  Lucas  ; 
Bless  sword  and  gun,  which  "  Free  Trade"  won- 

Bless  God  !  who  ne'er  forsook  us ! 
And  long  may  last,  the  friendship  fast, 

Which  binds  us  all  together  ; 
While  we  agree,  our  foes  shall  flee 

Like  clouds  in  stormy  weather. 

v. 

Remember  still,  through  good  and  ill, 

How  vain  were  prayers  and  tears — 
How  vain  were  words,  till  flashed  the  swords 

Of  the  Irish  Volunteers. 
By  arms  we've  got  the  rights  we  sought 

Through  long  and  wretched  years — 
Hurrah  !  'tis  done,  our  freedom's  won — 

Hurrah  for  the  Volunteers ! 


THE  MEN  OF  'EIGHTY-TWO. 

An: — An  Crtiitgin  Lan, 

•9 

To  rend  a  cruel  chain, 

To  end  a  foreign  reign 
The  swords  of  the  Volunteers  were  drawn. 

And  instant  from  their  sway, 

Oppression  fled  away ; 

So  we'll  drink  them  in  a  cruixyin  /d«,  Idn,  Idn, 
We'll  drink  them  in  a   cruisgin  Inn  ! 


Within  that  host  were  seen 
The  Orange,  Blue,  and  Green- — 

The  Bishop  for  its  coat  left  his  lawn — 
The  peasant  and  the  lord 
Ranked  in  with  one  accord, 

Like  brothers  at  a  cruisgin  Idn,  Idn,  Idn, 

Like  brothers  at  a  cruisyin  Idn  ! 

in. 

With  liberty  there  came 

Wit,  eloquence,  and  fame ; 
Our  feuds  went  like  mists  from  the  dawn ; 

Old  bigotry  disdained — 

Old  privilege  retained — 
Oh!  sages,  fill  a  cruisgin  Idn,  Idn,  Idn, 
And,  boys,  fill  up  a  cruisyin  Idn  ! 

IV. 

The  trader's  coffers  filled, 
The  barren  lands  were  tilled, 

Our  ships  on  the  waters  thick  as  spawn — 
Prosperity  broke  forth, 
Like  summer  in  the  north — 

Ye  merchants !  fill  a  cruisyin  Idn,  Idn,  /an, 

Ye  farmers  !  fill  a  cruisyin  Idn  ! 

v. 

The  memory  of  that  day 

Shall  never  pass  away, 
Though  its  fame  shall  be  yet  outshone ; 

We'll  grave  it  on  our  shrines, 

We'll  shout  it  in  our  lines — 
Old  Ireland !  fill  a  cruisgin  Idn,  Idn,  Idn, 
Young  Ireland !  fill  a  cruisgin  Idn  ! 

VI. 

And  drink — The  Volunteers, 

Their  generals,  and  seers, 
Their  gallantry,  their  genius,  and  their  brawn 

With  water,  or  with  wine — 

The  draught  is  but  a  sign — 
The  purpose  fills  the  cruisgin  Idn,  Idn,  Idn, 
This  purpose  fills  the  cruisyin  Idn  f 

VII. 

That  ere  Old  Ireland  goes, 
And  while  Young  Ireland  glows. 

The  swords  of  our  sires  be  girt  on, 
And  loyally  renew 
The  work  of  'EioiiTV-T\vo — 

Oh  !  gentlemen — a  cruisyin  Idn,  Idn,  Idn, 

Our  freedom  !  in  a  cruisyin  Idn  I 


526 


THE   POEMS   OF  THOMAS   DAVIS. 


NATIVE  SWORDS. 

(A    VOLUNTEER    SONG. 1ST  JULY,   1792.) 

Am — Boyne  Water. 

I. 
WE'VE  bent  too  long  to  braggart  wrong, 

While  force  our  prayers  derided  ; 
We've  fought  too  long,  ourselves  among, 

By  knaves  and  priests  divided  ; 
United  now,  no  more  we'll  bow, 

Foul  faction,  we  discard  it ; 
And  now,  thank  God  !  our  native  sod 
Has  Native  Swords  to  guard  it. 

ii. 
Like  rivers  which,  o'er  valleys  rich, 

Bring  ruin  in  their  water, 
On  native  land,  a  native  hand 

Flung  foreign  fraud  and  slaughter. 
From  Dermod's  crime  to  Tudor's  time 

Our  clans  were  our  perdition  ; 
Religion's  name,  since  then,  became 

Our  pretext  for  division. 

in. 
But,  worse  than  all,  with  Lim'rick's  fall 

Our  valor  seemed  to  perish  ; 
Or  o'er  the  main,  in  France  and  Spain, 

For  bootless  vengeance  flourish. 
The  peasant,  here,  grew  pale  for  fear 

He'd  suffer  for  our  glory, 
While  France  sang  joy  for  Fontenoy, 

And  Europe  hymned  our  story. 

IV. 

But  now,  no  clan,  nor  factious  plan, 

The  East  and  West  can  sunder — 
Why  Ulster  e'er  should  Munster  fear, 

Can  only  wake  our  wonder. 
Religion's  crost,  when  union's  lost, 

And  "  royal  gifts"  retard  it ; 
But  now,  thank  God  !  our  native  sod 

Has  Native  Swords  to  guard  it. 


TONE'S  GRAVE. 

i. 

IN  Bodenstown  Churchyard  there  is  a  green  grave, 
And  wildly  along  it  the  winter  winds  rave  ; 
Small  shelter,  I  ween,  are  the  ruined  walls  there, 
When  the  storm  sweeps  down  on  the  plains  of 
Kildare, 


ii. 


Once  I  lay  on  that  sod — it  lies  over  Wolfe  Tone — 
And  I  thought  how  he  perished  in  prison  alone, 
His  friends  unavenged,  and  his  country  unfreed — 
"  Oh,  bitter,"  I  said,  "  is  the  patriot's  meed  ; 


in. 

For  in  him  the  heart  of  a  woman  combined 
With  a  heroic  life,  and  a  governing  mind — 
A  martyr  for  Ireland — his  grave  has  no  stone- 
His  name  seldom  named,   and  his    virtues  un- 
known." 

IV. 

I  was  woke  from  my  dream  by  the  voices  ard 
tread 

Of  a  band,  who  came  into  the  home  of  the  dead  ; 

They  carried  no  corpse,  and  they  carried  no- 
stone, 

And  they  stopped  when  they  came  to  the  grave 
of  Wolfe  Tone. 

v. 

There  were  students  and  peasants,  the  wise  and 

the  brave, 
And  an  old  man  who  knew  him  from  cradle  to 

grave, 
And  children   who  thought    me    hard-hearted  \ 

for  they, 
On  that  sanctified  sod  were  forbidden  to  play. 

VI. 

But  the  old  man,  who  saw  I  was  mourning  therer 

said  : 
"  We   come,  sir,  to  weep    where   young  Wolfe 

Tone  is  laid ; 

And  we're  going  to  raise  him  a  monument,  too — 
A  plain  one,  yet  fit  for  the  simple  and  true." 

VII. 

My  heart  overflowed,  and  I  clasped  his  old  handr. 
And  I  blessed  him,  and  blessed  every  one  of  his 

band  ; 
"Sweet!  sweet!  'tis   to  find  that  such  faith  can 

remain 
To  the  cause,  and  the  man  so   long  vanquished 

and  slain." 

VIII. 

In    Bodenstown    Churchyard    there  is  a  green. 

grave, 

And  freely  around  it  let  winter  winds  rave — 
Far  better  they  suit  him — the  ruin  and  gloom. — 
TILL  IRELAND,  A  NATION,  CAN  BCILD  HIM  A  TOMII 


THE  POEMS  OF  THOMAS  DAVIS. 


527 


V. 


jscellaiteotts   Uacms. 


"NATIONALITY  IB  no  longer  an  unmeaning  or  despised  name 
among  us.  It  is  welcomed  by  the  higher  ranks,  It  is  the  inspiration 
of  the  bolil,  and  the  hope  <>f  the  p^ple.  It  is  the  summary  name 
for  many  things.  It  seeks  a  Literature  made  by  Irishmen,  and 
colored  by  our  scenery,  manners,  and  cKvacter.  It  desires  to 
tee  Art  applied  to  express  Irish  thoughts  &i.i  belief.  It  would 
make  our  Music  sound  in  every  parish  at  twlligi.^  our  Pictures 
sprinkle  the  walls  of  every  house,  and  our  Poetry  ano  History  sit 
at  every  hearth. 

••  It  would  thus  create  a  race  of  men  full  of  a  more  intensely 
Irish  character  and  knowledge,  and  to  that  race  it  would  give  Ire- 
land. It  would  give  them  the  seas  of  Ireland  to  sweep  with  their 
nets  and  launch  on  with  their  navy ;  the  harbors  of  Ireland,  to 
receive  a  greater  commerce  than  any  island  in  the  world  ;  the 
soil  of  Ireland  to  live  on,  by  more  millions  than  starve  here  now ; 
the  fame  of  Ireland  to  enhance  by  their  genius  and  valor ;  the 
Independence  of  Ireland  to  guard  by  laws  and  arms."— DAVIS'B 
EMAYS. 


NATIONALITY. 


A  NATION'S  voice,  a  nation's  voice — 

It  is  a  solemn  thing  ! 
It  bids  the  bondage-sick  rejoice — 

'Tis  stronger  than  a  king. 
'Tis  like  the  light  of  many  stars, 

The  sound  of  many  waves  ; 
Which  brightly  look  through  prison-bare; 

And  sweetly  sound  in  caves. 
Yet  is  it  noblest,  godliest  known, 
When  righteous  triumph  swells  its  tone. 

n. 

A  nation's  flag,  a  nation's  flag — 

If  wickedly  unrolled, 
May  foes  in  adverse  battle  drag 

Its  every  fold  from  fold. 
But,  in  the  cause  of  Litarty, 

Guard  it  'gainst  Earth  and  Hell ; 
Guard  it  till  Death  or  Victory — 

Look  you,  you  guard  it  well ! 
No  saint  or  king  has  tomb  so  proud, 
As  he  whose  flag  becomes  his  shroud. 


in. 

A  nation's  right,  a  nation's  right — 

God  gave  it ;  and  gave,  too, 
A  nation's  sword,  a  nation's  might, 

Danger  to  guard  it  through. 
'Tis  freedom  from  a  foreign  yoke, 

'Tis  just  and  equal  laws, 
Which  deal  unto  the  humblest  folk, 

As  in  a  noble's  cause. 
On  nations  fixed  in  right  and  truth, 
God  would  bestow  eternal  youth. 

IV. 

May  Ireland's  voice  be  ever  hearc! 

Amid  the  world's  applause! 
And  never  be  her  flag-staff  stirred, 

But  in  an  honest  cause  ! 
May  Freedom  be  her  very  breath, 

Be  Justice  ever  dear; 
And  never  an  ennobled  death 

May  son  of  Ireland  fear ! 
So  the  Lord  God  will  ever  smile, 
With  guardian  grace,  upon  our  isie. 


SELF-RELIANCE. 

i. 
THOUGH  savage  force  and  subtle  schemes, 

And  alien  rule,  through  ages  lasting, 
Have  swept  your  land  like  lava  streams, 

Its  wealth,  and  name,  and  nature  blasting, 
Rot  not,  therefore,  in  dull  despair, 

Nor  moan  at  destiny  in  far  lands  : 
Face  not  your  foe  with  bosom  bare. 

Nor  hide  your  chains  in  pleasure's  garland* 
The  wise  man  arms  to  combat  wrong, 

The  brave  man  clears  a  den  of  liona. 
The  true  man  spurns  the  Helot's  song : 

The  freeman's  friend  is  Self-Reliance ! 


528 


THE  POEMS   OF  THOMAS   DAVIS. 


ii. 
Though  France,  that  gave  your  exiles  bread, 

Youi  priests  a  home,  your  hopes  a  station, 
Or  that  young  land,  where  first  was  spread 

The  starry  flag  of  Liberation, — 
Should  heed  your  wrongs  some  future  day, 

And  send  you  voice  or  sword  to  plead  'em, 
With  helpful  love  their  help  repay, 

Bat  trust  not  even  to  them  for  Freedom. 
A  Nation  freed  by  foreign  aid 

Is  but  a  corpse  by  wanton  science 
Convuhed  like  life,  then  flung  to  fade — 

The  life  itself  is  Self-Reliance  ! 

in. 
Oh  !  see  your  quailing  tyrant  run 

To  courteous  lies,  and  Roman  agents; 
His  terror,  lest  Dungannon's  sun 

Should  rise  again  with  riper  radiance. 
Oh !  hark  the  Freeman's  welcome  cheer, 

And  hark  your  brother  sufferers  sobbing ; 
Oh  !  mark  the  universe  grow  clear, 

And  mark  your  spirit's  royal  throbbing, — 
'Tis  Freedom's  God  that  sends  such  signs, 

As  pledges  of  his  blest  alliance ; 
He  gives  bright  hopes  to  brave  designs, 

And  lends  his  bolts  to  Self-Reliance  ! 

IV. 

Then,  flung  alone,  or  hand-in-hand, 
In  mirthful  hour,  or  spirit  solemn ; 

In  lowly  toil,  or  high  command, 
In  social  hall,  or  charsnno;  column ; 

'  O         O  * 

In  tempting  wealth,  and  trying  woe, 

In  struggling  with  a  mob's  dictation , 
In  bearing  back  a  foreign  foe, 

In  training  up  a  troubled  nation  : 
Still  hold  to  Truth,  abound  in  Love, 

Refusing  every  base  compliance — 
Your  Praise  within,  your  Prize  above, 

And  live  and  die  in  SELF-RELIANCE  ! 


SWEET  AND  SAD. 


A  PRISON   SERMON. 


Tis  sweet  to  climb  the  mountain's  crest, 
And  run,  like  deer-hound,  down  its  breast ; 
Tis  sweet  to  snuff  the  taintless  air, 
And  sweep  the  sea  with  haughty  stare : 


And,  sad  it  is,  when  iron  bars 
Keep  watch  between  you  and  the  stars  : 
And  sad  to  find  your  footstep  stayed 
By  prison-wall  and  palisade  : 
But  'twere  better  be 
A  prisoner  forever, 
With  no  destiny 

To  do,  or  to  endeavor; 
Better  life  to  spend 

A  marlyr  or  confessor, 
Than  in  silence  bend 
To  alien  and  oppressor. 


'Tis  sweet  to  rule  an  ample  realm, 
Through  weal  and  woe  to  hold  the  helm; 
And  sweet  to  strew,  with  plenteous  hand, 
Strength,  health,  and  beauty  round  your  lard 
And  sad  it  is  to  be  unprized, 
While  dotards  rule  unrecognized; 
And  sad  your  little  ones  to  see 
Writhe  in  the  gripe  of  poverty  : 
But  'twere  better  pine 

In  rags  and  gnawing  hunger, 
While  around  you  whine  . 

Your  elder  and  your  younger  ; 
Better  lie  in  pain, 

And  rise  in  pain  to-morrow, 
Than  o'er  millions  reign, 
While  those  millions  sorrow. 

in. 

'Tis  sweet  to  own  a  quiet  hearth 
Begirt  by  constancy  and  mirtb  ( 
'Twere  sweet  to  feel  your  dyiug  clasp 
Returned  by  friendship's  steady  grasp  : 
And  sad  it  is,  to  spend  your  life, 
Like  sea-bird  in  the  ceaseless  strife — 
Your  lullaby  the  ocean's  roar, 
Your  resting-place  a  foreign  shore : 
But  'twere  better  live, 

Like  ship  caught  by  Lofoden 
Than  your  spirit  give 

To  be  by  chains  corroden  : 
Best  of  all  to  yield 

Your  latest  breath,  when  lying 
On  a  victor  field, 

With  the  green  flag  flying  ! 

IV. 

Human  joy  and  human  sorrow, 

Light  or  shade  from  conscience  borrow ; 


Till-:    POEMS   OF   THOMAS   DAVIS. 


B29 


The  tyrant's  crown  is  lined  with  flame, 
Lite  never  paid  the  coward's  shame : 
The  miser's  lock  is  never  sure, 
The  traitor's  home  is  never  pure  ; 
While  seraphs  guard,  and  cherubs  tend 
The  good  mau's  life  and  brave  man's  end  : 
But  their  fondest  care 

Is  the  patriot's  prison, 
Hymning  through  its  air — 

"  Freedom  hath  arisen, 
Oft  from  statesmen's  strife, 
Oft  from  battle's  flashes, 
Oft  from  hero's  life, 

Oftenest  from  his  ashes  !" 


THE  BURIAL.1 

WHY  rings  the  knell  of  the  funeral  bell  from  a 

hundred  village  shrines  ? 
Through  broad  Fingall,  where  hasten  all  those 

long  and  ordered  lines  ? 
With  tear  and    sigh  they're   passing  by, — the 

matron  and  the  maid  ; 
Has  a  hero  died — is  a  nation's  pride  in  that  cold 

coffin  laid  ? 
With  frown  and  curse,  behind  the  hearse,  dark 

men  go  tramping  on — 
Has  a  tyrant  died,  that  they  cannot  hide  their 

wrath  till  the  rites  are  done  \ 

THE    CHANT. 

44  Ululu  !  uhdu  !  high  on  the  wind, 

There's  a  home  for  the  slave  where  no  fetters  can 

bind. 

Woe,  woe  to  his  slayers" — comes  wildly  along, 
With  the  trampling  of  feet  and  the  funeral  song. 

And  now  more  clear 
It  swells  on  the  car  ; 
Breathe  low,  and  listen,  'tis  solemn  to  hear. 

*•  Ulul.n  !  ululaf  wail  for  the  dead. 

•Green  grow  the  grass  of  Fiugall  on  his  head; 

And  spring-flowers  blossom,  ere  elsewhere  ap- 
pearing, 

Aud  shamrocks  grow  thick  on  the  Martyr  for 
Erin. 


1  Written  on  the  funeral  of  the  Rov.  P.  J.  Tyrrell,  1'.  P.  of 
Lu.-k  ;  on«  of  tbOM  ImJicuxl  wtlu  O'Ooniicll  In  tin:  government 
IIKIM-I-IU  its  of  1M4.  —  Kl>. 


Ululu  !  ululu  !  soft  fall  the  dew 
On  the  feet  and  the  head  of  the  martyred  and 
true." 

For  awhile  they  tread 

In  silence  dread  — 

Then  muttering  and  moaning  go  the  crowd, 

Surging  and  swaying  like  mountain  cloud, 

And  again  the  wail  comes  fearfully  loud. 

THE     CHANT. 

"  Ululu  !  ululu  !  kind  was  his  heart ! 

Walk    slower,  walk  slower,    too  soon  we  shall 

part. 

The  faithful   and  pious,  the  Priest  of  the  Lord, 
Mis  pilgrimage  over,  he  has  his  reward. 
By  the  bed  of  the  sick,  lowly  kneeling, 
To  God  with  the  raised  cross  appealing — 
lie  seems  still  to  kneel,  and    he  seems  still   to 

pray, 
And  the  sins  of  the  dying  seem  passing  away. 

"In     the    prisoner's    cell,     and     the    cabin     so 

dreary, 

Our  constant  consoler,  he  never  grew  wearv  ; 
But  he's  gone  to  his  rest, 
And  he's  now  with  the  blest, 
Where  tyrant  and  traitor  no  longer  molest — 
Ululu!  ululu!  wail  for  the  dead  ! 
Ululu!  ululu!  here  is  his  bed." 

Short  was  the  ritual,  simple  the  prayer, 
Deep  was  the  silence  and  every  head  bare  ; 
The  Priest  alone  standing,  they  knelt  all  around, 
Myriads  on  myriads,  like  rocks  on  the  ground. 
Kneeling  and  motionless — "  Dust  unto  dust." 
"  lie  died  as  becometh  the  faithful  and  just — 
Placing  in  God  his  reliance  and  trust;" 
Kneeling  and  motionless — "  Ashes  to  ashes" — 
Hollow  the  clay  on  the  coffin-lid  dashes; 
Kneeling  and  motionless,  wildly  they  pray, 
But  they  pray  in  their  souls,  for  no  gesture  have 

they — 

Stern  and  standing — oh !  look  on  them  now, 
Like  trees  to  one  tempest  the  multitude  bow  ; 
Like  the  swell  of  the  ocean  is  rising  their  vow : 

THIS    VOW. 

"  We  have  bent  and  borne,  though  we  saw  him 
torn  from  his  home  by  the  tyrant's  crew — 

And  we  bent  and  bore,  when  he  came  om-e  more, 
tlfough  suffering  had  pierced  him  through  : 


530 


THE   POEMS  OF  THOMAS   DAVIS. 


"  And  now  nc  is  laid  beyond  our  aid,  because  to 

Ireland  true — 
A  martyred   man — the  tyrant's  ban,  the  pious 

patriot  slew. 

"  And  shall  we  bear  and  bend  forever, 
And  shall  no  time  our  bondage  sever, 
And  shall  we  kneel,  but  battle  never, 
For  our  own  soil  ? 

"  And  shall  our  tyrants  safely  reign 
On  thrones  built  up  of  slaves  and  slain, 
And  naught  to  us  and  ours  remain, 

But  chains  and  toil  ? 

"  No  !  round  this  grave  our  oath  we  plight, 
To  watch,  and  labor,  and  unite, 
Till  banded  be  the  nation's  might — 
It's  spirit  steeled. 

"  And  then  collecting  all  our  force, 
We'll  cross  oppression  in  its  course, 
And  die — or  all  our  rights  enforce, 
On  battle-field." 

Like  an  ebbing  sea  that  will  come  again, 

O  O 

Slowly  retired  that  host  of  men  ; 
Mcthinks  they'll  keep  some  other  day 
The  oath  they  swore  on  the  martyr's  clay. 


WE  MUST  NOT  FAIL. 


WE  must  not  fail,  we  must  not  fail, 
However  fraud  or  force  assail ; 
By  honor,  pride,  and  policy, 
By  Heaven  itself! — we  must  be  free. 

n. 

Time  had  already  thinned  our  chain, 
Time  would  have  dulled  our  sense  of  pain  ; 
By  service  long,  and  suppliance  vile, 
We  might  have  won  our  owner's  smile. 

in. 

We  spurned  the  thought,  our  prison  burst, 
And  dared  the  despot  to  the  worst ; 
Renewed  the  strife  of  centuries, 
And  flnng  our  banner  to  the  breeze. 


IV. 


We  called  the  ends  of  earth  to  view 

The  gallant  deeds  we  swore  to  do  ; 

They  knew  us  wronged,  they  knew  us  braver 

And,  all  we  asked,  they  freely  gave. 


We  took  the  starving  peasant's  mite 
To  aid  in  winning  back  his  right, 
We  took  the  priceless  trust  of  youth  ; 
Their  freedom  must  redeem  our  truth. 

VI. 

We  promised  loud,  and  boasted  high, 
"  To  break  our  country's  chains,  or  die  ;" 
And,  should  we  quail,  that  country's  name- 
Will  be  the  synonym  of  shame. 

VII. 

Earth  is  not  deep  enough  to  hide 
The  coward  slave  who  shrinks  aside  ; 
Hell  is  not  hot  enough  to  scathe 
The  ruffian  wretch  who  breaks  his  faith. 

VIII. 

But — calm,  my  soul ! — we  promised  true,. 
Her  destined  work  our  land  shall  do  ; 
Thought,  courage,  patience  will  prevail  ! 
We  shall  not  fail — we  shall  not  fail ! 


O'CONNELL'S  STATUE. 
(LINES  TO  HOOAN.) 

CHISEL  the  likeness  of  The  Chief, 

Not  in  gayety,  nor  grief ; 

Change  not  by  your  art  to  stone, 

Ireland's  laugh,  or  Ireland's  moan. 

Dark  her  talc,  and  none  can  tell 

Its  fearful  chronicle  so  well. 

Her  frame  is  bent — her  wounds  arc  deep-- 

Who,  like  him,  her  woes  can  weep  ? 

lie  can  be  gentle  as  a  bride, 

While  none  can  rule  with  kinglier  pride. 

Calm  to  hear,  and  wise  to  prove, 

Yet  gay  as  lark  in  soaring  love. 

Well  it  were  posterity 

Should  have  some  image  of  his  glee  ; 

That  easy  humor,  blossoming 

Like  the  thousand  flowers  of  spring  ! 


THE  POEMS  OF  TIIOM  \S   DAVIS. 


Glorious  tho  marble  which  could  show 
His  bursting  sympathy  for  wo^, 
Could  catch  the  pathos,  flowing  wild, 
Like  mother's  milk  to  craving  child. 

And  oh  !  how  princely  were  the  art 
Could  mould  his  mien,  or  tell  his  heart, 
When  sitting  sole  on  Tara's  hill, 
NVhile  hung  a  million  on  his  will! 
Yet,  not  in  gayety,  nor  grief, 
Chisel  the  image  of  our  Chief; 
Nor  even  in  that  haughty  hour 
When  a  nation  owned  his  power. 

But  would  you  by  your  art  unroll 
His  own,  and  Ireland's  secret  soul, 
And  give  to  other  times  to  scan 
The  greatest  greatness  of  the  man  ? 
Fierce  defiance  let  him  be 
Hurling  at  our  enemy. — 
From  a  base  as  fair  and  sure 
As  our  love  is  true  and  pure, 
Lrt-t  his  statue  rise  as  tall 
And  firm  as  a  castle  wall ; 
On  his  broad  brow  let  there  be 
A  type  of  Ireland's  history; 
Pious,  generous,  deep,  and  warm. 
Strong  and  changeful  as  a  storm ; 
Let  whole  centuries  of  wrong 
Upon  his  recollection  throng — 
Strongbow's  force,  and  Henry's  wile, 
Tutor's  wrath,  and  Stuart's  wuile, 

O  * 

And  iron  Stafford's  tiger  jaws, 

And  brutal  Brunswick's  penal  laws ; 

Not  forgetting  Saxon  faith, 

Not  forgetting  Norman  scaith, 

Not  forgetting  William's  word, 

Not  forgetting  Cromwell's  sword. 

Let  the  Union's  fetter  vile — 

The  shame  and  ruin  of  our  isle — 

Let  the  blood  of  'Ninety-eight 

And  our  present  blighting  fate — 

Let  the  poor  mechanic's  lot, 

And  the  peasant's  ruined  cot, 

Plundered  wealth  and  glory  flown, 

Ancient  honors  overthrown — 

Let  trampled  altar,  rifled  urn, 

Knit  his  look  to  purpose  stern. 

Mould  all  this  into  one  thought, 

Like  wizard  cloud  with  thunder  fraught; 

Still  let  our  glories  through  it  gleam, 

Like  fair  flowers  through  a  flooded  stream, 

Or  like  a  flashing  wave  at  night, 

Uright, — 'mid  the  solemn  darknc—  bright. 


Let  the  memory  of  old  days 

Shine  through  the  statesman's  anxious  face- 

Dathi's  power,  and  I  Irian's  Came, 

And  headlong  Sarsfield's  sword  of  flame. 

And  the  spirit  of  Red  Hugh, 

And  the  pride  of  'Eighty-two. 

And  the  victories  he  won, 

And  the  hope  that  leads  him  on ! 

Let  whole  armies  seem  to  fly 
From  his  threatening  hand  and  eye; 
Be  the  strength  of  all  the  land 
Like  a  falchion  in  his  handj 
And  be  his  gesture  sternly  grand. 
A  braggart  tyrant  swore  to  smite 
A  people  struggling  for  their  riglit  — 
O'Connell  dared  him  to  the  field, 
Content  to  die,  but  never  yield. 
Fancy  such  a  soul  as  his, 
In  a  moment  such  as  this, 
Like  cataract,  or  foaming  tide, 
Or  army  charging  in  its  pride. 
Thus  he  spoke,  and  thus  he  stoo«lv 
Proffering  in  our  cause  his  bloou. 
Thus  his  country  loves  him  best — 
To  image  this  is  your  behest. 
Chisel  thus,  and  thus  alone, 
If  to  man  you'd  change  the  stone. 


THE  GREEN  ABOVE  THE  RED.' 

Am. — Irish  Molly  0! 
I. 

FULL  often  when  our  fathers  saw  the  Red  above 

the  Green, 
They  rose  in  rude  but  fierce  array,  with  sabre, 

pike,  and  scian, 
And  over  many  a  noble  town,  and  many  a  field 

of  dead, 
They  proudly   set  the   Irish   Green   above  the 

English  Red. 

ii. 
But  in  the  end,  throughout  the  land,  the  sham 

ful  sight  was  seen — 
The  English  Red  in  triumph  high  above  the 

Irish  green  ; 

1  This  and  the  three  following  pieces  arc  properly  direct  ballad* 
Th*  rentier  must  not  expect  depth  t.r  tx.Ki  in  vrrms  of  tin*  de- 
scription, written  fur  a  temporary  purpose.— Kn. 


532 


THE  POEMS  OF  THOMAS   DAVIS. 


But  well  they  died  in  breach  and  field,  who,  as 

their  spirits  fled, 
Still  saw  the  Green  maintain  its  place  above  the 

English  Red. 

in. 
And  they  who  saw,  in  after  times,  the  Red  above 

the  Green, 
Were  withered  as  the  grass  that  dies  beneath  a 

forest  screen  ; 
Vet  often  by  this  healthy  hope  their   sinking 

hearts  were  fed, 
That,  in  some  day  to  come,  the  Green  should 

flutter  o'er  the  Red. 

IV. 

Sure  'twas  for  this  Lord  Edward  died,  and  Wolfe 

Tone  sunk  serene — 
Because  they  could  not  bear  to  leave  the  Red 

above  the  Green  ; 
And  'twas  for  this  that  Owen  fought,  and  Sars- 

field  nobly  bled — 
Because  their  eyes  were  hot  to  sec  the  Green 

above  the  Red. 

v. 

So,  when  the  strife  began  again,  our  darling 
Irish  Green 

Was  down  upon  the  earth,  while  high  the  Eng- 
lish Red  was  seen ; 

Yet  still  we  hold  our  fearless  course,  for  some- 
thing in  us  said, 

•"Before  the  strife  is  o'er  you'll  see  the  Green 
above  the  Red." 

VI. 

And  'tis  for  this  we  think  and  toil,  and  know- 
ledge strive  to  glean, 

That  we  may  pull  the  English  Red  below  the 
Irish  Green, 

And  leave  our  sous  sweet  Liberty,  and  smiling 
plenty  spread 

Above  the  land  oiu-.e  dark  with  blood — the 
Green  above  the  Red  ! 

VII. 

The  jealous  English  tyrant  now  has  banned  the 
Irish  Green, 

And  forced  us  to  conceal  it  like  a  something 
foul  and  mean  ; 

But  yet,  by  Heavens  !  he'll  sooner  raise  his  vic- 
tims from  the  dead 

Than  force  our  hearts  to  leave  the  Green,  and 
cotton  to  the  Red  ! 


VIII. 

We'll    trust   ourselves,    for   God    is   good,    and 

blesses  those  who  lean 
On  their  brave  hearts,  and  not  upon  an  earthly 

king  or  queen  ; 
And,  freely  as  we   lift  our  hands,  we  vow  our 

blood  to  shed 
Once  and  forever  more  to  raise  the  Green  above 

the  Red  ! 


THE  VOW  OF  TIPPERARY. 

A  IB —  Tipperary. 


FROM  Carrick  streets  to  Shannon  shore, 
From  Slievenamon  to  Ballindeary, 

From  Longford  Pass  to  Gaillte  Mor, 
Come  hear  The  Vow  of  Tipperary. 

ii. 
Too  long  we  fought  for  Britain's  cause, 

And  of  our  blood  were  never  chary  ; 
She  paid  us  back  with  tyrant  laws, 

And  thinned  The  Homes  of  Tipperary. 

in. 
Too  long,  with  rash  and  single  arm, 

The  peasant  strove  to  guard  his  eyrie, 
Till  Irish  blood  bedewed  each  farm, 

And  Ireland  wept  for  Tipperary. 


But  never  more  we'll  lift  a  hand — 
We  swear  by  God  and  Virgin  Marv  ! 

Except  in  war  for  Native  Land, 

And  thafs  The  Vow  of  Tipperary  ! 


A  PLEA  FOR  THE  BOG-TROTTERS. 


"  BASE  Bog-trotters,"  says  the  "  Times," 
"  Brown  with  mud,  and  black  wiKh  crime*, 
Turf  and  lumpers  dig  betimes 

(We  grant  you  need  'em), 
But  never  lift  your  heads  sublime, 

Nor  talk  of  Freedom.'" 


THE    POEMS   OF  THOMAS    DAVIS. 


obi* 


Yet,  Bog  trotters,  sirs,  be  sure, 
Are  strong  to  do,  and  to  endure, 
Men  whose  blows  are  hard  to  cure — 

Brigands  !  what's  in  ye, 
That  the  fierce  man  of  the  moor 

Can't  stand  again  ye  ? 

in. 

The  common  drains  in  Mushra  moss 
Are  wider  than  a  castle  fosse, 
Connaught  swamps  are  hard  to  cross, 

And  histories  boast 
That  Allen's  Bog  has  caused  the  loss 

Of  many  a  host. 

IV. 

Oh  !  were  you  in  an  Irish  bog, 

Full  of  pikes,  and  scarce  of  prog, 

You'd  wish  your  "  Times"-ship  was  incog. 

Or  far  away, 
Though  Saxons,  thick  as  London  fog, 

Around  you  lay. 


A  SECOND  PLEA  FOR  THE  BOG- 
TROTTERS. 


THE  "  Mail"  says,  that  Hanover's  King 
Twenty  Thousand  men  will  bring. 
And  make  the  "  base  bog-trotters"  sing 

A  pillileu- 
And  that  O'Connell  high  shall  swing, 

And  others  too. 

n. 

There  is  a  tale  of  Athens  told, 
Worth  at  least  its  weight  in  gold 
To  fellows  of  King  Ernest's  mould 

(The  royal  rover), 
Who  think  men  may  be  bought  and  sold, 

Or  ridcn  over. 

in. 

Darius  (an  imperial  wretch, 

A  Persian  Ernest,  or  Jack  Ketch) 

Bid  his  knaves  from  Athens  fetch 

"  Earth  and  water," 
Or  else  the  heralds'  necks  he'd  stretch, 

And  Athens  slaughter. 


IV. 

The  Athenians  threw  them  in  a  well, 
And  left  them  there  to  help  themscl', 
And  when  his  armies  came,  pell-mell,, 

They  tore  his  banners, 
And  sent  his  slaves  in  shoals  to  hell, 

To  mend  their  manners. 

v. 

Let  those  who  bring  and  those  who  send 
Hanoverians,  comprehend 
Persian-like  may  be  their  end, 

And  the  "  bog-trotter" 
May  drown  their  knaves,  their  banners  rend 

Their  armies  slaughter. 


A  SCENE  IN  THE  SOUTH. 


I  WAS  walking  along  in  a  pleasant  place, 

In  the  county  Tipperary  ; 
The  scene  smiled  as  happy  as  the  holy  face 

Of  the  Blessed  Virgin  Mary ; 
And  the  trees  were  proud,  and  the  sward  wa» 

green, 
And  the  birds  sang  loud  in  the  leafy  scene. 

n. 

Yet  somehow  I  felt  strange,  and  soon  I  felt 

sad, 

And  then  I  felt  very  lonely  ; 
I  pondered  in  vain  why  I  was  not  glad, 

In  a  place  meant  for  pleasure  only  : 
For  I  thought  that  grief  had  never  been  there, 
And  that  sin  would  as  lief  to  heaven  repair. 

in. 
And  a  train  of  spirits  seemed  passing  me  by 

The  air  grew  as  heavy  as  lead; 
I  looked  for  a  cabin,  yet  none  could  I  spy 

In  the  pastures  about  me  spread  ; 
Yet  each  field  seemed  made  for  a  peasant's  cot, 
And  I  felt  dismayed  when  I  saw  them  not. 

IV. 

As  I  stayed  on  the  field,  I  saw — Oh,  my  <M<1 
The  marks  where  a  cabin  had  been  : 

Through  the  midst  of  the  fields,  some  feet  o? 

the  sod 
Were  coarser  and  far  less  green. 


534 


THE  POEMS  OF  THOMAS  DAVIS. 


And  three  or  four  trees  in  the  centre  stood, 
But  they  seemed  to  freeze  in  their  solitude. 

v. 
Surely  there  was   the  road  that  led  to  the 

cot, 

For  it  ends  just  beneath  the  trees, 
And  the  trees  like  mourners  are  watching  the 

spot, 

And  cronauning  with  the  breeze ; 
And  their  stems  are  bare  with  children's  play, 
But  the  children — where,  oh !  where  are  they  ? 

VI. 

An  old  man  unnoticed  had  come  to  my  side, 

His  hand  in  my  arm  linking — 
A  reverend  man,  without  haste  or  pride — 
And    he    said :     "  I    know    what    you're 

thinking ; 

A  cabin  stood  once  underneath  the  trees, 
Full  of  kindly  ones — but  alas !  for  these  ! 

VII. 

fc  A  loving   old   couple,  and   tho'  somewhat 

poor, 

Their  children  had  leisure  to  play ; 
And  the  piper,  and  stranger,  and  beggar  were 

sure 

To  bless  them  in  going  away ; 
But  the  typhus  came,  and  the  agent  too — 
Ah  !  need  I  name  the  worst  of  the  two  ? 

VIII. 

"  Their  cot  was  unroofed,  yet  they  strove  to 

hide 

In  its  walls  till  the  fever  was  passed ; 
Their  crime  was  found  out,  and  the  cold  ditch 

side 

Was  their  hospital  at  last : 
Slowly  they  went  to  poorhouse  and  grave, 
Bui  the  LORD  they  bent  to,  their  souls  will  save. 

IX. 

"  And  thro'  many  a  field  you  passed,  and  will 

pass, 
In  this  lordling's  '  cleared'  demesne, 


.   The  scene  is  a  mere  actual  landscape  which  I  saw. — AUTHOR'S 

KOTK. 

'2  Just  before  the  insurrection  which  expelled  the  Anstrians,  Tell 

. .and  some  of  his  brother  conspirators  spent  a  night  on  the  shore  of 

the  Underwalde  Lake,  consulting  for  liberty;  and  while  they  were 

thus  engaged,  the  genius  of  Switzerland  appeared  to  them,  and  she 

Wat  armed,  but  weeping.     "  Why  weep  you,  mother?"  said  Tell : 


Where  households  as  happy  were  one* — Hut, 

alas! 

They  too  are  scattered  or  slain." 
Then  he  pressed  my  hand,  and  he  went  away ; 
I  could  not  stand,  so  I  knelt  to  pray. 

x. 

"God  of  justice !"  I  sighed,  "  send  your  spirit 

down 

On  these  lords  so  cruel  and  proud, 
And  soften  their  hearts  and  relax  their  frown, 

Or  else"  I  cried  aloud — 

"  Vouchsafe  thy  strength  to  the  peasant's  hand 
To  drive  them  at  length  from  off  the  land  !" ' 


WILLIAM  TELL   AND  THE  GENIUS  OF 
SWITZERLAND • 


TELL. — You  have  no  fears, 
My  native  land  ! 
Then  dry  your  tears, 

And  draw  your  brand. 
A  million  made  a  vow 
To  free  you. — Wherefore,  now, 
Tears  again,  my  native  land  ? 

ii. 

GENIUS. — I  weep  not  from  doubt, 
I  weep  not  for  dread ; 
There's  strength  in  your  shout, 

And  trust  in  your  tread. 
I  weep,  for  I  look  for  the  coming  dead, 

Who  for  Liberty's  cause  shall  die; 
And  I  hear  a  wail  from  the  widow's  bed 
Corne  mixed  with  our  triumph — cry. 
Though  dire  my  woes,  yet  how  can  I 
Be  calm  when  I  know  such  suffering's  nigh  I 

in. 
TELL. — Death  comes  to  all, 

My  native  land ! 

Weep  not  their  fall — 

A  glorious  band  ! 


and  she  answered,  "  1  see  dead  patriots,  and  hear  their  orphan* 
wailing;"— and  he  said  again  to  her,  "The  tyrant  kills  us  with  his 
prisons  and  taxes,  and  poisons  our  air  with  his  presence  ;  war- 
death  is  better ;"  and  she  cuid,  "  It  is  better"  — and  the  cloud  passed 
from  her  brow,  and  she  gave  him  a  spear  and  bade  him  conquer. — 
Id. 


THE   POEMS  OF  THOMAS   DAVIS 


535 


Famine  and  slavery 
Slaughter  more  cruelly 

Than  Battle's  blood-covered  hand ! 

IV. 

. — Yes,  and  all  glory 

Shall  honor  their  grave, 
With  shrine,  song,  and  story, 

Denied  to  the  slave. 
Thus  pride  shall  so  mingle  with  sorrow, 

Their  wives  half  their  weeping  will  stay ; 
And  their  sons  long  to  tempt  on  the  morrow 

The  death  they  encounter  to-day. 
Then  away,  sons,  to  battle  away  ! 
Draw  the  sword,  lift  the  flag,  and  away ! 


THE  EXILE. 
(PARAPHRASED  FROM  THE  FREXCII.) 


I'VE  passed  through  the  nations  unheeded,  un- 
known ; 

Though   all   looked   upon  me,  none  called   me 
their  own. 

I  shared  not  their  laughter — they  cared  not  my 

moan — 
For,  ah  !  the  poor  exile  is  always  alone. 

ii. 

At  eve,  when   the  smoke   from  some  cottage 

uprose, 
How  happy  I've  thought,  at  the  weary  day's 

close, 

With  his  dearest  around,  must  the  peasant  repose ; 
But,  ah  !  the  poor  exile  is  always  alone. 

in. 

Where  hasten  those  clouds  ?  to  the  land  or  the 

sea — 

Driven  on  by  the  tempest,  poor  exiles,  like  me? 
What  matter  to  either  where  cither  shall  flee? 
For,  ah !  the  poor  exile  is  always  alone. 

IV. 

Those  trees  they  are  beauteous — those  flowers 

they  are  lair; 
But  no  trees  and  no  flowers  of  my  country  are 

there 

They  speak  not  unto  me — they  heed  not  my  care; 
For  ah!  the  poor  exile  is  always  alone. 


v. 

That  brook  murmurs  softly  its  way  through  the 

plain  ; 
But  the  brooks  of  my  childhood  had   not  the 

same  strain. 

It  reminds  me  of  nothing — it  murmurs  in  vain ; 
For,  ah  !  the  poor  exile  is  always  alone. 

VI. 

Sweet  are  those  songs,  but  their  sweetness  or 

sorrow 

No  charm  from  the  songs  of  my  infancy  borrow. 
I  hear  them  to-day  and  forget  them  to-morrow 
For,  ah !  the  poor  exile  is  always  alone. 

VII. 

They've  asked  me,  "  Why  weep  you  ?"  I've  told 

them  my  woe — 

They  listed  my  words,  as  the  rocks  feel  the  snow. 
No  sympathy  bound  us ;  how  could  their  tear* 

flow  ? 
For,  sure  the  poor  exile  is  always  alone. 

VIII. 

When  soft  on  their  chosen  the  young  maidens 

smile, 

Like  the  dawn  of  the  morn  on  Erin's  dear  isle, 
With  no  love-smile  to  cheer  me,  I  look  on  the 

while ; 
For,  ah  !  the  poor  exile  is  always  alone. 

IX. 

Like   boughs   round   the   tree  are  those  babes 

round  their  mother, 
And  these  friends  like  its  roots,  clasp  and  grow 

to  each  other ; 
But,   none   call   me   child,  and   none  call    me 

brother ; 
For,  ah  !  the  poor  exile  is  ever  alone. 

x. 

Wives  never  clasp,  and  friends  never  smile, 
Mothers  ne'er  fondle,  nor  maidens  beguile ; 
And  happiness  dwells  not,  except  in  our  isle, — 
And  so  the  poor  exile  is  always  alone. 

XI. 

Poor  exile,  cease  grieving,  for  all  are  like  you — 
Weeping  the  banished,  the  lovely,  and  true. 
Our  country  is  heaven — 'twill  welcome  you,  too ; 
And  cherish  the  exile,  no  longer  alone  ! 


536 


THE  POEMS   OF  THOMAS  DAVIS. 


MY   HOME. 

A    DREAM. 

I  HAVE  dreamt  of  a  home — a  happy  home — 
The  flakiest  from  it  would  not  care  to  roam  : 
'Tvvas  a  cottage  home  on  native  ground, 
Where  all  things  glorious  clustered  round — 
For  highland  glen  and  lowland  plain 
Met  within  that  small  demesne. 

In  sight  is  a  tarn,  with  cliffs  of  fear, 
Where  the  eagle  defies  the  mountaineer, 
And  the  cataract  leaps  in  mad  career, 
And  through  oak  and  holly  roam  the  deer. 
On  its  brink  is  a  ruined  castle,  stern, — 
The  mountains  are  crowned  with  rath  and  earn, 
Robed  with  heather,  and  bossed  with  stone, 
And  belted  with  a  pine-wood  lone. 

Thro'  that  mighty  gap  in  the  mountain  chain, 

Oft,  like  rivers  after  rain, 

Poured  our  clans  on  the  conquered  plain. 

And,  there  upon  their  harassed  rear, 

Oft  pressed  the  Norman's  bloody  spear  ; 

Men  call  it  "  the  pass  of  the  leaping  deer." 

Wild  is  the  region,  yet  gentle  the  spot — 
As  you  look  on  the  roses,  the  rocks  are  forgot ; 
For  garden  gay,  and  primrose  lawn 
Peep  through  the  rocks,  as  thro'  night  comes 
dawn. 

And  see,  by  that  burn  the  children  piay  ; 

In  that  valley  the  village  maidens  stray, 

Listing  the  thrush  and  the  robin's  lay, 

Listing  the  burn  sigh  back  to  the  breeze, 

And  hoping — guess  whom  ?  'mong  the  thorn-trees. 

Not  yet,  dear  girls — on  the  uplands  green 

Shepherds  and  flocks  may  still  be  seen. 

Freemen's  toils,  with  fruit  and  grain, 

The  valley  fill,  and  clothe  the  plain. 

There's  the  health  which  labor  yields — 

Labor  tilling  its  own  fields. 

Freed  at  length  from  stranger  lord — 

From  his  frown,  or  his  reward — 

Each  the  owner  of  his  land, 

Plenty  springs  beneath  his  hand. 

Meet  these  men  on  land  or  sea — 
Meet  them  in  council,  war,  or  glee  ; 
Voice,  glance,  and  mien,  bespeak  them  free. 


Welcome  greets  you  at  their  hearth  ; 
Reverent  they  to  age  and  worth  ; 
Yet  prone  to  jest,  and  full  of  mirth. 
Fond  of  song,  and  dance,  and  crowd  '— 
Of  harp,  and  pipe,  and  laughter  loud  ; 
Their  lay  of  love  is  low  and  bland, 
Their  wail  for  death  is  wild  and  grand ; 
Awful  and  lovely  their  song  of  flame, 
When  they  clash  the  chords  in  their  country  s 
name. 

They  seek  no  courts,  and  own  no  sway, 

Save  the  counsels  of  their  elders  gray  ; 

For  holy  love,  and  homely  faith, 

Rule  their  hearts  in  life  and  death. 

Yet  their  rifles  would  flash,  and  their  sabres  smite. 

And  their  pike-staffs  redden  in  the  fight, 

And  young  and  old  be  swept  away, 

Ere  the  stranger  in  their  land  should  sway. 

But  the  setting  sun,  ere  he  sink  in  the  sea, 

Flushes  and  flashes  o'er  crag  and  tree, 

Kisses  the  clouds  with  crimson  sheen, 

And  sheets  with  gold  the  ocean's  green. 

Where  the  stately  frigate  lies  in  the  bay, 

The  friendly  fleet  of  the  Frenchman  lay. 

Yonder  creek,  and  yonder  shore 

Echoed  then  the  battle's  roar  ; 

Where,  on  slope  after  slope,  the  west  sun  shines, 

After  the  fight  lay  our  conquering  lines. 

The  triumph,  though  great,  had  cost  us  dear  ; 

And  the  wounded  and  dead  were  lying  near — 

When  the  setting  sun  on  our  bivouac  proud, 

Sudden  burst  through  a  riven  cloud, 

An  answering  shout  broke  from  our  men — 

Wounds  and  toils  were  forgotten  then, 

And  dying  men  were  heard  to  pray 

The  light  would  last  till  they  passed  away — 

They  wished  to  die  on  our  triumph  day. 

We  honored  the  omen,  and  thought  on  timca 

gone, 

And  from  chief  to  chief  the  word  was  passed  on. 
The  "  harp  on  the  green"  our  land-flag  should  be, 
And  the  sun  through  clouds  bursting,  our  flag 

at  sea, 

The  green-borne  harp  o'er  yon  battery  gleams, 
From    the  frigate's  topgallant    the    "sunburst'* 

streams. 

In  that  far-off  isle  a  sainted  sage 

O 

Built  a  lowly  hermitage, 

Where  ages  gone  made  pilgrimage. 

1  Correct!;-  aruit,  the  Irish  name  for  the  violin.— ADTHOB'B  NOT* 


THE  POEMS  OF  THOMAS   DAVIS. 


537 


Over  his  grave,  with  what  weird  delight, 
The  gray  trees  swim  in  the  Hooding  light ; 
How  a  halo  clasps  their  solemn  head, 
Like  heaven's  breath  on  the  rising  dead 

Longing  and  languid  as  prisoned  bird, 
With  a  powerless  dream  my  heart  is  stirred. 
And  I  pant  to  pierce  beyond  the  toml>, 
And  see  the  light,  or  share  the  gloom. 
But  vainly  for  such  power  we  pray, 
God  wills — enough — let  man  obey. 

Two  thousand  years,  'mid  sun  and  storm, 

That  tall  tower  has  lifted  its  mystic  form. 

The  yew-tree  shadowing  the  aisle, 

'Twixt  airy  arch  and  mouldering  pile, 

And  nigh  the  hamlet  that  chapel  fair 

Show  religion  has  dwelt,  and  is  dwelling  there. 

While  the  Druid's  crom-leac  up  the  v;ile 
Tells  how  rites  may  change,  and  creeds  may  fail, 
Creeds  may  perish,  and  rites  may  fall, 
But  that  hamlet  worships  the  God  of  all. 

In  the  land  of  the  pious,  free,  and  brave, 
Was  the  happy  home  that  sweet  dream  gave. 
But  the  mirth,  and  beauty,  and  love  that  dwell 
Within  that  home — I  may  not  tell. 


THE  lady's  son  rode  by  the  mill : 
The  trees  were  murmuring  on  the  hill, 
But  in  the  valley  they  were  still, 

And  seemed  with  heat  to  cower : 
They  said  that  he  should  be  a  priest, 
For  so  had  vowed  his  sire  deceased  ; 
They  should  have  told  him  too,  at  least, 

To  fly  from  Fanny  Power. 

ii. 

The  lonely  student  fete  his  breast 
Was  like  an  empty  linnet's  nest, 
Divinely  moulded  to  be  blt^t, 

Yet  pining  hour  by  hour  : 
For,  see,  amid  the  orchard  trees, 
Her  green  gown  kirtled  to  her  knees, 
Adown  the  brake,  like  whispering  breeze, 

Went  lightsome  Fanny  Power. 

in. 

ller  eyes  cast  down  a  mellow  light 
Upon  her  neck  of  glancing  white, 
Like  starshine  on  a  snowy  night, 
Or  moonshine  on  a  tower 


She  sang — he  thought  her  songs  were  hymns, 
An  angel's  grace  was  in  her  limbs  ; 
The  swan  that  on  Lough  Erne  swims 
Is  rude  to  Fanny  Power. 

IV. 

Returned,  he  thought  the  convent  dull, 

At  best  a  heavy  heartless  lull — 

No  hopes  to  cheer,  no  flowers  to  cull, 

No  sunshine  and  no  shower. 
The  Abbot  sent  him  to  his  cell, 
And  spoke  of  penance  and  of  hell ; 
But  nothing  in  his  heart  to  quell 

The  love  of  Fanny  Power. 

v. 

lie  dreamed  of  her  the  livelong  day, 
At  evening,  when  he  tried  to  pray, 
Instead  of  other  Saints,  he'd  say, 

0  holy — Fanny  Power! 
How  happier  seemed  an  exile's  lot 
Than  living  there,  unlov'd,  forgot ; 
And,  oh,  best  joy !  to  share  his  cot 

His  own  dear  Fanny  Power. 


'Tis  vain  to  strive  with  Passion's  might- 
He  left  the  convent  walls  one  night, 
And  she  was  won  to  join  his  flight 

Before  he  wooed  an  hour ; 
So,  flying  to  a  freer  land, 
lie  broke  his  vow  at  Love's  command, 
And  placed  a  ring  upon  the  hand 

Of  happy  Fanny  Power. 


MARIE  NANGLE;   OR,  THE  SEVEN  SIS- 
TERS OF  NAVAN. 


A    FRAGMENT. 


OH  !  there  were  sisters,  sisters  seven, 
As  bright  as  any  stars  in  heaven  ; 
Save  one,  they  all  were  snowy  white, 
And  she  like  oriental  night : 
Yet  she  was  like  unto  the  rest, 
Had  all  their  softness  in  her  breast, 
Their  lights  and  shadows  in  her  face, 
And  in  her  figure  all  their  grace  ; 
The  brightest,  she  of  all  the  seven. 
Yet  all  were  bright,  as  stars  in  heaven. 


53* 


THE  POEMS   OF  THOMAS   DAVIS. 


ii. 

They  had  true  lovers,  every  one, 

Except  the  fairest  —  she  had  none  ; 

Or  rather  say  that  she  returned 

Their  love  to  none  who  for  her  burned  ; 

For  Marie's  timid,  Marie's  mild, 

And  on  her  spirit  undefiled 

St.  BrigidV  nuns  their  thoughts  have  bent; 

She  flies  her  sister's  merrimc.nt. 

They  say  they'll  marry,  every  one, 

But  Marie  says  she'll  be  a  Nun. 

in. 

*'  Oh  !  wait  a  while,"  her  father  said, 
*'  Sweet  Marie,  wait  till  I  am  dead." 
The  Nuns,  tor  this,  more  firmly  sought 
To  wean  her  from  each  earthly  thought. 
Oh  !  you  were  made  for  God,  not  man,  — 
'Twas  thus  their  pious  plea  began  ; 
For  much  these  pale  recluses  feared, 
As  her  gay  sisters'  nuptials  neared. 
"  Oh  !  wait  awhile,"  the  Baron  said, 
"  Sweet  Marie  wait  till  they  arc  wed." 

IV. 

A  novice  now,  sweet  Marie  dwells 

Within  dark  Odder's  sacred  cells  ; 

Yet  on  her  sisters'  wedding  day 

She  joins  the  chivalrous  array. 

The  brides  were  sweeter  than  their  flowers, 

The  bridegrooms  came  from  'haughty  towers, 

For  Nangle's2  daughters  are  beneath 

No  lordly  hand  in  lordly  Meath. 

The  novice  heart  of  Marie  swells, 

"  Oh,  dark,"  she  sighs,  "  are  Odder's  cells  !" 

v. 

Yet  vainly  on  that  wedding  day 
Her  sisters  and  their  gay  grooms  pray  — 
She  grieves  to  part  with  those  so  dear, 
But  she  is  filled  with  pious  fear  ; 
While  Tuite  and  Tyrrell  urged  in  vain, 
Her  tears  fell  down  like  Munster  rain  — 
Malone  and  Bellew,  Taaffe  and  Dease3  — 
"  Oh,  cease,"  she  says,  "in  pity  cease, 
Or  I  must  leave  your  wedding  gay, 
In  Odder's  walls  to  fast  and  pray." 


1  Of  Odder,—  a  nunnery  dedicated  to  St.  Bride  or  Brigid  in  the 

•ounty  Menth,  parish  of  ttkreen,  in  the  twelfth  century. 

2  The  Nangles  were  Barons  of  the  Nsvan,  and  figure  much  In 
•the  history  of  tbe  1'ale. 

8  Tis  clear  the  Nnngles  knew  their  rank,  for  rb 
nmong  the  best  in  Moath. 


names  were 


VI. 

The  marriage  rites  are  bravely  done  ; 
But  what  ails  her,  the  novice  Nun  ? 
Oh  !  never  had  she  seen  an  eye 
Look  into  hers  so  tenderly. 
"  Methinks  that  deep  and  mellow  voice 
Would  make  the  Abbess'  self-rejoice ; 
He's  sure  the  Saint  I  dreamt  upon — 
Not  Barnewell  of  Trimleston. 
In  holy  Land  his  spurs  he  won — 
What  aileth  me,  a  novice  Nun  ?" 
***** 

[It  is  but  a  fragment  of  a  Ballad,  which  some  of  Davis's  friend* 
are  sure  was  completed.  No  more,  however,  than  the  above  wss 
ever  printed  ] 


MY  GRAVE. 

SHALL  they  bury  me  in  the  deep, 
Where  wind-forgetting  waters  sleep  ? 
Shall  they  dig  a  grave  for  me, 
Under  the  green-wood  tree  f 
Or  on  the  wild  heath, 
Where  the  wilder  breath 
Of  the  storm  doth  blow  ? 
Oh,  no !  oh,  no  ! 

Shall  they  bury  me  in  the  Palace  Tombs, 
Or  under  the  shade  of  Cathedral  domes .' 
Sweet  'twere  to  lie  on  Italy's  shore ; 
Yet  not  there — nor  in  Greece,  though  I  love  it 

more. 

In  the  wolf  or  the  vulture  my  grave  shall  I  find  ? 
Shall  my  ashes  career  on  the  world  seeing  wind  I 
Shall  they  fling  my  corpse  in  the  battle  mound, 
Where  coffinless  thousands  lie  under  the  ground  ? 
J  ust  as  they  fall  they  are  buried  so — 
Oh,  no!  oh,  no! 

No  !  on  an  Irish  green  hill-side, 
On  an  opening  lawn — but  not  too  wide ; 
For  I  love  the  drip  of  the  wetted  trees — 
I  love  not  the  gales,  but  a  gentle  breeze, 
To  freshen  the  turf — put  no  tombstone  there, 
But  green  sods  decked  with  daisies  fair; 
Nor  sods  too  deep,  but  so  that  the  dew, 
The  matted  grass-roots  may  trickle  through. 
Be  my  epitaph  writ  on  my  country's  mind, 

"  HE     SERVED     HIS     COUNTRY,    AND     LOVED     tII9 
KIND." 

Oh  !  'twere  merry  unto  the  grave  to  go, 
It'  one  were  sure  to  be  buried  so. 


APPENDIX. 


D+ep  runk  in  that  bed  is  the  noord  of  Monroe, 
Since,  tteixt  it  and  Donagh?  he  mtt  Owen  Roe. 

Page  484. 

The  Blackwater,  in  Ulster,  is  especially  remarkable 
as  the  scene  of  the  two  most  remarkable  victories  ob- 
tained by  the  Irish  over  the  English  power  for  several 
centuries  past.  The  particulars  of  these  battles  are 
so  little  known,  that  it  is  hoped  the  following  ac- 
counts of  them,  taken  from  the  best  accessible  sources, 
will  be  acceptable  to  the  reader.  The  first  is  from 
the  pen  of  Mr.  DAVIS. 

THE  BATTLE  OP  BENBURB. 
(5Tu  JUNE,  1046.) 

The  battle  of  Benburb  was  fought  upon  the  slopes 
of  ground,  now  called  the  Thistle  Hill,  from  being 
the  property  of  the  Thistles,  a  family  of  Scotch  farm- 
ers, now  represented  by  a  fine  old  man  of  over  eighty 
years.  This  ground  is  two  and  a  quarter  miles  in  a 
right  line,  or  three  by  the  road,  from  the  Church  of 
Benburb,  and  about  six  miles  below  Caledon,  in  the 
county  Tyrone  ;  in  the  angle  between  the  Blackwater 
and  the  Oonagh,  on  the  Benburb  side  of  the  latter, 
and  close  to  Battleford  Bridge.  We  are  thus  particu- 
lar in  marking  the  exact  place,  because  of  the  blun- 
ders of  many  writers  on  it. 

Major-General  Robert  Monro  landed  with  several 
thousand  Scots  at  Carrickfergus,  in  the  middle  of 
April,  1642,  and  on  the  28th  and  29th  was  joined  by 
Lord  Conway  and  Colonel  Chichester,  &c.,  with  1,800 
foot,  five  troops  of  horse,  and  two  of  dragoons.  Early 
in  May,  a  junction  was  effected  between  Monro  and 
Tichborne,  and  an  army  of  12,000  foot,  and  between 
1,000  and  2,000  horse,  was  made  up.  Yet,  with  this 
vast  force,  Monro  achieved  nothing  but  plunder,  un- 
less the  treacherous  seizure  of  Lord  Antrim  be  an  ex- 
ception. Thus  was  the  spring  of  1642  wasted.  Yet, 

>  So  this  line  runs,  as  originally  pnblished,  nn<l  likewise  Jn  the 
Uil  of  the  present  edition.  But  I  have  •  strong  suspicion  that  the 
author  wrote  it,— "Since  'twixt  It  nn.l  O»nitfffi."  .Vr.  iiu-miltix  the 
«iT«r  Oonkgb  Vide 'Inscription  of  the  buttle,  especially  the  first 


so  overwhelming  was  Monro's  force,  that  the  Irish 
Chiefs  were  thinking  of  giving  up  the  war,  when,  on 
the  13th  of  July,  OWEN  ROE  MAC- ART  O'NEILL  land- 
ed at  Doe  Castle,  county  Donegal,  and  received  the 
command. 

Owen  Roe  was  born  in  Ulster,  and  at  an  early  age 
entered  the  Spanish — the  imperial — service,  influ 
enced,  doubtless,  by  the  same  motives  that  led  Mar- 
shal MacDonald  into  the  French — ihat  "  the  gates  of 
promotion  were  closed  at  home."  Owen,  from  hia 
great  connexions,  and  greater  abilities,  rose  rapidly, 
and  held  a  high  post  in  Catalonia.  We  have  heard, 
through  Dr.  Qartland,  the  worthy  head  of  the  Sala- 
manca College,  that  Eugenlo  Rufo  is  still  remem- 
bered there.  He  held  Arras  in  1040  against  the 
French,  and  (says  Carte)  "  surrendered  it  at  last  upon 
honorable  terms,  yet  his  conduct  in  the  defence  was 
such  as  gave  him  great  reputation,  and  procured  him 
extraordinary  respect  even  from  the  enemy." 

Owen  was  sent  for  at  the  first  outbreak  in  1 041, 
but  it  was  not  till  the  latter  eud  of  June,  1642,  that 
he  embarked  for  Dunkirk,  with  many  of  the  officers 
and  men  of  his  own  regiment,  and  supplies  of  arms. 
He  sailed  round  the  north  of  Scotland  to  Donegal, 
while  another  frigate  brought  similar  succors  to 
Wexford,  under  Henry  O'Neill  and  Richard  O'Far- 
rell.  Owen  was  immediately  conducted  to  Charle- 
mont,  and  invested  with  the  command  of  Ulster. 

Immediately  on  Owen's  landing,  Lesley,  Earl  of 
Leven,  and  General  of  the  Scotch  troops,  wrote  to 
him,  saying,  "  He  was  sorry  a  man  of  his  reputation 
and  experience  abroad,  should  come  to  Ireland  for 
the  maintaining  of  so  bad  a  cause  ;"  and  advising  his 
return !  O'Neill  replied,  "  He  had  more  reason  to 
come  to  relieve  the  deplorable  state  of  his  country, 
than  Lesley  had  to  march  at  the  head  of  an  army 
into  England  against  his  king,  at  a  time  when  they 
(the  Scots)  wore  already  masters  of  all  Scotland."  No 
contrast  could  be  greater  or  better  put.  Lord  Levan 
immediately  embarked  for  Scotland,  telling  Monro, 
whom  he  left  in  command,  "  that  he  would  certainly 


paragraph.  I  wouM  not,  however,  alter  the  text,  without  «>in* 
search  after  the  original  MS. ;  or,  In  default  of  thnt.  a  critical  ex- 
amination of  the  topography  of  a  district.  In  the  description  of 
which  so  many  errors  hare  been  committed.— Ki>. 


540 


APPENDIX. 


be  ousted,  if  O'Neill  once  got  an  army  together." 
And  so  it  turned  out.  Owen  sustained  himself  for 
four  years  against  Monro  on  one  side  and  Ormond  on 
the  other — harassed  by  the  demands  of  the  other 
provincial  generals,  and  distressed  for  want  of  pro- 
visions— defying  Monro  by  any  means  to  compel  him 
to  fight  a  battle  until  he  was  ready  for  it.  But  at 
length,  having  his  troops  in  fine  fighting  order,  he 
fought  and  won  the  greatest  battle  fought  in  Ireland 
since  the  "  Yellow  Ford."  But  we  must  tell  how  this 
came  about. 

Throughout  1642,  and  in  the  summer  of  1643, 
Monro  made  two  attempts  to  beat  up  O'Neill's  quar- 
ters ;  and  though  the  Irish  General  had  not  one-tenth 
of  Monro's  force,  he  compelled  him  to  retire  with  loss 
into  Antrim  and  DOWTU.  Assailed  by  Stewart's  army 
on  the  Donegal  side,  Owen  Roe  retreated  into  Long- 
ford and  Leitrim,  hoping  in  the  rugged  districts  to 
nurse  up  an  army  which  would  enable  him  to  meet 
Monro  in  the  field. 

By  the  autumn  of  164:j,  after  having  suffered  many 
trifling  losses,  he  had  got  together  a  militia  army  of 
3,000  men,  and  the  cessation  having  been  concluded, 
he  inarched  into  Meath,  joined  Sir  James  Dillon,  and 
reduced  the  entire  district.  In  1644,  Monro's  army 
amounting  to  13,000  men, — O'Neill,  after  having  for  a 
short  time  occupied  a  great  part  of  Ulster,  again  re- 
turned to  North  Leinster.  Here  he  was  joined  by 
Lord  Castlehaven  with  6,000  men  ;  but  except  trifling 
skirmishes,  no  engagement  took  place,  and  Castle- 
haven  returned,  disgusted  with  a  war,  which  he  had 
not  patience  to  value,  nor  profundity  to  practise. 
1645  passed  over  in  similar  skirmishes,  in  which  the 
country  suffered  terribly  from  the  plundering  of 
Monro's  army. 

The  leaders  under  Owen  Roe  were,  Sir  Pheliui 
O'Neill,  and  his  brother  Turlough  ;  Con,  Cormac, 
Hugh,  and  Brian  O'Neill ;  and  the  following  chief- 
tains with  their  clans  :  Bernard  MacMahon,  the  son 
of  Hugh,  chief  of  Monaghan,  and  Baron  of  Dartry ; 
Colonel  MacMahon,  Colonel  Patrick  MacNeny  (who 
was  married  to  Helen,  sister  of  Bernard  MacMahon) ; 
Colonel  Richard  O'Ferrall  of  Longford,  Roger  Ma- 
guire  of  Fermanagh ;  Colonel  Philip  O'Reilly  of 
Ballynacargy  castle  in  the  county  of  Cavan  (who  was 
married  to  Rose  O'Neill,  the  sister  of  Owen  Roe)  ; 
and  the  valiant  Maolmora  O'Reilly  (kinsman  to  Phil- 
ip), who,  from  his  great  strength  and  determined 
bravery,  was  called  Miles  the  Slasher.  The  O'Reillys 
brought  200  chosen  men  of  their  own  name,  and  of 
the  MacBradys,  MacCabes,  MacGowans,  Fitzpatricks, 
and  Fitzsimons,  from  Cavan.  Some  fighting  men 
were  also  brought  by  MacGauran  of  Templeport,  and 
MacTeruan  of  Croghau  ;  some  Connaught  forces 
came  with  the  O'Rorkes,  MacDermotts,  O'Connors, 
and  O'Kelleys ;  there  came  also  some  of  the  O'Don- 
nells  and  O'Doghertys  of  Donegal ;  Mantis  O'Cane  of 
Derry  ;  Sir  Constantino  Magenuis,  county  of  Down  ; 
the  O'Hanlons  of  Armagh,  regal  standard-bearers  of 
Ulster  ;  and  the  O'Hagans  of  Tyrone. 

Lords  Blaney,  Conway,  and  Montgomery  com- 
jianded  under  Monro. 

In  the  spring  of  1046,  Owen  Roe  met  the  Nuncio 


at  Kilkenny,  and  received  from  the  council  an  am 
pier  provision  than  heretofore ;  and  by  May  he  had 
completed  his  force  under  it,  to  5,000  foot  and  500 
horse.  This  army  consisted  partly  of  veterans  trained 
by  the  four  preceding  campaigns,  and  partly  of  new 
levies,  whom  he  rapidly  brought  into  discipline  by 
his  organizing  genius  and  his  stern  punishments. 

With  this  force  he  marched  into  the  county  of  Ar 
magh,  and  Monro,  hearing  of  his  movements,  ad- 
vanced against  him  by  rapid  marches,  hoping  to  sur- 
prise him  in  Armagh  city.  Monro's  forces  consisted, 
according  to  all  the  best  authorities,  of  6,000  foot,  800 
horse,  and  7  field-pieces  ;  though  some  accounts  raise 
his  foot  to  8,500,  and  he  himself  lowers  it  in  his  apol- 
ogetic dispatch  to  3,400,  and  states  his  field-pieces 
at  6. 

Simultaneously  with  Monro's  advance,  his  brother, 
Colonel  George  Monro,  marched  from  Coleraine, 
along  the  west  shore  of  Loch  Neagh,  with  three 
troops  of  horse ;  and  a  junction  was  to  have  been 
effected  between  the  two  Monros  and  the  Tyrconnell 
forces  at  Glasslough,  a  place  in  the  county  Mona- 
ghau,  but  only  a  few  miles  S.  W.  of  Armagh.  On 
the  4th  of  June,  Owen  Roe  marched  from  Glasslough 
to  Benburb,  confident,  by  means  of  the  river  and 
hilly  country,  that  he  could  prevent  the  intended 
junction.  Monro  bivouacked  the  same  night  at 
Hamilton's  Bawn,  four  miles  from  Armagh.  Before 
dawn  on  Friday,  the  5th,  Monro  marched  to  Armagh 
town,  burning  houses,  and  wasting  crops  as  he  ad- 
vanced. Fearful  lest  his  brother,  who  had  reached 
Dungaunon,  should  be  cut  off,  he  marched  towards 
Benburb,  and  on  finding  the  strength  of  the  Irish 
position  there,  advanced  up  the  right  bank  of  the 
Blackwater,  hoping  to  tempt  Owen  from  his  ground. 
In  the  mean  time  a  body  of  Irish  horse,  detached 
against  George  Monro,  had  met  him  near  Dungan- 
non,  and  checked  his  advance,  though  with  some 
loss. 

A  good  part  of  the  day  was  th  us  spent,  and  it  was 
two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  before  Monro  crossed  the 
Bla'ckwater  at  Kinaird  (now  Caledon),  and  led  hia 
army  down  the  left  bank  of  the  river  against  O'Neill. 
This  advance  of  Owen's  to  Ballykilgavin  was  only  to 
consume  time,  and  weary  the  enemy,  for  he  shortly 
after  retreated  to  Knocknacliagh,  where  he  had  de- 
termined to  fight.  It  was  now  past  four  o'clock, 
when  the  enemy's  foot  advanced  in  a  double  line  of 
columns.  The  first  line  consisted  of  five,  and  the 
second  of  four  columns,  much  too  close  for  manoeu- 
vring. The  Irish  front  consisted  of  four,  and  the  re- 
serve of  three  divisions,  with  ample  room. 

O'Neill's  position  was  defended  on  the  right  by  a 
wet  bog,  and  on  the  left  by  the  junction  of  the  Black- 
water  and  the  Oonagh,  In  his  front  was  rough, 
hillocky  ground,  covered  "  with  scrogs  and  bushes." 

Lieutenant-Colonel  Richard  O'Farrell  occupied 
some  strong  ground  in  advance  of  Owen's  position, 
but  Colonel  Cunningham,  with  500  musketeers 
and  the  field-pieces,  carried  the  pass,  and  O'F>tr- 
rell  effected  his  retreat  with  little  loss,  and  no  dis- 
order. The  field-guns  were  pushed  in  advance  by 


THE   BATTLE  OF   BEAL-AN-ATHA-BUID1IE. 


541 


Monro  with  most  of  bis  cavalry,  but  Owen  kept  the 
main  body  of  bis  borse  in  reserve. 

A^ood  deal  of  skirmishing  took  place,  and  though 
the  enemy  bad  gained  much  ground,  his  soldiers 
were  growing  weary  ;  it  was  five  o'clock,  and  the 
evening  sun  of  a  clear  and  firry  June  glared  in  their 
faces.  While  in  this  state,  a  body  of  cavalry  was  seen 
advancing  from  the  northwest ;  Monro  declared  them 
to  be  bis  brother's  squadrons,  and  became  confident 
lit  success.  But  a  few  minutes  sufficed  to  undeceive 
him — they  were  the  detachments,  under  Colonels 
Bernard  MacMahon,  and  Patrick  MacNeney,  return- 
ing from  Dungannon,  after  having  driven  George 
Monro  back  ujxjn  his  route. 

The  Scotch  musketeers  continued  for  some  time  to 
gain  ground  along  the  banks  of  the  Oonagh,  and 
threatened  Owen's  left,  till  the  light  cavalry  of  the 
Irish  broke  in  among  them,  sabred  many,  drove  the 
pest  across  the  stream,  and  returned  without  any 
loss.  The  battle  now  became  general.  The  Scotch 
cannon,  posted  on  a  slope,  annoyed  O'Neill's  centre, 
and  there  seemed  some  danger  of  Mouro's  manoeu- 
vring to  the  west  sufficiently  to  communicate  with 
George  Monro's  corps.  Owen,  therefore,  decided  on 
a  general  attack,  keeping  only  Kory  Maguire's  regi- 
ment as  a  reserve.  His  foot  moved  oil  in  steady 
columns,  and  his  horse  in  the  spaces  between  the 
first  and  second  charge  of  his  masses.  In  vain  did 
Monro's  cavalry  charge  this  determined  infantry;  it 
threw  back  from  its  face  ssquadron  after  squadron, 
tind  kept  constantly,  rapidly,  and  evenly  advancing. 
In  vain  did  Lord  Blaney  take  pike  in  baud,  and 
ptaml  in  the  ranks.  Though  exposed  to  the  play  of 
Monro's  guns  and  musketry,  the  Irish  infantry 
charged  up  hill  without  firing  a  shot,  and  closed  with 
sabre  and  pike.  They  met  a  gallant  resistance,  j 
Blaucy  and  his  men  held  their  ground  long,  till  the  : 
superior  vivacity  and  freshness  of  the  Irish  clansmen 
bore  him  down. 

An  attempt  was  made  with  the  columns  of  the  rear 
line  to  regain  the  ground  ;  but  from  the  confined 
space  in  which  they  were  drawn  up,  the  attempt  to 
manoeuvre  them  only  produced  disorder  ;  and  just  at 
this  moment,  to  complete  their  ruin,  O'Neill'p  cavalry, 
wheeling  l.y  the  Hunks  of  his  columns,  charged  th« 
Scotch  cavalry,  and  drove  them  pell-mull  upon  the 
shaken  and  confused  infantry.  A  total  rout  followed. 
Monro,  Lord  Conway,  Captain  Burke,  and  forty  of 
the  horsemen  escaped  across  the  Blackwater,  but 
most  of  the  foot  were  cut  to  pieces,  or  drowned  in  the 
river  ;  3,423  of  the  enemy  were  found  on  the  battle- 
field, and  Lord  Montgomery,  with  21  officers,  and  150 
men,  were  taken  prisoners.  O'Neill  lost  70  killed 
(including  Colonel  Man  us,  MacNYill,  and  Garve 
O'Donnell),  and  200  wounded  (including  Lieutenant- 
Colonel  O'Farrell  and  Phelim  MacTiiohill  O'Neill). 
He  took  all  the  Scots  artillery,  twenty  stand  of  colors, 
and  all  the  arms,  save  those  of  Sir  James  Mont- 
gomery, whose  regiment,  being  on  Monro's  extreme 
right,  effected  its  retreat  in  some  order.  1,500  draft 
horses,  and  two  mouths'  provisions  were  also  taken, 
but,  unfortunately,  Monro's  ammunition  blew  up 


shortly  after  the  battle  was  won.  Mouro  fled  without 
coat  or  wig  to  Lisburn.  Moving  from  thence,  he 
commanded  every  household  to  furnish  two  musket- 
eers ;  he  wrote  an  a|X)logetic  and  deceptions  dispatch 
to  the  Irish  committee  in  London,  burnt  Dundrum, 
and  deserted  most  of  Down.  But  all  bis  efforts  would 
have  been  in  vain  ;  for  O'Neill,  having  increased  his 
army  by  Scotch  deserters  and  fresh  levies,  to  10,000 
foot  and  21  troo)>s  of  horse,  was  in  the  very  uct  of 
breaking  in  on  him,  with  a  certainty  of  expelling  the 
last  invader  from  Ulster,  when  the  fatal  command  of 
the  Nuncio  reached  Owen  at  Tanderagee,  ordering 
him  to  march  southward  to  support  that  factious 
ecclesiastic  against  the  peace.  O'Neill,  in  an  un- 
happy hour,  obeyed  the  Nuncio,  abandoned  the  fruits 
of  bis  splendid  victory,  and  marched  to  Kilkenny. 


II. 

And  ClutrleinonVs  cannon 
Sltie  many  a  man  on 

T/tese  mfailows  M 


r.  —  Page  484. 


The  following  passage  will  sufficiently  explain  this 
allusion  : 

"  Early  in  June  (1602)  Lord  Mountjoy  marched  by 
Dundalk  to  Armagh,  and  from  thence,  without  inter- 
ruption, to  the  banks  of  the  Blackwater,  about  five 
miles  to  the  eastward  of  Portmore,  and  nearer  to 
Loch  Ncagh.  He  sent  Sir  Richard  Moiyson  to  thu 
north  bank  of  the  river,  commenced  the  building  of 
a  bridge  at  that  point,  and  a  castle,  which  he  named 
Charlemont,  from  his  own  Christian  name,  and  sta- 
tioned a  garrison  of  one  hundred  and  fifty  men  there 
under  the  command  of  Captain  Toby  Caulfield—  the 
founder  of  a  noble  family,  which  has  held  that  spot 
from  that  day  to  this  ;  but  which  afterwards  (as  is 
usual  with  settlers  in  Ireland)  became  more  Irish 
than  many  of  the  Irish  themselves."  —  MitcM's  Life 
of  Aodh  O'Neil,  p.  219  ;  vide  Irish  Penny  Jntrnml 
for  184X-2,  p.  217. 


IH. 

A  ri't  yonder  Rtd  Hugh 
M'lrthtil  Hagennl  o'erthwo 

On  l>tal-an-at/ia-bnidhe. — Page  4s 

THE  BATTLE  OF  BKAL-AN-ATIIA-HUIDUK. 
(lOrn  AUGUST,  151)5.) 

"  The  tenth  morning  of  August  rose  bright  and 
serene  u]x>n  the  towers  of  Armagh,  and  the  silver 
waters  of  Avonmore.  Before  day  dawned,  the  Eng- 
li-h  army  left  the  city  in  three  divisions,  and  at  aim- 
rise  they  were  winding  through  the  hills  and  woods 
behind  the  spot  where  now  stands  the  little  church 
of  Grange.  The  sun  was  glancing  'n  the  corslott 
and  spears  of  their  glittering  cavalry  ;  their  banner? 


542 


APPENDIX. 


waved  proudly,  and  their  bugles  rang  clear  in  the 
morning  air  ;  when,  suddenly  from  the  thickets  on 
both  sides  of  their  path,  a  deadly  volley  of  musketry 
swept  through  the  foremost  ranks.  O'Neill  had  sta- 
tioned here  five  hundred  light-armed  troops  to  guard 
the  denies  ;  and  in  the  shelter  of  thick  groves  of  fir- 
trees  they  had  silently  waited  for  the  enemy.  Now 
they  poured  in  their  shot,  volley  after  volley,  and 
killed  great  numbers  of  the  English  ;  but  the  first 
division,  led  by  Bagnal  in  person,  after  some  hard 
fighting,  carried  the  pass,  dislodged  the  marksmen 
from  their  position,  and  drove  them  backwards  into 
the  plain.  The  centre  division,  under  Cosby  and 
Wingfield,  and  the  rear-guard,  led  by  Cuin  and 
Billing,  supported  in  flank  by  the  cavalry  under 
Brooke,  Montacute,  and  Fleming,  now  pushed  for- 
ward, speedily  cleared  the  difficult  country,  and 
'brined  in  the  open  ground  in  front  of  the  Irish  lines. 
It  was  not  quite  safe,'  says  an  Irish  chronicler  (in 
admiration  of  Bagnal's  disposition  of  his  forces)  '  to 
attack  the  nest  of  griffins  and  den  of  lions  in  which 
were  placed  the  soldiers  of  London.'  Bagnal,  at  the 
head  of  his  first  division,  and  aided  by  a  body  of 
cavalry,  charged  the  Irish  light-armed  troops  up  to 
the  very  intrenchments,  in  front  of  which  O'Neill's 
foresight  had  prepared  some  pits,  covered  over  with 
wattles  and  grass  ;  and  many  of  the  English  cavalry, 
rushing  impetuously  forward,  rolled  headlong,  both 
men  and  horses,  into  these  trenches,  and  perished. 
Still  the  Marshal's  chosen  troops,  with  loud  cheers, 
and  shouts  of  '  St.  George,  for  merry  England  !'  res- 
olutely attacked  the  intrenchments  that  stretched 
across  the  pass,  battered  them  with  cannon,  and  in 
one  place  succeeded,  though  with  heavy  loss,  in 
forcing  back  their  defenders.  Then  first  the  main 
body  of  O'Neill's  troops  was  brought  into  action  ;  and 
with  bagpipes  sounding  a  charge,  they  fell  upon  the 
English,  shouting  their  fierce  battle-cries,  Lamli- 
deary  !  and  0' Dhomhnaill  Abu  !  O'Neill  himself,  at 
the  head  of  a  body  of  horse,  pricked  forward  to  seek 
out  Bagnal  amidst  the  throng  of  battle ;  but  they 
never  met :  the  marshal,  who  had  done  his  devoir 
that  day  like  a  good  soldier,  was  shot  through  the 
brain  by  some  unknown  marksman  ;  the  division  he 
had  led  was  forced  back  by  the  furious  onslaught  of 
the  Irish,  and  put  to  utter  rout ;  and,  what  added  to 
their  confusion,  a  cart  of  gunpowder  exploded  amidst 
the  English  ranks,  and  blew  many  of  their  men  to 
atoms.  And  now  the  cavalry  of  Tyr-connell  and 
Tyr-owen  dashed  into  the  plain,  and  bore  down  the 
remnant  of  Brooke's  and  Fleming's  horse ;  the  col- 
umns of  Wingfield  and  Cosby  reeled  before  their 
rushing  charge — while  in  front,  to  the  war-cry  of 
BntaiUa  Abu !  the  swords  and  axes  of  the  heavy- 
armed  galloglasses  were  raging  amongst  the  Saxon 
ranks.  By  this  time  the  cannon  were  all  taken  ;  the 
cries  of '  St.  George'  had  failed,  or  turned  into  death- 
shrieks  ;  and  once  more,  England's  royal  standard 
sunk  before  the  Red  Hand  of  Tyr-owen. 

"  The  last  who  resisted  was  the  traitor  O'Reilly  ; 
twice  he  tried  to  rally  the  flying  squadrons,  but  was 
slain  in  the  attempt :  and  at  last  the  whole  of  that 
fine  army  was  utterly  routed,  and  fled  pellmell  to- 


wards Armagh,  with  the  Irish  hanging  fiercely  oa 
their  rear.  Amidst  the  woods  and  marshes  all  con- 
nection and  order  were  speedily  lost ;  and  as  OTV»n 
nell's  chronicler  has  it,  they  were  '  pursued  in  couples 
in  threes,  in  scores,  in  thirties,  and  in  hundreds  ' 
and  so  cut  down  in  detail  by  their  avenging  pursu- 
ers. In  one  spoi,  especially,  the  carnage  was  ter- 
rible, and  the  country  people  yet  point  out  the  lane 
where  that  hideous  rout  passed  by,  and  call  it  to  this, 
day  the  '  Bloody  Loaning.'  Two  thousand  five  hun- 
dred English  were  slain  in  the  battle  and  flight, 
including  twenty-three  superior  officers,  besides  lieu 
tenants  and  ensigns.  Twelve  thousand  gold  pieces, 
thirty-four  standards,  all  the  musical  instruments 
and  cannon,  with  a  long  train  of  provision  wagons* 
were  a  rich  spoil  for  the  Irish  army.  The  confed' 
erates  had  only  two  hundred  slain  and  six  hundred 
wounded. 

MitcheFs  Life  of  Aod/i  O'Neill,  pp.  141-144, 


IV. 


CYMRIC  RULE  AND  CYMRIC  RULERS. — PAGE  486. 

This  poem  has  less  title  than  any  other  in  Part  1 
to  be  ranked  among  National  (i.  e.,  either  in  subject, 
or  by  aim  or  allusion,  Irish)  Ballads  and  Songs,  un- 
less the  affinity  of  the  Cymric  with  the  Irish  Celts, 
and  the  fact  that  the  author  himself  was  of  Welsh 
extraction  by  the  father's  side,  be  considered  a  suf- 
ficient justification. 

Mr.  Davis  was  very  fond  of  the  air — "  The  March 
of  the  Men  of  Harlech,"  to  which  this  poem  is  set. 
To  evince  his  strong  partiality  for,  and  sympathy 
with  the  Welsh  people,  it  is  enough  to  quote  the 
following  passage  from  one  of  his  political  essays  : 

"We  just  now  opened  M'Culloch's  Geographical 
Dictionary  to  ascertain  some  Welsh  statistics,  and 
found  at  the  name  '  Wales'  a  reference  to  '  England 
and  Wales,'  and  at  the  latter  title  nothing  distinct 
on  the  Principality  ;  and  what  was  there  was  rather 
inferior  to  the  information  on  Cumberland,  or  most 
English  counties. 

"  And  has  time,  then,  we  said,  mouldered  away 
that  obstinate  and  fiery  tribe  of  Celts,  which  baffled 
the  Plantagenets,  which  so  often  trod  upon  the 
breastplates  of  the  Norman,  which  sometimes  bent 
in  the  summer,  but  ever  rose  when  the  fierce  ele- 
ments of  winter  came  to  aid  the  native  ?  Has  that 
race  passed  away,  which  stood  under  Llewellyn,  and 
rallied  under  Owen  Glendower,  and  gave  the  Dragon 
flag  and  Tudor  kings  to  England?  Is  the  prophecy 
of  twelve  hundred  years  false — are  the  people  and 
tongue  passed  away  ? 

"  No !  spite  of  the  massacre  of  bards,  and  the 
burning  of  records — spite  of  political  extinction, 
there  is  a  million  of  these  Kymrys  in  Wales  and  its 
marches ;  and  nine  out  of  ten  of  these  speak  their 
old  tongue,  follow  their  old  customs,  sing  the  song? 
which  the  sleepers  upon  Snowdon  made,  have  thei 


THE  FATE  OF  KING   DATEII. 


543 


religious  rites  in  Kyinric,  and  hate  the  Logrian  as 
much  as  ever  their  fathers  did.     .     .     . 

"  Twenty-nine  Welsh  members  could  do  much  if 
united,  more  especially  if  they  would  co-operate  with 
the  Irish  and  Scotch  members  in  demanding  their 
share  ot  the  imperial  expenditure  ;  or  what  would 
lie  safer  and  better,  in  agitating  for  a  local  council  to 
administer  the  local  affairs  of  the  Principality.  A 
million  of  the  Kymry,  who  are  still  apart  in  their 
mountains,  who  have  immense  mineral  resources, 
and  some  good  harbors,  one  (Milford)  the  best  in 
Britain,  and  who  are  of  our  blood,  nearly  of  our  old 
and  un-English  language,  .have  as  good  a  right  to  a 
local  senate  as  the  700,000  people  of  (i recce,  or  the 
half  million  of  Cassel  or  Mecklenburgh  have  to  inde- 
pendence, or  as  each  of  the  States  of  America  has  to 
a  local  congress.  Localization  by  means  of  Federal- 
ism seems  the  natural  and  best  resource  of  a  country 
like  Wales  to  guard  its  puree,  and  language,  and 
character  from  imperial  oppression,  and  its  soil  from 
foreign  invasion.  As  powers  run,  it  is  not,  like  Ire- 
land, quite  able,  if  free,  to  hold  her  own  ;  but  it  has 
importance  enough  to  entitle  it  to  a  local  congress 
for  its  local  affairs." 


THE  IRISH  HURRAH.— PAGE  488. 

The  second  stanza  of  this  poem,  as  it  appears  in 
the  text,  was  omitted  by  the  author  in  a  later  copy  ; 
it  would  seem,  with  a  view  of  adapting  it  better  10 
the  air  to  which  it  is  set. 


VI. 
A  CHRISTMAS  SCENE. — PAGE  499. 

The  first  sketch  of  this  poem  differs  a  good  deal 
from  that  in  the  text.  It  is  so  pleasing,  that  it  is 
given  here  as  originally  published.  It  was  then  en- 
titled • 

A  CHRISTMAS  OAKOL. 


The  hill-blast  comes  howling  from  leaf-rifted  trees. 
Which  late  were  as  harp-strings  to  each  pun  tie  broeie; 
The  sportsmen  have  parted,  the  bluo-btockings  gone, 
While  we  sit  happy-hearted—  together,  alone. 


The  glory  of  natnre  through  the  window  has  charms, 
But  within,  gentle  Kate,  you're  entwined  in  my  arum; 
The  sportsmen  may  seek  for  snipe,  woodcock,  ami  Imrc 
The  snow  Is  on  their  cheek,  on  mine  your  black  hair. 


The  painters  may  rave  o.  the  light  and  tbe  *bade, 
The  I'liifx  and  the  poets  of  lake,  hill,  and  glade ; 
Wlille  the  light  of  your  eye,  and  your  soft  wavy  form, 
fait  a  proser  like  me  by  the  hearth  bright  niul  warm. 


My  Kate.  I'm  so  hiippy,  your  voice  wl.l«p»-m  fort. 
And  your  ohei'k  Iln*hvs  wilder  by  klwiiit;  s«i  oft ; 
Should  our  Ulss  ((row  less  fond,  or  the  weather  ocrene, 
Fortii  together  we'll  wander  to  see  each  lov«d  scene. 


And  at  eve,  as  the  sportsmen  and  pedants  will  c»y, 
As  tlioy  swallow  their  dinner,  how  they  spent  the  day, 
Your  eye,  roguish-smiling,  to  me  only  will  say 
That  more  sweetly  than  any.  you  and  I  spent  tbe  day. 


VII. 
THE  FATE  OF  KINO  DATIII. — PAGE  503. 

The  real  adventures  of  this  warlike  king,  the  last 
of  the  Pagan  monarchs  of  Ireland,  and  likewise  the 
last  who  extended  his  conquests  to  the  continent  of 
Europe,  are,  like  too  much  of  the  ancient  annals  of 
the  country,  obscured  by  the  mixture  <•»*  pious  or  ro- 
mantic legends  with  authentic  history.  An  accurate 
account  of  Dathi,  and  his  immediate  predecessors, 
will  be  found  in  the  addenda  to  Mr.  O'Donovan's  ex- 
cellent  edition  of  the  "Tribes  and  Customs  of  the 
Ui-Fiachruch,"  printed  for  the  Irish  Archaeological 
Society ;  from  which  the  following  passages  are 
extracted. 

"In  the  lifetime  of  Niall  of  the  Nine  Hostages, 
Brian,  his  brother  Of  the  half-blood,  became  King  of 
Connaught,  and  his  second  brother  of  the  half-blood, 
Fiachra,  the  ancestor  of  the  O'Dowds  and  all  the 
Ui-Fiachrach  tribes,  became  chief  of  the  district  ex- 
tending from  Carn  Fearadhaigh,  near  Limerick,  to 
Magh  Mucroime,  near  Athenry.  But  dissensions  soon 
arose  bstween  Brian  and  his  brother  Fiachra,  and  the 
result  was  that  a  battle  was  fought  between  them,  in 
which  the  latter  was  defeated,  and  delivered  as  a  host- 
age into  the  hands  of  his  half-brother,  Niall  of  the 
Nine  Hostages.  After  this,  however,  Dathi,  a  very 
warlike  youth,  waged  war  on  his  Uncle  Brian,  and 
challenged  him  to  a  pitched  battle,  at  a  place  called 
Damh-cluain,  not  far  from  Knockmea-hill,  near  Tuam. 
In  this  battle,  in  which  Dathi  was  assisted  by  Crim- 
thann,  son  of  Enna  Ceuuseloch,  King  of  Leinster 
Brian  and  his  forces  were  routed,  and  pursued  from 
the  field  of  battle  to  Fulcha  Domhnaill,  where  he  wa» 
overtaken  and  slain  by  Crhnthann.  .  .  . 

"  After  the  fall  of  Brian,  Fiachra  was  set  at  liberty 
and  installed  King  of  Connaught,  and  enjoyed  that 
dignity  for  twelve  years,  during  which  period  he  waa 
general  of  the  forces  of  his  brother  Niall.  According 
to  the  book  of  Lecau.  this  Fiachra  had  five  sons,  ol 
which  the  most  eminent  were  Dathi,  and  Amhalgaidii 
(vulgo,  A  wiry),  King  of  Connaught,  who  died  in  the 
year  449.  The  seven  sons  of  this  Amhalgaidh,  to- 
gether with  twelve  thousand  men,  are  said  to  have 
been  baptized  in  one  day  by  St.  Patrick,  at  Forrach 
Mac  n'Amhalgaidh,  near  Killala. 

"  On  the  death  of  his  father  Fiachra,  Dathi  became 
King  of  Counaught,  and  on  the  death  of  his  untie 
Niall  of  the  Nine  Hostages,  he  became  Monarch  ol 
I,  h  aving  the  government  of  Connaught  to  hi* 


544 


APPENt>iX. 


le*6  war'ike  brrther  Amhalgaidh.  King  Datlii,  fol- 
lowing the  example  of  his  predecessor,  Nis.ll,  not  only 
invaded  the  coasts  of  Gaul,  but  forced  his  way  to  the 
veiy  foot  of  the  Alps,  where  he  was  killed  by  a  flash 
of  lightning,  leaving  the  throne  of  Ireland  to  be 
filled  by  a  line  of  Christian  kings." 

Tribes  and  Customs  of  the  Ui-Fiachrach — Addenda, 
pp.  344-6. 


VIII. 
ARGAN  MOR—  PAGE  504. 

Mr.  Davis  was  very  fond  of  the  air  for  which  this 
poeni  was  composed,  and  which  suggested  its  name. 
It  is  a  simple  air,  of  great  antiquity,  preserved  in 
Bunting's  Third  Collection,  where  it  is  No.  V.  of  the 
airs  marked  "very  ancient."  The  following  is  Mr. 
Bunting's  account  of  it : 

"Argan  Mor. — An  Ossianic  air,  still  sung  to  the 
words  preserved  by  Dr.  Young,  and  published  in  the 
first  volume  of  the  Transactions  of  the  Hoyal  Irish 
Academy.  The  editor  took  dbwn  the  notes  from  the 
singing,  or  rather  recitation,  of  a  native  of  Murloch, 
in  the  county  of  Antrim.  This  sequestered  district 
lies  along  the  seashore,  between  Tor  Point  and  Fair 
Head,  and  is  still  rife  with  traditions,  both  musical 
and  legendary.  From  the  neighboring  ports  of 
Cushendun  and  Cushendall  was  the  principal  line  of 
communication  with  Scotland  ;  and,  doubtless,  it  was 
by  this  route  that  the  Ossianic  poems  themselves 
found  their  way  into  that  country." — Ancient  Musi*, 
of  Ireland. — Preface,  p.  88. 


IX. 
THE  TKUE  Iiusn  KING. — PAGE  505. 

In  an  essay  on  Ballad  History,  Mr.  Davis  refers  to 
this  poem,  as  an  attempt  to  show  how  the  materials 
and  hints,  scattered  through  antiquarian  volumes, 
may  be  brought  together  and  presented  with  effect 
in  a  poetical  form.  The  subject  is  one  involved  in 
unusual  obscurity,  considering  its  importance  in  Irish 
History.  The  chief  notices  of  the  custom  have  been 
collected  by  Mr.  O'Donovan  in  the  Addenda  to  his 
edition  of  the  Tribes  and  Customs  of  the  Ui-Fiddir«ch, 
pp.  425-452,  to  which  work  the  reader  is  referred 
who  may  wish  to  trace  the  disjecta  membra  poemutis, 
in  the  scattered  hints  and  traditions  of  which  Mr. 
Davis  has  availed  himself. 


X. 

RETUHN. — PAGE  510. 

Che  following  description  was  prefixed  to  this  ballad 
bj  the  author,  on  its  first  publication  : 

1  -  Among  other  places  which  were  neither  yielded  nor  taken  to 
the  eud  they  should  l>e  delivered  to  the  English.  Don  Juan  tied 
himself  to  deliver  tny  castle  and  liuveii,  the  only  key  <>('  mine 
ulieritanca  whereupon  the  living  of  many  thousand  person 


"  Tlilo  hul'.ad  ia  founded  on  an  ill-remembered  Btc.ry 
of  an  Irish  chief,  returning  after  long  absence  on  the 
Continent,  and  being  wrecked  and  drowned  close  to 
his  own  castle. 

"The  scene  is  laid  in  Ban  try  Bay,  which  runs  up 
into  the  county  of  Cork,  in  a  northeasterly  direction. 
A  few  miles  from  its  mouth,  on  your  left  hand  as  you 
go  up,  lies  Beare  Island  (about  seven  miles  long),  and 
between  it  and  the  mainland  of  Beare  lies  Beare 
Haven,  one  of  the  finest  harbors  in  the  world.  Dun- 
boy  Castle,  near  the  present  Castletown,  was  on  tho 
main,  so  as  to  command  the  southwestern  entrance 
to  the  haven. 

"  Furth*er  up,  along  the  same  shore  of  Beare,  ia 
Adragoole,  a  small  gulf  off  Bantry  Bay. 

"  The  scene  of  the  wreck  is  at  the  southeastern 
shore  of  Beare  Island.  A  ship  steering  from  Spain, 
by  Mix.enhead  for  Dunboy,  and  caught  by  a  southerly 
gale,  if  unable  to  round  the  point  of  Beare  and  to 
make  the  Haven,  should  leave  herself  room  to  run  up 
the  bay,  towards  Adragoole,  or  some  other  shelter." 


XI. 
— Dunbwy  is  lying  l>wly. 

Tlie  halls  where  mirth  and  minstrelsy 
.    Than  Jleara's  wind  rose  louder, 
Are  flung  in  masses  lonelily, 
And  black  with  Enylisk  pnwder. 

Page  512. 

The  destruction  of  O'Sullivan's  C'astle  of  Dunboy 
or  Dunbwy  (correctly  Dunbaoi  or  Dunbuidhe)  is  well 
described  by  Mr.  Mitchel : 

"  Mountjoy  spent  that  spring  in  Munster,  with  the 
President,  reducing  those  fortresses  which  still  re- 
mained in  the  hands  of  the  Irish,  and  fiercely  crush- 
ing down  every  vestige  of  the  national  war.  Richard 
Tyrrell,  however,  still  kept  the  field  ;  and  O'Sullivau 
Beare  held  his  strong  castle  of  Dun-buidhe,  which  ho 
wrested  from  the  Spaniards  after  Don  Juan  had 
stipulated  to  yield  it  to  the  enemy.1  This  castle 
commanded  Bantry  Bay,  and  was  one  of  the  most 
important  fortresses  in  Munster, and  therefore  Carew 
determined,  at  whatever  cost,  to  make  himself  master 
of  it.  Dun-buidhe  was  but  a  square  tower,  with  a 
courtyard  and  some  outworks,  and  had  but  140 
men  ;  yet  it  was  so  strongly  situated,  and  so  bravely 
defended,  that  it  held  the  Lord  President  and  an 
army  of  four  thousand  men,  with  a  great  train  of 
artillery  and  some  ships  of  war,  fifteen  days  before 
its  walls.  After  a  breach  was  made,  the  storming 
parties  were  twice  driven  back  to  their  lines ;  and 
even  after  the  great  hall  of  the  castle  was  carried,  the 
garrison,  under  their  indomitable  commander,  Mac 
(Jeohegan,  held  their  ground  in  the  vaults  under- 
neath for  a  whole  day,  and  at  last  fairly  beat  the 

doth  rest,  that  live  some  twenty  leagues  upon  the  eeticost, 
into  thi'  hands  of  my  cruel,  cursed,  misbelieving  enemies." 
— Leltar  uf  Donald  O'Sullivan  Beare  to  the  King  of  Spain. — I'ac 
Hib. 


A    KALLV    FOR    IRELAND. 


545 


1/esiegers  out  of  the  hall.  The  English  cannon  then 
p'ayed  furiously  upon  the  walls;  and  the  President 
swore  to  bury  these  obstinate  Irish  under  the  ruins. 
Again  a  desperate  sortie  was  made  by  forty  men — 
they  were  all  slain  :  eight  of  them  leaped  into  the 
Boa  to  save  themselves  by  swimming;  but  I'aivw, 
anticipating  this,  had  stationed  Captain  Harvy  '  with 
three  boats  to  keep  the  sea,  but  had  the  killing  of 
them  all  ;'  and  at  last,  after  Mac  Geohegan  was  mortal- 
ly wounded,  the  remnant  of  the  garrison  laid  down 
their  arms.  Mac  Geohegan  lay,  bleeding  to  death,  on 
the  floor  of  the  vault ;  yet  when  he  saw  the  besiegers 
admitted,  he  raised  himself  up,  snatched  a  lighted 
torch,  and  staggered  to  an  open  powder-barrel—one 
moment,  and  the  castle,  with  all  it  contained,  would 
have  rushed  skyward  in  a  pyramid  of  flame,  when 
suddenly  an  English  soldier  seized  him  in  his  arms  ; 
he  was  killed  on  the  spot,  and  all  the  rest  were  shortly 
after  executed.  '  The  whole  number  of  the  ward,' 
says  Carew,  '  consisted  of  one  hundred  and  forty- 
three  selected  men,  being  the  best  choice  of  all  their 
forces,  of  which  not  one  man  escaped,  but  were  either 
slain,  executed,  or  buried  in  the  ruins  ;  and  so  obsti- 
nate a  defence  hath  not  been  seen  within  this  king- 
dom.' Perhaps  some  will  think  that  the  survivors 
of  so  brave  a  band  deserved  a  better  fate  than  hang- 
tog." 

Afitchel's  life  of  Aodh  O'JfeUl,  pp.  216-218. 


XII. 
LAMKNT  FOR  OWEN  ROE  O'NEILL.— PAGE  514. 

The  ra"«<t  notable  events  in  the  career  of  this  great 
rhieftain  .rill  be  found  in  the  account  of  the  Battle  of 
Iknburb,  ante,  p.  539.  The  closing  scenes  of  his 
lit'"  were  briefly  narrated  as  follows,  by  Mr.  Davis, 
In  a  little  sketch,  published  with  this  poem  when  it 
first  appeared  : 

"  Tn  1649,  the  country  being  exhausted,  Owen 
made  a  truce  with  Monk,  Coote,  and  the  Indepen- 
dents—a truce  observed  on  both  sides,  though  Monk 
was  severely  censured  by  the  English  Parliament  for 
it.— (Journals,  10th  August,  1649.)  On  its  expiration, 
O'Neill  concluded  a  treaty  with  Ormond,  12th  Oc- 
toljer,  1649  ;  and  so  eager  was  he  for  it,  that  ere  it 
was  signed  he  sent  over  3,000  men,  under  Major- 
i"  te-ral  O'Farrell,  to  join  Ormond  (which  they  did 
October  25th).  Owen  himself  strove  with  all  haste 
t"  follow,  to  encounter  Cromwell,  who  had  marched 
south  after  the  sack  of  Drogheda.  But  fate  and  an  un- 
scrupulous foe  forbade.  Poison,  it  is  believed,  had  been 
B  iiim  either  at  Merry,  or  shortly  after.  His  con- 
stitution struggled  with  it  for  some  time  ;  slowly  and 
tanking,  he  marched  through  Tynino  and  Mnnaghan 
into  Cavan,  and — anxiously  looked  for  by  Ormond, 
O  Farrell.andthe  southern  corps  and  army — lingered 
till  the  6th  of  November  (St.  Leonard's  feast),  when 
he  died  at  Clough  Oughter  Castle— then  the  seat  of 
Maelmorra  O'lleilly,  and  situated  on  a  rock  in  Lough 
Oughter,  some  six  miles  west  of  C-nvan.  He  was 


buried,  says  Carte,  in  Cavan  Abbey  ;  but  report  saj« 
his  sepulchre  was  concealed,  lest  it  should  be  violated 
by  the  English.  The  news  of  his  death  reached  Or 
mond's  camp  when  the  duke  was  preparing  to  fight 
Cromwell — when  Owen's  genius  and  soldiers  were 
most  needed.  All  writers  (even  to  the  sceptical  Dr. 
O'Conor,  of  Stowe)  admit  that,  had  Owen  lived,  he 
would  have  saved  Ireland.  His  gallantry,  his  influ- 
ence, Ids  genius,  his  soldiers,  all  combine  to  render  it 
probable.  The  rashness  with  which  the  stout  bishop, 
Ebher  Mac  Mahon,  led  4,000  of  Owen's  veterans  to 
death  at  Letterkenny,  the  year  after  ;  and  the  way  in 
which  Ormoud  frittered  away  the  strength  of  O'Far- 
rel's  division  (though  1,200  of  them  slew  2,000  of 
Cromwell's  men  in  the  breach  at  Clonmel) — and  the 
utter  prostration  which  followed,  showed  Ireland  how 
great  was  her  loss  when  Owen  died. 

"O'Farrell,  Red  Hugh  O'Neill,  and  Mac  Mahon 
were  Ulster  generals ;  Audley,  Lord  Castlehaven, 
and  Preston  commanded  in  the  south  and  east ;  the 
Marquis  of  Clanricarde  was  president  of  Connaught." 


XIII. 
A  RALLY  FOR  IRELAND. — PAGE  515. 

There  is  no  period  in  Irish,  or  in  English  History, 
which  has  been  so  much  misrepresented,  or  of  which 
so  utterly  discordant  opinions  are  still  entertained, 
as  the  Revolution  of  1688-91.  The  English  history 
of  that  revolution  has  been  elaborately  sifted,  and  its 
hidden  causes  successively  dragged  to  light  by  men 
of  remarkable  eminence  in  literature  and  in  politics. 
It  is  sufficient  to  mention,  in  England,  Mr.  Fox,  Sir 
James  Mackintosh,  Mr.  Hallain,  Dr.  Liugard,  and  Mr. 
Ward  ; — in  France,  M.  Thierry  (Historical  Essays. 
No.  VI.),  M.  Carrel,  and  M.  De  Mazire-and  among 
Irishmen,  Mr.  W.  Wallace  (Continuation  of  Mackin- 
tosh's History),  and  Mr.  Torreus  Mac  Cullagh  (articles 
in  the  "  North  of  England  Magazine"  for  1842,  and  in 
the  "  Dublin  Magazine"  for  1843).  A  minute  study  of 
some,  at  least,  of  these  writers — Mr.  Wallace's  hi-story 
is,  perhaps,  on  the  whole,  the  fairest  and  most  com 
prehensive — is  indispensable  to  a  correct  understand- 
ing of  the  Irish  question. 

In  the  "Dublin  Magazine"  for  1843,  January  to 
April,  Mr.  Davis  devoted  a  series  of  papers  to  a  critical 
examination  of  some  of  the  Irish  authorities  on  this 
subject,  principally  in  regard  to  the  Irish  Parliament 
of  1689.  His  aim  was  to  vindicate  the  character  of 
that  legislature,  and  to  refute  some  of  the  most  glar 
ing  falsehoods  which  had  hitherto,  by  dint  of  impu- 
dent reassert'ion,  passed  almost  unquestioned  by 
Irishmen  of  every  shade  of  political  opinion.  False- 
hoods of  a  more  injurious  tendency  have  never  been 
current  among  a  people ;  and  the  effort  to  expose 
them  was  with  Mr.  Davis  a  labor  of  zeal  and  love ; 
for  he  knew  well  how  much  of  the  religious  di- 
sion  which  has  been,  and  in  the  ruin  of  Ire-land,  took 
its  rise  from,  and  stands  rooted  in  erroneous  conrep 
lions  of  that  time.  To  these  papers  tl-o  reader  if 


APPENDIX. 


referred,  who  is  anxious  to  form  an  accurate,  and 
withal  a  national  judgment  of  the  cardinal  crisis  in 
Irish  History. 

How  high  the  hopes  of  Ireland  were  at  the  com- 
mencement of  this  struggle,  and  how  she  cherished 
afterwards  the  memories  and  hopes  bequeathed  from 
ii,  is  abundantly  illustrated  by  the  Jacobite  Relics  in 
Mr.  Hardman's  Irish  Minstrelsy,  and  in  the  more 
recent  collection  of  Mr.  Daly. 


XIV. 

BALLADS  AJ.JD  SONGS  OP  THE  BRIGADE. 

PP.  518-524. 

ou  w^siderabie  a  space  in  thia  volume  is  occupied 
by  poems,  founded  on  the  adventures  and  services  of 
khe  Irish  Brigade,  that  it  seemed  right  to  include 
here  the  following  sketch,  written  by  Mr.  Davis  in 
the  year  1844 : 

HISTORICAL   SKETCH   OF   THE   IKISfl   BRIGADE. 

INTRODUCTION. 

The  foreign  military  achievements  of  the  Irish 
began  on  their  own  account.  They  conquered  and 
colonized  Scotland,  frequently  overrun  England  dur- 
ing and  after  the  Roman  dominion  there,  and  more 
than  once  penetrated  into  Gaul.  During  the  time  of 
the  Danish  invasion  they  had  enough  to  do  at  home. 
The  progress  of  the  English  conquest  brought  them 
again  to  battle  on  foreign  ground.  It  is  a  melan- 
choly fact,  that  in  the  brigades  wherewith  Edward  I. 
ravaged  Scotland,  there  were  numbers  of  Irish  and 
Welsh.  Yet  Scotland  may  be  con  tent ;  Wales  and 
Ireland  suffered  from  the  same  baseness.  The  sacred 
heights  of  Snowdon  (the  Parnassus  of  Wales)  were 
first  forced  by  Gascon  mountaineers,  whose  indepen- 
dence had  perished  ;  and  the  Scotch  did  no  small 
share  of  blood-work  for  England  here,  from  the  time 
of  Monro's  defeats  in  the  Seventeenth  Century,  to 
the  Fencible  victories  over  drunken  peasants  in  1798. 

In  these  levies  of  Edward  I.,  as  in  those  of  his  son. 
were  numbers  of  native  Irish.  The  Connaught  clans 
in  particular  seem  to  have  served  these  Plantagenets. 

From  Edward  Bruce's  invasion,  the  English  control 
was  so  broken  that  the  Irish  clans  ceased  to  serve  al- 
together, and,  indeed,  shortly  after  made  many  of  the 
Anglo-Irish  pay  them  tribute.  But  the  lords  of  the 
Pale  took  an  active  and  prominent  part  in  the  wars 
of  the  Roses  ;  and  their  vassals  shared  the  victories, 
the  defeats,  and  the  carnage  of  the  time. 

In  the  Continental  wars  of  Edward  III.  and  Henry 
V.,  the  Norman-Irish  served  with  much  distinction. 

Henry  VIII.  demanded  of  the  Irish  government 
£,000  men,  1,000  of  whom  were,  if  possible,  to  be 
gunners — /:.  e.,  armed  with  matclilocks.  The  services 
of  these  Irish  during  the  short  war  in  France,  and 
especially  at  the  siege  of  Boulogne,  are  well  known. 

At  the  submission  of  Ireland  in  1003,  O'Sullivan 
Hearra,  and  some  others  excepted  from  the  amnesty, 


took  service  and  obtained  high  rank  in  Spain  :  and 
after  the  flight  of  O'Neill  and  O'Donnell  in  1607, 
numbers  of  Irish  crowded  into  all  the  Continental  ser- 
vices. We  find  them  holding  commissions  in  Spain, 
France,  Austria,  and  Italy. 

Scattered  among  "  Strafford's  Letters,"  various  in- 
dications are  discoverable  of  the  estimation  in  which 
the  Irish  were  held  as  soldiers  in  foreign  services 
during  the  early  part  of  the  seventeenth  century. 
The  Spanish  government,  in  particular,  seems  to  have 
been  extremely  desirous  of  enlisting  in  Ireland,  their 
own  troops  at  that  time  being  equal,  if  not  superior, 
to  any  in  the  world,  especially  their  infantry. 

Nor  were  the  Irish  troops  less  active  for  the  English 
king.  Strafford  had  increased  the  Irish  army.  These- 
he  paid  regularly,  clothed  well,  and  frequently  "  drew 
out  in  large  bodies."  He  meant  to  oppress,  but  dis- 
cipline is  a  precious  thing,  no  matter  who  teaches  it 
— a  Straftbrd  or  a  Wellington  ;  and  during  the  wars 
which  followed  1641,  some  of  these  troops  he  had 
raised  served  Ireland.  In  16u9,  when  the  first  row 
with  the  Scotch  took  place,  Wentworth  was  able  to 
send  a  garrison  of  500  Irish  to  Carlisle,  and  other 
forces  to  assist  Charles.  And  the  victories  of  Mon- 
trose  were  owing  to  the  valor  and  discipline  of  the 
Irish  auxiliaries  under  Colkitto  (left  handed)  Alister 
Mac  Donnell. 

Many  of  the  Irish  who  had  lost  their  fortunes  by 
the  Cromwelliau  wars,  served  on  the  Continent. 

Tyrconuell  increased  the  Irish  army,  but  with  lees 
judgment  than  Strafford.  Indeed,  numbers  of  his 
regiments  were  ill-officered  mobs,  and,  when  real 
work  began  in  1689,  were  disbanded  as  having 
neither  arms  nor  discipline.  His  sending  of  the  Irish 
troops  to  England  hastened  the  Revolution  by  excit- 
ing jealousy,  and  they  were  too  mere  a  handful  to 
resist.  They  were  forced  to  enter  the  service  of 
German  princes,  especially  the  Prussian. 

[An  account  of  the  formation  of  the  Irish  Brigade, 
with  the  names  and  numbers  of  the  regiments,  etc., 
is  omitted  here,  as  more  accurate  details  will  be  found 
in  The  History  of  the  Irish  Brigade,  which  is  to 
appear  in  the  Library  of  Ireland.} 

SERVICES   OF   THE   IRISH   BRIGADE. 

The  year  before  the  English  Revolution  of  88, 
William  effected  the  league  of  Augsburg,  and  com- 
bined Spain,  Italy,  Holland,  and  the  empire,  against 
France  ;  but  except  some  sieges  of  imperial  towns, 
the  war  made  no  great  progress  till  1690.  In  that 
year  France  blazed  out  ruin  on  all  sides.  The  Pahi- 
tinate  was  overrun  and  devastated.  The  defeat  of 
Humieres  at  Valcourt  was  overweighed  by  Lux  em- 
burgh's  great  victory  over  Prince  Waldech  at  Fleurus. 

But,  as  yet,  no  Irish  troops  served  north  of  the 
Alps.  It  was  otherwise  in  Italy. 

The  Duke  of  Savoy  having  joined  the  Allies,  Marshal 
Catinat  entered  his  territories  at  the  head  of  18.000 
men.  Mountcashel's  brigade,  which  landed  in  May 
and  had  seen  service,  formed  one-third  of  this  corps. 
Catinat,  a  disciple  of  Tureune,  relied  on  his  infantry-; 
nor  did  he  err  in  this  instance.  On  the  8th  of  August, 
1 690.  he  met  the  Duke  of  Savoy  and  Prince  Eugene  ai 


I'.ALLADS   AND  SONGS   OF  THE   BRIGADE 


547 


Suiil'ardo,  near  Salucco.  The  buttle  began  by  a 
feigned  attack  on  the  Allies'  right  wing.  The  real 
attack  was  made  by  ten  battalions  of  infantry,  who 
ciossed  some  marshes  heretofore  deemed  impassable, 
turned  the  left  wing  commanded  by  Prince  Eugene, 
(I  rove  it  in  on  the  centre,  and  totally  routed  the  enemy. 
The  Irish  troops  ("bog-trotters,"  the  "  Timi-s"  calls  us 
now)  proved  that  there  are  more  qualities  in  a  soldier 
than  the  light  step  and  hardy  frame  which  the  Irish 
bog  gives  to  its  inhabitants. 

But  the  gallant  Mountcashel  received  a  wound,  of 
which  he  died  soon  after  at  Bareges. 

This  same  brigade  continued  to  serve  under  Cati- 
nat  throughout  the  Italian  campaigns  of  '91,  '02,  and 
'93. 

The  principal  action  of  this  last  year  was  at  Mar- 
^iglia,  on  the  4th  October.  It  was  not  materially 
different  in  tactic  from  Staffardo.  Catinat,  cannonad- 
ing the  Allies  from  a  height,  made  a  feigned  attack 
in  the  centre,  while  his  right  wing  lapped  round 
Savoy's  left,  tumbled  it  in,  and  routed  the  army  with 
a  loss  of  8,000,  including  Duke  Schomberg,  son  to 
him  who  died  at  the  Boyne.  On  this  day,  too,  the 
M  mister  soldiers  had  their  full  share  of  the  laurels. 

They  continued  to  serve  during  the  whole  of  this 
war  against  Savoy  ;  and  when,  in  1696,  the  duke 
changed  sides,  and,  uniting  his  forces  with  Catinat's, 
laid  siege  to  Valenza  in  North  Italy,  the  Irish  dis- 
tinguished themselves  again.  No  less  than  six  Irish 
egiments  were  at  this  siege. 

While  these  campaigns  were  going  on  in  Italy,  the 
arrison  of  Limerick  landed  in  France,  and  the  second 
irish  Brigade  was  formed. 

The  Flanders  campaign  of  '91  hardly  went  beyond 
skirmishes. 

Louis  opened  1692  by  besieging  Namur  at  the 
head  of  120,000  men,  including  the  bulk  of  the  Irish 
Brigade.  Luxemburgh  was  the  actual  commander, 
and  Vauban  the  engineer.  Namur,  one  of  the  great- 
est fortresses  of  Flanders,  was  defended  by  Coehorn, 
the  ail-but  equal  of  Vauban  ;  and  William  advanced 
10  its  relief  at  the  head  of  100,000  men,  —  illustrious 
players  of  that  fearful  game.  But  French  and  Irish 
valor,  pioneered  by  Vauban  and  mauo3uvred  by  Lux- 
emburgh,  prevailed.  In  seven  days  Namur  was 
taken,  and  shortly  after  the  citadel  surrendered, 
though  within  shot  of  William's  camp. 

Iritis  returned  to  Versailles,  and  Luxemburgh  con- 
tinued his  progress. 

On  the  24th  of  July,  1692,  William  attempted  to 
Bteal  a  victory  from  the  marshal  who  had  so  repeat- 
edly beaten  him.  Having  forced  a  spy  to  persuade 
Luxemburgh  that  the  Allies  meant  only  to  forage, 
he  made  an  attack  on  the  French  camp,  then 
placed  between  Steenkirk  and  Enghien.  Wirtemburg 
and  Mackay  had  actually  penetrated  the  French 
camp  ere  Luxemburgh  mounted  his  horse.  But  so 
rapid  were  his  movements,  so  skilfully  did  he  divide 
the  Allies  and  crush  Wirtemburg  ere  Count,  Solme* 
could  help  him,  that  the  enemy  was  driven  oti'  with 
the  loss  of  :!,000  men,  and  many  colors  anil  can- 


who  commanded  the  Brigade  that  day, 


was  publicly  thanked  for  his  conduct.     In  Maich. 
1693,  he  was  made  a  Mareschal  do  Camp. 

But  his  proud  career  was  drawing  to  a  close.  He 
was  slain  on  the  29th  July,  101)3,  at  Lauden,  heading 
his  countrymen  in  the  van  of  victory,  King  William 
flying.  He  could  not  have  died  better.  His  lant 
thoughts  were  for  his  country.  As  he  lay  on  the 
field  unhelmed  and  dying,  he  put  his  hand  to  his 
breast.  When  he  took  it  away,  it  was  full  of  his  best 
blood.  Looking  at  it  sadly  with  an  eye  in  which 
victory  shone  a  moment  before,  he  said  faintly,  "  Oh  ' 
that  this  were  for  Ireland."  He  said  no  more  ;  and 
history  records  no  nobler  saying,  nor  any  more  be- 
coming death.1 

It  is  needless  to  follow  out  the  details  of  the  Italian 
and  Flanders  campaigns.  Suffice,  that  bodies  of  the 
Irish  troops  served  in  each  of  the  great  armies,  and 
maintained  their  position  in  the  French  ranks  during 
years  of  hard  and  incessant  war. 

James  II.  died  at  St.  Germains  on  the  16th  Septem- 
ber, 1701,  and  was  buried  in  the  church  of  the  Eng' 
lish  Benedictines  in  Paris.  But  his  death  did  not 
affect  the  Brigade.  Louis  immediately  acknowledged 
his  son  James  III.,  and  the  Brigade,  upon  which  the 
king's  hopes  of  restoration  lay,  was  continued. 

In  1701,  Sheldon's  cavalry,  then  serving  under 
Catinat  in  Italy,  had  an  engagement  with  the  cavalry 
corps  under  the  famous  Count  Merci,  and  handled 
them  so  roughly  that  Sheldon  was  made  a  lieutet nut- 
general  of  France,  and  the  supernumeraries  of  his 
corps  were  put  on  full  pay. 

In  January,  1702,  occurred  the  famous  rescue  of 
Cremona.  Villeroy  succeeded  Catinat  in  August, 
1701,  and  having,  with  his  usual  rashness,  attacked 
Eugene's  camp  at  Chiari,  he  was  defeated.  Both 
parties  retired  early  to  winter-quarters,  Eugene  en- 
camping so  as  to  blockade  Mantua.  While  thus 
placed,  he  opened  an  intrigue  with  one  Cassoli,  a  priest 
of  Cremona,  where  Villeroy  had  his  headquarters. 
An  old  aqueduct  passed  under  Cassoli's  house,  and  he 
had  it  cleared  of  mud  and  weeds  by  the  authorities, 
under  pretence  that  his  house  was  injured  for  want 
of  drainage.  Having  opened  this  way,  he  got  several 
of  Eugene's  grenadiers  into  the  town  disguised,  and 
now  at  the  end  of  January  all  was  ready. 

Cremona  lies  on  the  left  bank  of  the  river  Po.4  It 
was  then  five  miles  round,  was  guarded  by  a  strong 
castle  and  by  an  enceinte,  or  continued  fortification 
all  around  it,  pierced  by  five  gates.  One  of  these 
gates  led  almost  directly  to  the  bridge  over  the  Po. 
This  bridge  was  fortified  by  a  redoubt. 

Eugene's  design  was  to  surprise  the  town  at  night. 
He  meant  to  penetrate  on  two  sides,  south  and  north 
Prince  Charles  of  Vaudemont  crossed  the  Po  at 
Kin-nzola,  and  marching  up  the  right  bank  with 


I  According  to  Mr.  O'Conor  (Military  History  <\f  t>,t 
A'lttinn,  p.  •-'•J-K  "there  wiw  no  Irish  corps  in  the  army  of  Lax- 
riiiliiirub.  nnil  SnrMleld  Ml  lending  on  a  clmrL-i'  of  grangers."  Bn* 
this  only  ninkcx  his  death,  and  the  rocruts  which  accompanied  i'_ 
tin-  iiMrr  Htffcttii|j. — ED. 

.'  In  talking  nl'  ritcht  or  left  bunks  or  rivers,  you  are  sup|>»m^  !  to 
In-  looking  down  tin-  xtreutn.  Thus.  Conoaughl  is  on  tin-  riylii 
bank  of  thu  Shannon  ;  Ix>  luster  and  M:i:i>t«-r  on  its  left  bank. 


548 


APPENDIX. 


2,500  foot  und  500  horse,  was  to  assault  the  bridge 
and  gate  of  the  Po  as  soon  as  Eugene  had  entered 
on  the  north.  As  this  northern  attack  was  more 
complicated,  and  as  it  succeeded,  it  may  be  best  de- 
scribed in  the  narrative  of  events. 

On  the  31st  of  January,  Eugene  crossed  the  Oglio 
at  Ustiano,  and  approached  the  north  of  the  town. 
Marshal  Villeroy  had  that  night  returned  from  a  war- 
council  at  Milan. 

At  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  of  the  1st  of  Feb- 
ruary, the  allies  closed  in  on  the  town  in  the  follow- 
ing order :  1,100  men  under  Count  Kufstein  entered 
by  the  aqueduct ;  300  men  were  led  to  the  gate  of 
St.  Margaret's,  which  had  been  walled  up,  and  im- 
mediately commenced  removing  the  wall  from  it ; 
meantime,  the  other  troops,  under  Kufstein,  pushed 
on,  and  secured  the  ramparts  to  some  distance,  and 
as  soon  as  the  gate  was  cleared,  a  vanguard  of 
horse,  under  Count  Merci,  dashed  through  the  town. 
Eugene,  Staremberg,  and  Prince  Commerci  followed 
with  7,000  horse  and  foot.  Patrols  of  cavalry  rode 
the  streets  ;  Staremberg  seized  the  great  square  ;  the 
barracks  of  four  regiments  were  surrounded,  and  the 
men  cut  down  as  they  appeared. 

Marshal  Villeroy,  hearing  the  tumult,  hastily 
burned  his  papers,  and  rode  out,  attended  only  by  a 
page.  He  was  quickly  snapped  up  by  a  party  of 
Eugene's  cavalry,  commanded  by  an  Irishman  named 
MacDonnell.  Villeroy,  seeing  himself  in  the  hands 
of  a  soldier  of  fortune,  hoped  to  escape  by  bribery. 
He  made  offer  after  offer.  A  thousand  pistoles  and  a 
regiment  of  horse  were  refused  by  this  poor  Irish 
captain  ;  and  Villeroy  rode  out  of  the  town  with  his 
captor. 

The  Marquis  of  Mongon,  General  Crenant,  and 
other  officers,  shared  the  same  fate  ;  and  Eugene  as- 
sembled the  town  council  to  take  an  oath  of  alle- 
giance, and  supply  him  with  14,000  rations.  All 
seemed  lost. 

All  was  not  lost.  The  Po  gate  was  held  by  35 
Irishmen,  and  to  Merci's  charge  and  shout  they 
answered  with  a  fire  that  forced  their  assailant  to 
pass  on  to  the  rampart,  where  he  seized  a  battery. 
This  unexpected  and  almost  rash  resistance  was  the 
very  turning  point  of  the  attack.  Had  Merci  got 
this  gate,  he  had  only  to  ride  on  and  open  the  bridge 
to  Prince  Vaudemont.  The  entry  of  3,000  men 
more,  and  on  that  side,  would  have  soon  ended  the 
contest. 

Not  far  from  this  same  gate  of  the  Po  were  the 
quarters  of  two  Irish  regiments,  Dillon  (one  of 
Mountcashel's  old  brigade)  and  Burke  (the  Athloue 
regiment.)  Dillon's  regiment  was,  in  Colonel  Lacy's 
absence,  commanded  by  Major  Mahony.  He  had 
ordered  his  regiment  to  assemble  for  exercise  at  day- 
break, and  lay  down.  He  was  woke  by  the  noise  of 
the  Imperial  Cuirassiers  passing  his  lodgings.  He 
jumped  up,  and  finding  how  things  were,  got  off  to 
the  two  corps  and  found  them  turning  out  in  their 
shirts  to  check  the  Imperialists,  who  swarmed  round 
their  quarters. 

He  had  just  got  his  men  together  when  General 
D'Arenes  came  up,  put  himself  at  the  head  of  these 


regiments,  who  had  nothing  but  their  musket*, 
shirts,  and  cartouches  about  them.  He  instantly 
led  them  against  Merci's  force,  and,  aftei  a  sharp 
struggle,  drove  them  from  the  ramparts,  killing 
large  numbers,  and  taking  many  prisoners,  amongsi 
others  MacDonnell,  who  returned  to  fight  after  secur- 
ing Villeroy. 

In  the  mean  time,  Estrague's  regiment  had  made  a 
post  of  a  few  houses  in  the  great  square ;  Count 
Revel  had  given  the  word,  "  French  to  the  ram- 
parts," and  retook  All-Saints'  Gate,  while  M.  Prasliu 
made  head  against  the  Imperial  Cavalry  patrols. 
But  when  Revel  attempted  to  push  further  round 
the  ramparts,  and  regain  St.  Margaret's  Gate,  he  was 
repulsed  with  heavy  loss,  and  D'Arenes,  who  seems 
to  have  been  everywhere,  was  wounded. 

It  was  now  ten  o'clock  in  the  day,  and  Mahony 
had  received  orders  to  fight  his  way  from  the  Po  to 
the  Mantua  Gate,  leaving  a  detachment  to  guard  the 
rampart  from  which  he  had  driven  Merci.  lie 
pushed  on,  driving  the  enemy's  infantry  before  him, 
but  suffering  much  from  their  fire,  when  Baron  Frei- 
berg, at  the  head  of  a  regiment  of  Imperial  Cuiras- 
siers, burst  into  Dillon's  regiment.  For  a  while 
their  case  seemed  desperate ;  but,  almost  naked  us 
they  were,  they  grappled  with  their  foes.  The  linen 
shirt  and  the  steel  cuirass — the  naked  footman,  and 
the  harnessed  cavalier  met,  and  the  conflict  was 
desperate  and  doubtful.  Just  at  this  moment  Ma- 
houy  grasped  the  bridle  of  Freiberg's  horse,  au-1  bid 
him  ask  quarter.  "  No  quarter  to-day,"  said  Frei- 
berg, dashing  his  spurs  into  his  horse.  He  was  m 
stautly  shot.  The  cuirassiers  saw  and  paused  ;  the 
Irish  shouted  and  slashed  at  them.  The  volley  came 
better,  and  the  sabres  wavered.  Few  of  the  cuiras- 
siers lived  to  tiy  ;  but  all  who  survived  did  fly  ;  and 
there  stood  those  glorious  fellows  in  th«.  wintry 
streets,  bloody,  triumphant,  half-naked.  Bourke  lost 
seven  officers  and  forty-two  soldiers  killed,  and  nine 
officers  and  fifty  soldiers  wounded.  Dillon  had  one 
officer  and  forty-nine  soldiers  killed,  and  twelve 
officers  and  seventy-nine  soldiers  wounded. 

But  what  matter  for  death  or  wounds!  Cremona 
is  saved.  Eugene  waited  long  for  Vaudemont,  but 
the  French,  guarded  from  Merci's  attack  by  the  Irish 
picket  of  D5,  had  ample  time  to  evacuate  the  redoubt, 
and  ruin  the  bridge  of  boats. 

On  hearing  of  Freiberg's  death,  Eugene  made  an 
effort  to  keep  the  town  by  frightening  the  council. 
On  hearing  of  the  destruction  of  the  bridge  he  de- 
spaired, and  effected  his  retreat  with  consummate 
skill,  retaining  Villeroy  and  100  other  officers  pris- 
oners. 

Europe  rang  with  applause.  Mr.  Forman  men- 
tions what  we  think  a  very  doubtful  saying  of  King 
William's  about  this  event.  There  is  no  such  ques- 
tion as  to  King  Louis.  He  sent  his  public  and  for- 
mal thanks  to  them,  and  raised  their  pay  forthwith 
We  would  not  like  to  meet  the  Irishman  who 
knowing  these  facts,  would  pass  the  north  of  Itah;. 
and  not  track  the  steps  of  the  Irish  regimenta 
through  the  streets  and  gates  .and  ramparts  of  Cre 
mona. 


BALLADS   AND   SONGS  OF  THE  BRIGADE. 


In  the  campaigns  of  1703,  the  Irish  distinguished 
themselves  under  Vendome  in  Italy,  at  Vittoria,  Luz- 
zara,  Cassano,  and  Calcinate,  and  still  more  on  the 
Rhine.  When  Villars  won  the  battle  of  Freidlin- 
gen,  the  Irish  had  their  share  of  the  glory.  At 
Spires,  when  Tallurd  defeated  the  Germans,  they  had 
more.  Tallard  had  surprised  the  enemy,  but  their 
commander,  the  Prince  of  Hesse,  rallied  his  men, 
and,  although  he  had  three  horses  shot  under  him.  he 
repelled  the  attack,  and  was  getting  his  troops  well 
into  hand.  At  this  crisis  Nugent's  regiment  of  horse 
was  ordered  to  charge  a  corps  of  German  cuirassiers, 
riiej  did  so  effectually.  The  German  cavalry  was 
cut  up  ;  the  French  infantry,  thus  covered,  returned 
to  their  work,  and  Hesse  was  finally  defeated  with 
immense  loss. 

And  now  the  fortunes  of  France  began  to  waver, 
but  the  valor  of  the  Brigade  did  not  change. 

It  is  impossible,  in  our  space,  to  do  more  than 
(glance  at  the  battles  in  which  they  won  fame  amid 
general  defeat. 

At  the  battle  of  Hochstet,  or  Blenheim,  in  1704, 
Marshal  Tallard  was  defeated  and  taken  prisoner  by 
Maryborough  and  Eugene.  The  French  and  Bava- 
rians lost  10,000  killed,  13,000  prisoners,  and  90 
pieces  of  cannon.  Yet,  amid  this  monstrous  disaster, 
Clare's  dragoons  were  victorious  over  a  portion  of 
Eugene's  famous  cavalry,  and  took  two  standards. 
And  in  the  battle  of  liamillies,  in  1700,  where  Ville- 
roy  was  utterly  routed,  Clare's  dragoons  attempted 
to  cover  the  wreck  of  the  retreating  French,  broke 
through  an  English  regiment,  and  followed  them  : 
Into  the  thronging  van  of  the  Allies.  Mr.  Forman 
«ates  that  they  were  generously  assisted  out  of  this 
predicament  by  an  Italian  regiment,  and  succeeded  in 
carrying  off  the  English  colors  they  had  taken. 

At  the  sad  days  of  Oudenarde  and  Malplaquet, 
gome  of  them  were  also  present ;  but  to  the  victories 
which  brightened  this  time,  so  dark  to  France,  the 
Brigade  contributed  materially.  At  the  battle  of  Al- 
man/a  (,13th  March,  1707),  several  Irish  regiments 
served  under  Berwick.  In  the  early  part  of  the  day 
the  Portuguese  and  Spanish  auxiliaries  of  England 
were  broken,  but  the  English  and  Dutch  fought  suc- 
cessfully for  a  long  time  ;  nor  was  it  till  repeatedly 
charged  by  the  elite  of  Berwick's  army,  including 
the  Irish,  that  they  were  forced  to  retreat :  3,000 
killed,  10,000  prisoners,  and  120  standards  attested 
he  magnitude  of  the  victory.  It  put  King  Philip  on 
he  throne  of  Spain.  In  the  siege  of  Barcelona,  Dil- 
lon's regiment t  fought  with  great  effect.  In  their 
ranks  was  a  boy  of  twelve  years  old  ;  lie  was  the  son 
of  aGalway  gentleman,  Mr  Lally,  or  O'Lally,  of  Tul- 
loch  na  Duly,  and  his  uncle  had  sat  in  James's  par- 
liament of  lOy'J.  This  boy,  so  early  trained,  was 
afterwards  the  famous  Count  Lally  de  Tollendal, 
whose  services  in  every  part  of  the  globe  make  his 
execution  a  stain  uj>on  the  honor  as  well  as  upon  the 
justice  of  Louis  XVI.  And  when  Villars  swept  off 
he  whole  of  Albemarle's  battalions  at  Denain,  in 
1712,  the  Irish  were  in  his  van. 

The  treaty  of  Utrecht,  and  the  dismissal  of  Marl- 
borough  put  an  end  to  the  war  in  Flanders,  but  still 


many  of  the  Irish  continued  to  serve  in  Italy  and 
Germany,  and  thus  fought  at  Parma,  Guastalla,  and 
Philipsburg.  In  the  next  war  their  great  and  pecu 
liar  achievement  was  at  the  battle  of  Fontenoy. 

Louis  in  person  had  laid  siege  to  Tournay  :  Marshal 
Saxe  was  the  actual  commander,  and  had  under  him 
79,000  men.  The  Duke  of  Cumberland  advanced  at 
the  head  of  55,000  men,  chiefly  English  and  Dutch, 
to  relieve  the  town.  At  the  duke's  approach,  Saxe 
and  the  King  advanced  a  few  miles  from  Tournay 
with  45,000  men,  leaving  18,000  fto  continue  the 
siege,  and  6,000  to  guard  the  Scheld.  Saxe  posted 
his  army  along  a  range  of  slopes  thus :  his  centre  was 
on  the  village  of  Fontenoy,  his  left  stretched  off 
through  the  wood  of  Barri,  his  right  reached  to  the 
town  of  St.  Antoine,  close  to  the  Scheld.  He  fortified 
his  right  and  centre  by  the  villages  of  Fontenoy  and 
St.  Antoine,  and  redoubts  near  them.  His  extreme 
left  was  also  strengthened  by  a  redoubt  in  the  wood 
of  Barri,  but  his  left  centre,  between  the  wood  and 
the  village  of  Fontenoy,  was  not  guarded  by  any 
thing  save  slight  lines.  Cumberland  had  the  Dutch, 
under  Wakleck,  on  his  left,  and  twice  they  attempted 
to  carry  St.  Antoiue,  but  were  repelled  with  heavy 
loss.  The  same  fate  attended  the  English  in  the 
centre,  who  thrice  forced  their  way  to  Fontenoy,  but 
returned  fewer  and  sadder  men.  Ingoldsby  was 
then  ordered  to  attack  the  wood  of  Barri  with  Cum- 
berland's right.  He  did  so,  and  broke  into  the  wood, 
when  the  artillery  of  the  redoubt  suddenly  opened 
on  him,  which,  assisted  by  a  constant  fire  from  the 
French  tirailleurs  (light  infantry),  drove  him  back. 

The  duke  resolved  to  make  one  great  and  final 
effort.  He  selected  his  best  regiments,  veteran  Eng- 
lish corps,  and  formed  them  into  a  single  column 
of  6,000  men.  At  its  head  were  six  cannon,  and  as 
many  more  on  the  flanks,  which  did  good  service. 
Lord  John  Hay  commanded  this  great  mass. 

Every  thing  being  now  ready,  the  column  advanced 
slowly  and  evenly,  as  if  on  the  parade-ground.  It 
mounted  the  slojxj  of  Saxe's  position,  and  pressed  on 
between  the  woods  of  Barri  and  the  village  of  Fonte- 
noy. In  doing  so,  it  was  exposed  to  a  cruel  fire  of 
artillery  and  sharp-shooters  ;  but  it  stood  the  storm, 
and  got  behind  Fontenoy.  The  moment  the  object 
of  the  column  was  seen,  the  French  troops  were 
hurried  in  upon  them.  The  cavalry  charged  ;  but 
the  English  hardly  paused  to  offer  the  raised  bayonet, 
and  then  poured  in  a  fatal  lire.  They  disdained  to  rush 
at  the  picked  infantry  of  France.  On  they  went  tiD 
within  a  short  distance,  and  then  threw  in  their  ball* 
with  great  precision,  the  olH<vrs  actually  laying  thei/ 
canes  along  the  muskets,  to  make  the  men  fire  low 
Mass  after  mass  of  infantry  was  broken,  and  on  went 
the  column,  reduced,  but  still  apparently  invincible. 
Due  Richelieu  had  four  cannon  hurried  to  the  front, 
and  he  literally  battered  the  head  of  the  column, 
while  the  household  cavalry  surrounded  them,  and, 
in  repeated  charges,  wore  down  their  strength,  but 
these  French  were  fearful  sufferers.  Louis  was>  almut 
to  leave  the  field.  In  this  juncture  Saxe  ordered  up 
his  lo«t  reserve — the  Irish  Brigade.  It  om.sisted.  that 
day.  of  the  regiments  of  Clare,  Lally,  Dillon,  Berwick, 


APPENDIX. 


Roth,  and  Buckley,  with  Fitzjaines's  horse,  O'Brien. 
Lord  Clare  was  in  command.  Aided  by  the  French 
regiments  of  Normandy  and  Vaisseany,  they  were  or- 
dered to  charge  upon  the  flank  of  the  English  with 
fixed  bayonets,  without  firing.  Upon  the  approach 
of  this  splendid  body  of  men,  the  English  were 
halted  on  the  slope  of  a  hill,  and  up  that  slope  the 
Brigade  rushed  rapidly  and  in  fine  order.  "  They 
were  led  to  immediate  action,  and  the  stimulating 
cry  of  'Cuimhnigidk  ar  Luimneac  agus  ar  fheile  na 
Sncsanach'1  was  re-echoed  from  man  to  man.  The 
fortune  of  the  field  was  no  longer  doubtful,  and 
victory  the  most  decisive  crowned  the  arms  of 
France." 

The  English  were  weary  with  a  long  day's  fight- 
Ing,  cut  up  by  cannon,  charge,  and  musketry,  and 
dispirited  by  the  appearance  of  the  Brigade — fresh, 
and  consulting  of  young  men  in  high  spirits  and 
discipline-— still  they  gave  their  fire  well  and  fatally: 
but  they  vrere  literally  stunned  by  the  shout  and 
shattered  by  the  Irish  charge.  They  broke  before 
the  Iruli  Iwyonets,  and  tumbled  down  the  far  side 


4%  j»nt>w  L'tnerick  and  British  fnith. 


of  the  hill,  disorganized,  hopeless,  and  falling  by 
hundreds.  The  Irish  troops  did  not  pursue  them 
far :  the  French  cavalry  and  light  troops  pressed  on 
till  the  relics  of  the  column  were  succored  by  some 
English  cavalry,  and  got  within  the  batteries  of  tlu-ir 
camp.  The  victory  was  bloody  and  complete.  Louis 
is  said  to  have  ridden  down  to  the  Irish  bivouac,  and 
personally  thanked  them  ;  and  George  II.,  on  hearing 
it,  uttered  that  memorable  imprecation  on  the  Penal 
Code,  "  Cursed  be  the  laws  which  deprived  me  of 
such  subjects."  The  one  English  volley,  and  the 
short  struggle  on  the  crest  of  the  hill,  cost  the  Irish 
dear.  One-fourth  of  the  officers,  including  Colonel 
Dillon,  were  killed,  and  one-third  of  the  men. 

Their  history,  after  Fontenoy,  may  be  easily  given. 
In  1747  they  carried  the  village  of  Laufeld,  after 
three  attacks,  in  which  another  Colonel  Dillon,  130 
other  officers,  and  1,600  men  were  killed ;  and  in 
1751  they  were  at  Maestricht.  Lally's  regiment 
served  in  India,  and  the  other  regiments  in  Germany, 
during  the  war  from  175G  to  1762  ;  and  during  the 
American  war,  they  fought  in  the  French  West  India 
Islands. 

At  this  time  they  were  greatly  reduced,  and  at  the 
Revolution  completely  broken  up. 


THE  POEMS  OF  J.  J.  CALLANAN, 


THE   RECLUSE  OF  INCHIDONY. 


(Ir  will  be  at  once  se«n  that  these  Poems  have  all  heen  written 
long  before  the  passing  of  the  Relief  Bill.  To  none  more  than  to 
the  writer  could  the  pleasing  prospects  opened  up  by  the  enact- 
ment of  this  healing  measure  be  more  truly  or  sincerely  gratifying. 
To  behold  the  unworthy  fetters  of  a  noble  and  gallant  nation  riven, 
b«r  energies  unbound,  her  centuries  of  strife  and  disunion  termi- 
nated, and  the  day  of  her  liberation  and  repose  arrived,  was  a 
consummation  which,  though  devoutly  desired,  was  scarcely  to  t>e 
looked  for  in  his  generation  ;  and  were  these  Poems  to  be  now  re- 
written, doubtless  the  tone  of  sorrow  and  despondency  which  per- 
haps too  much  pervades  them  would  give  place  to  one  more 
cheerful  »nd  congenial  to  the  altered  circumstances  of  Ireland. 

In  the  east,  as  well  as  In  the  west,  of  Europe,  the  prospect  is 
equally  cheering.  While  Ireland  has  heen  unsealing  and  purging 
her  long-abused  vision,  the  cause  of  freedom  has  not  stood  still  in 
•  country  too  much  akin  to  tier  in  fate  and  misrule.  Greece  has 
happily  shaken  off  her  iron  bon-lage;  her  independence  may  now 
be  considered  as  achieved,  and  the  Miout  of  Freedom  once  more 
be  heard  on  the  mountains  of  Hellas— in  the  pass  of  Thermopylae 
This  is  a  pleasing  state  of  things ;  but  how  .shall  we  speak  of  t)-ose 
degenerate  nations  of  the  south,  of  Naples  and  of  the  Peninsula? 
They  have  permitted  the  young  hope  of  their  freedom  to  be  stran- 
gled in  its  cradle,  and  submitted  their  necks  to  a  yoke  as  baneful 
•n<l  contemptible  as  ever  bowed  down  a  people.  In  these  coun- 
tries, the  tide  of  liberty  was  setting  in  with  impetuous  strength 
when  these  Poems  were  written.  That  it  has  been  partially 
checked,  he  must  lament;  but  that  it  must  eventually  prevail, 
need  admit  of  little  fear  or  question.) 

ONCE  more  I'm  free — the  city's  din  is  gone, 
And  with  it  wasted  days  and  weary  nights ; 
But  bitter  thoughts  will  sometimes  rush  upon 
The  heart  that  ever  loved  its  sounds  or  sights. 
To  you  I  fly,  lone  glens  and  mountain  heights, 
From  all  I  hate  and  mucli  I  love — no  more 
Than  this  I  seek,  amid  your  calm  delights, 
To  learn  my  spirit's  weakness  to  deplore, 
To  strive  against  one  vice,  and  gain  one  virtue 
more. 

How  firm    are   our   resolves,  how  weak  our 

strife  ! 

We  seldom  man  ourselves  enough  to  brave 
The  syren  tones  that  o'er  the  sea  of  life 
Breathe   dangerously   sweet   from  Pleasure's 

cave. 


False  are  the  lights  she  kindles  o'er  the  wave. 
Man  knows  her  beacon's  fatal  gleam  nor  flies, 
But  as  the  bird  which  flight  alone  could  save 
Still  loves  the  serpent's  fascinating  eyes, 
Man  seeks  that  dangerous  light,  and  in  the  en- 
joyment dies. 

But  even  when  Pleasure's  cup  the  brightest 

glow'd, 

And  to  her  revel  loudest  was  the  call, 
I  felt  her  palace  was  not  my  abode, 
I  fear'd  the  handwriting  upon  the  wall, 
And  said,  amidst  my  blindness  and  my  thrall, 
Could  I,  as  he  of  Nazareth  did  do, 
Hut  gvasr  the  pillars  of  her  dazzling  hail 
And  feel  again  the  strength  that  once  I  knew, 
I'd  crumble  her  proud  dome,  though  I  should 

perish  too. 

Is  it  existence,  'mid  the  giddy  throng 
Of  those  who  live  but  o'er  the  midnight  bowl, 
To  revel  in  the  dance,  the  laugh,  the  song, 
And   all   that  chains  to  earth  the   immortal 

soul — 

To  breathe  the  tainted  air  of  day  that  roll 
In  one  dark  round  of  vice — to  hear  the  cries 
Indignant  virtue  lifts  to  Glory's  goal, 
When  with  unfetter'd  pinion  she  would  rise 
To  deeds  that  laugh  at  death  and  live  beyond 
the  skies  ? 

Not  such  at  least  should  be  the  poet's  life, 
Heaven  to  his  soul  a  nobler  impulse  gave  : 
His  be  the  dwelling  where  there  is  no  strife, 
Save  the  wild  conflict  of  the  wind  and  wave  • 
His  be  the  music  of  the  ocean  cave, 
When  gentle  waves,  forgetful  of  their  wai, 


552 


THE  POEMS  OF  J.  J.  CALLANAN. 


Its  rugged   breast   with  whispering  fondness 

lave; 

And  as  he  gazes  on  the  evening  star, 
His  heart  will  heave  with  joys  the  world  can 
never  mar. 

0  Nature,  what  art  thou  that  thus  canst  pour 
Such  tides  of  holy  feeling  round  the  heart  ? — 
In  all  ihy  various  works  at  every  hour. 
How  sweet  the  transport  which  thy  charms 

impart ! 

But  sweetest  to  the  pensive  soul  thou  art, 
In  this  calm  time  to  man  in  mercy  given, 
When  the  dark  mists  of  Passion  leave  the 

heart, 

And  the  free  soul,  her  earthly  fetters  riven, 
Spreads  her  aspiring  wing  and  seeks  her  native 

heaven. 

There  is  a  bitterness  in  man's  reproach, 
Even  when  his  voice  is  mildest,  and  we  deem 
That  on  our    heaven-born  freedom  they  en- 
croach, 
And  with  their  frailties  are   not  what   they 

seem ; 

But  the  soft  tones  in  star,  in  flower,  or  stream, 
Over  the  unresisting  bosom  gently  flow, 
Like  whispers  which  some  spirit,  in  a  dream, 
Brings  from  her   heaven   to   him    she  loved 

below, 

To  chide  and  win  his  heart,  from  earth,  and  sin, 
and  woe. 

Who,  that    e'er  wander'd   in  the   calm  blue 

night, 

To  see  the  moon  upon  some  silent  lake, 
And  as  it  trembled  to  her  kiss  of  light. 
Heard  low  soft  sounds  from  its  glad  waters 

break — 
Who  that  look'd  upward  to  some  mountain 

peak, 

That  rose  disdaining  earth — or  o'er  the  sea 
Sent  eye,  sent  thought  in  vain  its  bounds  to 

seek — 
Who  thus  could  gaze,  nor  wish  his  soul  might 

be 
Like  those  great  works  of  God,  sublime  and  pure 

and  free  ? 

Do  I  still  see  them,  love  them,  live  at  last 
Alone  with  nature  here  to  walk  unseen  ? 
To  look  upon  the  storms  that  I  have  pass'd, 
And  think  of  what  I  might  be  or  have  been  ? 


To  read  my  life's  dark  page  ? — 0  beauteous 

queen, 

That  won  my  boyish  heart  and  made  m^  be 
Thy  inspiration's  child — if  on  this  green 
And  sea-girt  hill  I  feel  my  spirit  free, 
Next  to   yon  ocean's  God,  the  praise  be  nH 

thee. 

Spirit  of  Song !  since  first  I  wooed  thy  smile, 
How  many  a  sorrow  hath  this  bosom  known, 
How  many  false  ones  did  its  truth  beguile, 
From  thee  and  nature  !    While  around  it  strown 
Lay  shattcr'd  hopes  and  feelings,  thou  alone 
Above  my  path  of  darkness  brightly  rose, 
Yielding  thy  light  when  other  light  was  gone  : 
Oh,  be  thou  still  the  soother  of  my  woes, 
'Till  the  low  voice  of  Death  shall  call  me  to  re- 
pose. 

I've  seen  the  friend  whose  faith  I  thought  was 

proved, 

Like  one  he  knew  not,  pass  me  heedless  by  ; 
I've  marked  the  coldness  of  the  maid  I  loved, 
And  felt  the  chill  of  her  once  beaming  eye ; 
The  bier  of  fond  ones  has  received  my  sigh  : 
Yet  I  am  not  abandon'd,  if  among 
The  chosen  few  whose  names  can  never  die, 
Thy    smile   shall   light  me  life's  dark    wasta 

along, 
No  friend  but  this  wild  lyre — no  heritage  but 

song. 

'Tis  a  delightful  calm  !  there  is  no  sound, 
Save  the  low  murmur  of  the  distant  rill ; 
A  voice  from  heaven  is  breathing  all  around, 
Bidding  the  earth  and  restless  man  be  still  ; 
Soft  sleeps  the  moon  on  Inchidony's1  hill ; 
And  on  the  shore  the  shining  ripples  break 
Gently  and  whisperingly  at  Nature's  will, 
Like   some    fair  child    that   on   its    mother's 

cheek 
Sinks  fondly  to  repose  in  kisses  pure  and  meek. 

'Tis  sweet,  when  earth  and  heaven  such  si- 
lence keep, 
With    pensive  step  to  gain  some  headland's 

height, 

And  look  across  the  wide  extended  deep, 
To  where  its  farthest  waters  sleep  in  light ; 
Or  gaze  upon  those  orbs  so  fair  and  bright, 
Still  burning  on  in  heaven's  unbounded  space, 


1  Inchidony,  an  island  at  the  entrance  of  Clonakilty  Bay.    Th« 
channel  lies  between  it  and  the  eastern  uuore. 


TIIE  POEMS  OF  J.  J.  CALLANAN. 


i 

tlOc 


Like  Seraphs  bending  o'er  life's  dreary  night, 
And  with  their  look  of  love,  their   smile  of 

peace, 

Wooing  the    weary   soul   to   her   high  resting- 
place. 

Such  was  the  hour  the  harp  of  Judah  pour'd 
Those  strains  no  lyre  of  earth  had  ever  rung, 
When  to  the  God  his  trembling  soul  adored 
O'er  the  rapt  chords  the   minstrel  monarch 

hung. 

Such  was  the  time  when  Jeremiah  sung 
With  more  than  Angel's  grief  the  sceptre  torn 
From  Israel's  land,  the  desolate  streets  among : 
Ruin  gave  back  his  cry  'till  cheerless  morn, 
M  Return  thee  to  thy  God,  Jerusalem,  return." 

Fair  moon,  I  too  have  loved  thee,  love  thee 

still, 

Though  life  to  me  hath  been  a  chequered  scene 
Since  first   with  boyhood's  bound  I  climb'd 

the  hill 

To  see  the  dark  wave  catch  the  silvery  sheen ; 
Or  when  I  sported  on  my  native  green 
With   many  an  innocent  heart  beneath  thy 

ray, 
Careless  of  what  might   come  or    what  had 

been, — 

When  passions  slept  and  virtue's  holy  ray 
Shed  its  unsullied  light  round  childhood's  lovely 

day. 

Yes,  I  have  loved  thee,  and  while  others  spent 
This   hour   of  heaven    above   the    midnight 

bowl, 

Oft  to  the  lonely  beach  my  steps  were  bent, 
That  I  might  gaze  on  thee  without  control, 
That  I  might  watch  the  white  clouds  round 

thee  roll 

Their  drapery  of  heaven  thy  smiles  to  veil, 
As  if  too  pure  for  man,  'till  o'er  my  soul 
Came  that  sweet  sadness  none  can  e'er  reveal, 
But  passion'd  bosoms  know,  for  they  alone  can 
-       feel. 

Oh  thai  I  were  once  more  what  I  was  then, 
With  soul  unsullied  and  with  heart  unsear'd, 
Before  1  mingled  with  the  herd  of  men 
In  whom  all  trace  of  man  had  disappear'd ; 
Before    the   calm    pare    morning   star   that 
cheer'd 


And  sweetly  lured  me  on  to  virtue's  shrine 
Was   clouded — or  the    cold  green    turf   w;»> 

rear'd 

Above  the  hearts  that  warmly  beat  to  mine  ! 
Could  I  be  that  once  more,  1  need  not  now  re- 
pine. 

What  form  is  that  in  yonder  anchored  bark, 
Pacing  the  lonely  deck,  when  all  beside 
Are   hush'd  in  sleep  ? — though  undefined  ami 

dark, 

His  bearing  speaks  him  one  of  birth  and  pride. 
Now  he  leans  o'er  the  vessel's  landward  side. 
This  way  his  eye  is  turn'd — Hush,  did  I  hear 
A  voice  as  if  some  loved  one  just  had  died  ? 
'Tis  from  yon  ship  that  wail  comes  on  mine 

ear, 
And  now  o'er  ocean's  sleep  it  floats  distinct  and 

clear. 

SONG. 

On  Cicada's'  hill  the  moon  is  bright, 
Dark  Avondu*  still  rolls  in  light, 
All  changeless  is  that  mountain's  head, 
That  river  still  seeks  ocean's  bed, 
The  calm  blue  waters  of  Loch  Lene 
Still  kiss  their  own  sweet  isles  of  green, 
But  where's  the  heart  as  firm  and  trno 
As  hill,  or  lake,  or  Avondu  ? 

It  may  not — be  the  firmest  heart 
From  all  it  loves  must  often  part, 

1  dead*  and  Cabirboarna  (the  hill  of  the  four  enp*)  form  part 
of  the  chain  of  mountains  which  stretches  westward  from  Mill- 
street  to  Killarney. 

•  Avondn,  the  Blackwater  (Avunduff  of  Spenser).  There  are 
several  rivers  of  this  name  In  the  counties  of  Cork  and  Kerry,  but 
the  one  here  mentioned  Is  by  far  the  most  considerable.  It  rise* 
in  a  bosrcy  mountain  called  Meenganine,  in  the  latter  county,  and 
discharges  itself  into  the  sea  at  Yougbal.  For  the  length  of  IU 
course  and  the  beauty  and  variety  of  scenery  through  which  It 
flows,  i l  is  superior  I  believe  to  iiny  river  in  Minuter.  It  it*  sub- 
ject to  very  high  floods,  and  from  its  great  rapidity  and  the  havoc 
which  It  commits  on  those  OCCMMCJMS.  >wecping  before  il  corn, 
cattle,  and  sometimes  even  cottages,  one  may  not  inaptly  apply  to 
It  what  Virgil  says  of  a  moro  celebrated  river: 

Prolnlt  insano  eontorquens  vortice  sllvaa, 
Hex  tluvloruui  Erldauus. 

Spenser  thus  beautifully  characterizes  come  of  our  prlnc'pal 
Irish  riven,  though  he  has  made  a  mistake  with  regard  lc  '.bo 
Allo;  It  Is  the  Blackwater  that  passes  through  Sliav-logher 

There  was  the  Liffle  rolling  down  the  lea, 

The  sandy  Slane,  the  stony  Au-brlan, 
The  spacious  bhcnan,  spreading  like  a  *<•«. 

The  pleasant  Knyne,  the  IMiy,  fruitful  Bac, 
Sweet  Awniiluff,  which  of  the  Englishman 

h  called  Blxckwaier,  ami  the  I.ifl'nr  ilec|>, 
Sad  Trowls,  that  once  his  people  overrau. 

Strong  Allo  tumbling  from  Siew-logher  Moep, 
And  tlullainine  wh»t«  wave*  1  whilom  taught  to  w«x>p 


654: 


THE  POEMS  OF  J.  J.  CALL  AN  AN. 


A  look,  a  word  will  quench  the  flame 
That  time  or  fate  could  never  tame  ; 
And  there  are  feelings  proud  and  high 
That  through  all  changes  cannot  die, 
That  strive  with  love,  and  conquer  too  : 
I  knew  them  all  by  Avondu  ! 

How  cross  and  wayward  still  is  fate 
I've  learn'd  at  last,  but  learn'd  too  late. 
I  never  spoke  of  love,  'twere  vain — 
I  knew  it,  still  I  dragg'd  my  chain : 
I  had  not,  never  had  a  hope, 
But  who  'gainst  passion's  tide  can  cope  ? 
Headlong  it  swept  this  bosom  through, 
And  left  it  waste  by  Avondu. 

0  Avondu,  I  wish  I  were 

As  once  upon  that  mountain  bare, 
Where  thy  young  waters  laugh  and  shine 
On  the  wild  breast  of  Meenganine ! 

1  wish  I  were  by  Cicada's  hill, 
Or  by  Glenluachra's  rushy  rill ! 
But  no  !  I  never  more  shall  view 
Those  scenes  I  loved  by  Avondu. 

Farewell,  ye  soft  and  purple  streaks 
Of  evening  on  the  beauteous  Reeks!1 
Farewell,  ye  mists  that  loved  to  ride 
On  Cahir-bearna's  stormy  side! 
Farewell  November's  moaning  breeze, 
Wild  Minstrel  of  the  dying  trees  ! 
Clara !  a  fond  farewell  to  you — 
No  more  we  meet  by  Avondu. 

No  more — but  thou,  0  glorious  hill, 
Lift  to  the  moon  thy  forehead  still ; 
Flow  on,  flow  on,  thou  dark  swift  river 
Upon  thy  free  wild  course  forever ; 
Exuit,  young  hearts,  in  lifetime's  spring, 
And  taste  the  joys  pure  love  can  bring ; 
But,  wanderer,  go — they're  not  for  you  ! 
Farewell,  farev,  ell,  sweet  Avondu. 

To-morrow's  breeze  shall  swell  the  sail 
That  bears  me  far  from  Inuisfail, 
But,  lady,  when  some  happier  youth 
Shall  see  thy  worth  and  know  thy  truth, 
Somo  lover  of  thy  native  land 
Shall  woo  thy  heart  and  win  thy  hand, 
Oh  think  of  him  who  loved  thee  too, 
And  loved  in  vain  my  Avondu. 

1  Macgillacuddy's  Reeks,  In  the  neighborhood  of  Killarney,  we 
ihe  highest  mountains  in  Minister.  For  a  description  of  these, 
*nd  of  the  celebrated  lakes  of  that  place,  see  Weld's  Killarney,  by 
Ur  the  best  and  most  correct  work  on  tlie  subject. 


One  hour,  my  bark  and  I  shall  be 

All  friendless  on  the  unbounded  sea, 

No  voice  to  cheer  me  but  the  wave 

And  winds  that  through  the  cordage  rave, 

No  star  of  hope  to  light  me  home, 

No  track  but  ocean's  trackless  foam. — 

'Tis  sad — no  matter,  all  is  gone — 

Ho !  there,  my  lads,  weigh  quick,  and  on ! 

Stranger,  thy  lay  is  sad  :  I  too  have  felt 
That  which  for  worlds  I  would  not  feel  again. 

O 

At  beauty's  shrine  devoutly  have  I  knelt^ 
And  sigh'd  my  prayer  of  love,  but  sigh'd  in 

vain. 

Yet  'twas  not  coldness,  falsehood,  or  disdain 
That  crush'd  my  hopes  and  cast  me  far  away, 
Like  shatter1  d  bark  upon  a  stormy  main  ; 
'Twas  pride,  the  heritage  of  sin  and  clay, 
Which  darkens  all  that's  bright  in  young  Love's 
sunny  day. 

'Tis  past — I've  conquer'd,  and  my  bonds  aro 

broke, 
Though  in  the  conflict   well-nigh  broke  my 

heart. 

Man  cannot  tear  him  from  so  sweet  a  yoke 
Without  deep  wounds  that  long  will  bleed  ana 

smart. 

Loved  one  but  lost  one  ! — yes,  to  me  thou  art 
As  some  fair  vision  of  a  dream  now  flown, 
A  wayward  fate  hath  made  us  meet  and  part, 
Yet  have  we  parted  nobly;  be  mine  own 
The  grief  that  e'er  we  met — that  e'er  1  live  alone ! 

But  man  was  born  for  suffering,  and  to  bear 

Even  pain  is  better  than  a  dull  repose. 

'Tis  noble  to  subdue  the  rising  tear, 

'Tis  glorious  to  outlive  the  heart's  sick  throes. 

Man  is  most  man  amidst  the  heaviest  woes, 

And  strongest  when  least  human  aid  is  given  ; 

The  stout  bark   flounders  when  the  tempest 

blows, 

The  mountain  oak  is  by  the  lightning  riven, 
But  what  can  crush  the  mind  that  lives  alone 

with  Heaven  ? 

Deep  in  the  solitude  of  his  own  heart 

With  his  own  thoughts  he'll  hold  communion 

high, 

Though  with  his  fortune's  ebb  false  friends  de- 
part 

And  leave  him  on  life's  desert  shore  to  lie. 
Though  all  forsake  him  and  the  world  belie — 
The  world,  that  fiend  of  scandal,  strife,  ar.d 
crime — 


TIIE  POEMS  OF  J.  J.  CALL  A  NAN. 


Vet  has  he  that  which  cannot  change  or  die, 
[lis  spirit  still,  through  fortune,  fate,  and  time, 
Lives  like  an  Alpine  peak,  lone,  stainless,  and 
sublime. 

Well  spoke  the  Moralist,  who  said,  "  The  more 
I  mix'd  with  men  the  less  a  man  I  grew :" 
\Vho  can  behold  their  follies  nor  deplore 
The  many  days  he  prodigally  threw 
Upon  their  sickening  vanities !    Ye  few 
In  whom  I  sought  for  men,  nor  sought  in  vain, 
Proud  without  pride,  in  friendship  firm   and 

true, 

Oh  that  some  far-off  island  of  the  main 
Held  you  and  him  you  love !    The  wish  is  but  a 

pain. 

My  wishes  are  all  such — no  joy  is  mine, 
Save  thus  to  stray  my  native  wilds  among, 
On  some  lone  hill  an  idle  verse  to  twine 
Whene'er  my  spirit  feels  the  gusts  of  song. 
They  come  but  fitfully,  nor  linger  long, 
And  this  sad  harp  ne'er  yields  a  tone  of  pride  ; 
Us  voice  ne'er  pour'd  the  battle-tide  along 
Since  freedom  sunk  beneath  the  Saxon's  stride, 
And  by  the  assassin's  steel  the  gray-hair' d  Des- 
mond1 died. 

Ye  deathless  stories  and  immortal  songs, 
That  live  triumphant  o'er  the  waste  of  time, 
To  whose  inspiring  breath  alone  belongs 
To  bid  man's  spirit  walk  on  earth  sublime, 
Know  his  own  worth,  and  nerve  his  heart  to 

climb 

The  mountain  steeps  of  glory  and  of  fame — 
How  vainly  would  my  cold  and  feeble  rhyme 
Burst  the  deep  slumber,  or  light  up  the  shame, 
Of  men  who  still  are  slaves  amid  your  voice  of 

flame ! 


1  Oprnld.  Karl  of  Desmond.  The  vast  estate  of  this  nobleman 
In  Desmond  (!*<>tith  Mnn*ler)  was  the  cause  of  his  ruin.  It  held 
out  to  his  enemies  too  strong  a  temptation  to  be  resisted,  ami  the 
chief  governors  of  Ireland  determined  to  seize  upon  It  by  any 
in  ed  any  overt  act  of  high  trpa- 
>ient  with  the  duty  and  peaceful 
me  private  qnurrels  with  the  rival 


mrans  Without  having  r«mt 
son.  or  done  any  thine  Iticon* 
demeanor  of  a  subject  (unle.sft  JM 
house  of  Orinond  could  be  con 
a  traitor,  and  driven.  In  his  01 
by  letters  expressive  of  his  uns 
by  cTery  possible  mean*,  lie  e 


strued  Into  such),  he  was  declared 
n  defence,  into  a  re.bi-l.ion  which, 
iakeo  loyalty  to  her  majesty,  and 
ileavored  to  avoid  After  having 


undergone  Incredible  hardships  an.!  prlviitlon*,  be  WHS  surprised 
by  niirht  In  a  cabin  near  Tralee.  by  one  Kelly  of  Morierta  and 
twenty-live  of  his  kerns  employed  for  the  purpose  by  Ortnond. 
Kelly  struck  off  his  head,  which  was  sent  to  the  Queen,  by  whoso 
order  It  was  Irnpttled  on  London  bridge.  For  this  barhnroas  mur- 
der of  a  helpless  and  persecuted  old  man.  Kelly  received  a  penaloa 
if  forty  pounds  a  year,  but  was  afterwards  banged  at  Tyburn. 


Yet,  outcast  of  the  nations — lost  one,  yet 
How  can  I  look  on  thee  nor  try  to  save, 
Or  in  thy  degradation  all  forget 
That  'twas  thy  breast  that  nursed  me,  though 

a  slave  ? 

Still  do  I  love  thee  for  the  life  you  gave, 
Still  shall  this  harp  be  heard  above  thy  sleep, 
Free  as  the  wind  and  fearless  as  the  wave  : 
Perhaps  in  after  days  thou  yet  mayst  loap 
At  strains  unheeded  now,  when   I  lie  cold   and 

deep. 

Sad  one  of  Desmond,  could  this  feeble  hand 
But  teach  thee  tones  of  freedom  and  of  fire, 
Such  as  were  heard  o'er  Hellas' glorious  land, 
From  the  hi^h  Lesbian  harp  or  Chian  lyre, 
Thou  shouldst  not  wake  to  sorrow,  but  aspire 
To  themes  like  theirs  :  but  yonder  se«,  where 

hurl'd 

The  crescent  prostrate  lies — the  clouds  retire 
From  freedom's  heaven — the  cioss  is  wide  un- 

furl'd  ; 
Thera  breaks  again  that  light — the  beacon   o' 

the  World ! 

Is  it  a  dream  that  mocks  thy  cheerless  doom! 
Or  hast  thou  heard,  fair  Greece,  her  voice  at 

last, 
And    brightly  bursting  from  thy  mouldering 

tomb, 

Hast  thou  thy  shroud  of  ages  from  thee  cast! 
High  swelling  in  Cantabria's  mountain  blast, 
And  Lusitanian  hills,  that  summons  rung 
Like  the  Archangel's  voice  ;  and  as  it  pass'd, 
Quick  from  their  death-sleep  many  a  nation 

sprung 

With  hearts  by  freedom  fired  and  hands  for  free- 
dom strung. 

Heavens!  'tis  a  lovely  soul-entrancing  sight 
To  see  thy  sons  careering  o'er  that  wave, 
Which  erst  in  Salamis'  immortal  fight 
Bore  their  proud  galleys  'gainst  the  Persian 

slave  : 

Each  billow  then  that  was  a  tyrant's  grave 
Now  bounds  exulting  round  their  gallant  way 
.Joyous  to  feel  once  more  the  free,  the  brav-e, 
High  lifted  on  their  breast,  as  on  that  day 
When  Hellas'  shout  peal'd  high  along  her  con- 
quering bay. 

Nursling  of  freedom,  from  her  mountain  ne»i 
She  early  taught  thine  eagle  wing  to  soar 


55G 


THE  POEMS  OF  J.  J.  CALL  AN  AX. 


With  eye  undazzled  and  with  fearless  breast 
To  heights  of  glory  never  reach'd  before. 
Far  on  the  cliff  of  time,  al'l  grand  and  hoar, 
Proud  of  her  ch-arge,  thy  lofty  deeds  she  rears 
With  her  own  deathless  trophies  blazoned  o'er, 
As  mind-marks  for  the  gaze  of  after-years — 
Vainly  they  journey  on — no  match  for  thee  ap- 
pears. 

But  be  not  thine,  fair  land,  the  dastard  strife 
Of  yon  degenerate  race.     Along  their  plains 
They  heard  that  call — they  started  into  life, 
They  felt    their    limbs    a   moment  free  from 

chains : 
The  foe  came  on  : — but  shall   the  minstrel's 

strains 

Be  sullied  by  the  story  ?  Hush,  my  lyre, 
Leave  them  amidst  the  desolate  waste  that 

reigns 

Round  tyranny's  dark  march  of  lava-fire — 
Leave  them  amid  their  shame — their  bondage, 

to  expire. 

Oh,  be  not  thine  such  strife — there  heaves  no 

sod 

Along  thy  fields  but  hides  a  hero's  head  ; 
And  when  you  charge  for  freedom  and  for  God, 
Then — then  be  mindful  of  the  mightv  dead! 
Think  that  your  field  of  battle  is  the  bed 
Where  slumber  hearts  that  never  fear'd  a  foe; 
And  while  you  feel  at  each  electric  tread 
Their  spirit  through  your  veins  indignant  glow, 
Strong  be  your  sabre's  sway  for  Freedom's  venge- 
ful blow. 

Oh  !  sprung  from  those  who  by  Eurotas  dwelt, 
Have  ye  forgot  their  deeds  on  yonder  plain, 
When,  pouring  through  the  pass,  the  Persian 

felt 

The  band  of  Sparta  was  not  there  in  vain — 
Have  ye  forgot  how  o'er  the  glorious  slain 
Greece  bade  her  bard  the  immortal  story  write  ? 
Oh  !  if  your  bosoms  one  proud  thought  retain 
Of  those  who  perish'd  in  that  deathless  fight, 
Awake,  like  them  be  free,  or  sleep  with  names  as 

bright. 

Relics  of  heroes,  from  your  glorious  bed, 
Amid  your  broken  slumbers,  do  you  feel 
The  rush  of  war  loud  thundering  o'er  your 

head? 

Hear  ye  the  sound  of  Hellas'  charging  steel, 
Hear  ye  the  victor  cry — The  Moslem  reel  ! 


On,  Greeks,  for  freedom,  on — they  fly,  they  fiy  1 
Heavens!  how  the  aged  mountains  know  that 

peal, 
Through  all  their  echoing  tops,  while  grand  and 

higli 
Thermopylae's  deep  voice  gives  back  the  proud 

reply  ! 

Oh  for  the  pen  of  him  whose  bursting  tear 
Of  childhood  told  his  fame  in  after-days ; 
Oh  for  that  Bard  to  Greece  and  freedom  dear, 
The  Bard  of  Lesbos  with  his  kindling  lays, 
To  hymn,  regenerate  land,  thy  lofty  praise, 
Thy  brave  unaided  strife — to  tell  the  shame 
Of  Europe's  freest  sons,  who  'mid  the  rays 
Through  time's  far  vista  blazing  from  thy  name, 
Caught  no  ennobling  glow  from  that  immortal 
flame! 

Not  even  the  deeds  of  him  who  late  afar 
Shook  the  astonish'd  nations  with  his  might, 
Not  even  the  deeds  of  her  whose  wings  of  war 
Wide  o'er  the  ocean  stretch  their  victor  flight- 
Not  they  shall  rise  with  half  the  unbroken  light 
Above  the  waves  of  time,  fair  Greece,  as  thin«  ; 
Earth  never  yet  produced  in  Heaven's  high 

sight. 

Through  all  her  climates,  offerings  so  divine 
As  thy  proud  sons  have  paid  at  Freedom's  sacred 

shrine. 

Ye  isles  of  beauty,  from  your  dwelling  blue, 
Lift  up  to  Heaven   that   shout  unheard    too 

long ; 

Ye  mountains,  steep'd  in  glc-y's  distant  hue, 
If  with  you  lives  the  memory  of  that  song 
Which  freedom  taught  you,  the  proud  strain 

prolong, 

Echo  each  name  that  in  her  cause  hath  died, 
'Till    grateful   Greece  enrol    them    with   the 

throng 

Of  her  illustrious  sons,  who  on  the  tide 
Of  her  immortal  verse  eternally  shall  glide. 

And  be  not  his  forgot,  the  ocean-bard, 
Whose  heart  and  harp  in   Freedom's   cause 

were  strung. 

For  Greece  self-exiled,  seeking  no  reward, 
Tyrtseus  of  his  time,  for  Greece  he  sung  : 
For  her  on  Moslem  spears  his  breast  he  mm-;. 
Many  bright  names  in  Hellas  met  renown. 
But  brighter  ne'er  in  song  or  «torv  runir 


THE    POEMS   OF    J.  J.  CALLANAN. 


Than  his,  who  late  for  freedom  laid  him  down, 
And  with   the   Minstrel's  wreath  entwined  her 
martyr's  crown. 

That  Minstrel  sings  no  more !  from  yon  sad  isles 
A  voice  of  wail  was  heard  along  the  deep : 
Britannia  caught  the  sound  amid  her  smiles, 
Forgot  her  triumph  songs  and  turn'd  to  weep. 
Vainly  her  grief  is  pour'd  above  his  sleep, 
He  feels  it,  hears  it  not!  the  pealing  roar 
Of  the  deep  thunder,  and  the  tempest's  sweep 
That  call'd  his  spirit  up  so  oft  before, 
May  shout  to  him  in  vain !  their  Minstrel  wakes 
no  more. 

That  moment  heard  ye  the  despairing  shriek 
Of  Missolonghi's  daughters  ?  did  ye  hear 
That  cry  from  all  the  islands  of  the  Greek, 
And  the  wild  yell  of  Suli's  mountaineer  ? 
The  Illyrian  starting  dropp'd  his  forward  spear, 
The  fierce  Chimariot  leant  upon  his  gun, 
From  his  stern  eye  of  battle  dropp'd  the  tear 
For  him  who  died  that  Freedom  might  be  won 
For  Greece  and  all  her  race.     'Tis  gain'd,  but  he 
is  gone. 

Too  short  he  dwelt  amongst  us,  and  too  long : 
Where  is  the  bard  of  earth  will  now  aspire 
To  soar  so  high,  upon  the  wing  of  song? 
Who  shall  inherit  now  his  soul  of  fire, 
His  spirit's  dazzling  light?     Vain  man,  retire, 
'Mid  the  wild  heath  of  Albyn's  loneliest  glen ; 
Leave  to  the  winds  that  now  fors;iken  lyre, 
Until  some  angel-bard  come  down  again 
And  wake  once  more  those  strains,  too  high,  too 
sweet  for  men. 

The  sun  still  sets  along  Morea's  hill, 

The  moon  still  rises  o'er  Citha3ron's  height; 

But  where  is  he,  the  bard  whose  matchless 

skill 

Gave  fresher  beauty  to  their  march  of  light? 
The  blue  ^Egean,  o'er  whose  waters  bright 
Was   pour'd  so   oft  the   enchantment  of  his 

strain, 
Seeks  him ;  and  through  the  wet  and  starless 

night 

The  Peaks-of-thunder  flash  and  shout  in  vain, 
For  him  who  sung  their  strength — he  ne'er  shall 

sing  again. 

What  though,  descended  from  a  lofty  line, 
Earth's  highest  honors  waited  his  command. 


And  bright  his  father's  coronet  did  shine 
Around  his  brow ;  he  scorn'd  to  take  his  stand 
With  those  whose  names  must  die — a  nobler 

band. 

A  deathless  fame  his  ardent  bosom  fired, 
From  Glory's  mount  he  saw  the  promised  land 
To  which  his  anxious  spirit  long  aspired, 
And  then  in  Freedom's  arms  exulting  he  expired. 

You  who  delight  to  censure  feeble  man, 
Wrapt  in  self-love  to  your  own  failings  blind, 
Presume  not  with  your  narrow  view  to  scan 
The  aberrations  of  a  mighty  mind. 
His  course  was  not  the  path  of  human-kind, 
His  destinies  below  were  not  the  same : 
With  passions  headlong  as  the  tempest-wind, 
His  spirit  wasted  in  its  own  strong  flame : 
A   wandering    star  of  heaven,   he's  gone    from 
whence  he  came. 

But  while  the  sun  looks  down  upon  those  isles 
That  laugh  in  beauty  o'er  the  ^Ege;m  deep, 
Long  as  the  moon  shall  shed  her  placid  smiles 
Upon    the   fields  where    Freedom's  children 

sleep — 
Long   as   the  bolt   of  heaven,  the   tempest's 

sweep, 

With  Rhodope  or  Atbos  war  shall  wage, 
And  its  triumphant  sway  the  Cross  shall  keep 
Above  the  Crescent,  even  from  age  to  age 
Shall  Byron's  name  shine  bright  on  llellas'  death- 
less page. 

Bard  of  my  boyhood's  love,  farewell  to  thee; 
I  little  deem'd  that  e'er  my  feeble  lay 
Should   wait  thy  doom — these  eyes  so  soon 

should  see 

The  clouding  of  thy  spirit's  glorious  ray. 
Fountain  of  beauty,  on  life's  desert  way 
Too  soon    thy    voice    is    hush'd — thy   waters 

dried : 

Eagle  of  song,  too  short  thy  pinion's  sway 
Career'd  in  its  high  element  of  pridf. 
Weep !  blue-eyed  Albyn,  weep !    with  him  thy 

glory  died ! 

Oh  1  could  my  lyre,  this  inexperienced  hand, 
Like  that  high  master-bard  thy  spirit  sway, 
Not  such  weak  tributes  should  its  touch  com- 
mand— 

Immortal  as  the  theme  should  be  thy  lay. 
But  meetcr  honors  loftier  harps  shall  pay. 


558 


THE   POEMS   OF  J.  J.  CALLANAN. 


The  harps  of  freeboni  men:  enough  for  me, 
If  as  I  journey  on  life's  weary  way: 
Mourner,  I  rest  awhile  to  weep  with  thee, 
O'er  him  who  loved  our  land,  whose  voice  would 
make  her  free. 

My  country,  must  I  still  behold  thy  tears 
And    watch    the  sorrows    of  thy   long    dark 

night J 

No  sound  of  joy  thy  desolation  cheers, 
Thine  eyes  have  look'd  in  vain  for  freedom's 

light. 

Then  set  thy  sun  and  wither'd  all  thy  might, 
When    first   you    stoop'd  beneath  the  Saxon 

yoke, 
Ai;d  thy  high  harp,  that  call'd  to  freedom's 

fight, 

Since  then  forgot  the  strains  that  once  it  woke, 
And  like  the  Banshee's  cry  of  death  alone  hath 

spoke. 

Is  this  the  Atlantic  that  before  me  rolls 
In  its  eternal  freedom  round  thy  shore  ? 
Hath  its  grand  march  no  moral  yet  for  souls? 
Is  there  no  sound  of  glory  in  its  roar? 
Must  man  alone  be  abject  evermore? 
Slave  !  hast  thou  ever  gazed  upon  that  sea? 
When  the  strong  wind    its  wrathful    billows 

bore 

'Gainst  earth,  did  not  their  mission  seem  to  be, 
To  lash  thee  into  life,  and  teach  thee  to  be  free  ? 

But  no!    thine  heart  is  broke,  thine  arm  is 

weak, 

Who  thus  could  see  God's  image  not  to  sigh ; 
Fftmine   hath   plough'd   his  journeys  on   thy 

cheek, 

Despair  hath  made  her  dwelling  in  thine  eye  ; 
The  lordly  Churchman  rides  unheeding  by, 
He  fattens  on  the  sweat  that  dries  thy  brain, 
The  very  dogs  that  in  his  kennel  lie 
Hold  revels  to  thy  fare!  but  don't  complain, 
lie  has  the  cure  of  souls — the  law  doth  so  ordain. 

But  you're  not  all  abandon'd  ;  there  are  some 
Whose  tender  bowels  groan  to  see  your  case. 
Ilejoice,  rejoice,  the  men  of  bibles  come, 
There's  pity  beaming  in  their  meek  mild  face. 
Come,  starve   no  longer  now,  poor  famish'd 

race, 

A  bellyful  from  heaven  shall  now  be  thine, 
Open  your  mouths  and   chew  the    words    of 

grace ; — 


There — is  not  that  rent,  clothes,  and  meat  and 

wine  ? 
Thanks  to  the  Lord's  beloved — I  wonder  do 

they  dine. 

Oh,  ye  who  loved  them  faithfully  and  long, 
Even  when  the  fagot  blazed  the    sword    did 

rave, 
In   sorrow's   night    who   bid   their   hearts   be 

strong, 

And  died  defending  the  high  truths  ye  gave — 
Ye  dwellers  of  the  mountain  and  the  cave, 
If  lay  of  mine  survive  the  waste  of  time, 
Your    praises  shall  be   hymn'd   on   land   and 

wave, 
Till    Christ's  young  soldiers   in   each   distant 

clime 
Shall  guard  the  Cross  like  you,  and  tread  your 

march  sublime. 

Ye  watchers  on  the  eternal  city's  wall*, 

Ye  warders  of  Jerusalem's  high  towers, 

When  have  your  nights  been  spent  in  luxury's 
halls, 

Or  your  youth's  strength  consumed  in  pleasure's 
bowers  \ 

Earth's  gardens  have  for  you  no  fruits,  no- 
flowers — 

Your  path  is  one  of  thorns — the  world  may 
frown 

And  hate  you,  but  whene'er  its  war-cloud 
lowers, 

Stand  to  your  arras  again,  nor  lay  the-m  down 
Till  the  high  Chief  you  serve  shall  call  you'  to- 
your  crown. 

Could  England's  sons  but  see  what  I  have  seen, 
Your  wretched  fare  when  home  at  night  you 

go, 

Your  cot  of  mud,  where  never  sound  has  been 
But  groans  of  famine,  of  disease,  and  woe, 
Your  naked  children  shivering  in  the  snow, 
The  wet  cold  straw  on  which  your  limbs  re- 
cline,— 
Saw  they  but  these,  their  wealth  they  would 

forego, 

To  know  you  still  retain'd  one  spaik  divine, 
To  hear  your  mountain  shout  and  see  your  charg- 
ing line. 

England  !  thou  freest,  noblest  of  the  world, 
Oh,  may  the  minstrel  never  live  to  see 


THE  POEMS   OF  J.  J.  CALLANAN. 


559 


Agains1,  thy  sons  the  flag  of  green  unfurlM, 
Or  his  own  land  thus  aim  at  liberty; 
May  their  sole  rivalry  forever  be 
Such  as  the  Gallic  despot  dearly  knew, 
When  English  hearts  and  Irish  chivalry 
Strove  who  should  first  be   where  the  eagle 

flew, 
A.nd  high    the*'   conquering   shout   arose    o'er 

Waterloo. 

But  prison'd  winds  will  round  their  caverns 

sweep 
Until   they  burst   them — then  the   hills   will 

quake. 

The  lava-rivers  will  for  ages  sleep, 
But  nations  tremble  when  in  wrath  they  wake. 
Erin  has  hearts  by  mountain,  glen,  and  lake, 
That  wrongs  or  favors  never  can  forget ; 
If  loved  they'll  die  for  you,  but  trampled,  break 
At  last  their  long  dark  silence :   you  have  met 
Their  steel  in    foreign  field — they've  hands  can 

wield  it  yet. 

Too  long  on  such  dark  themes  ray  song  hath 

run: 

Eugenio,  'tis  meet  it  now  should  end. 
It  was  no  lay  of  gladness,  but  'tis  done, — 
I  bid  farewell  to  it  and  thee,  ray  friend. 
I  do  not  hope  that  the  cold  world  will  lend 
To  sad  and  selfish  rhymes  a  patient  ear  : 
Enough  for  me,  if  while  I  darkly  bend 
O'er  ray  own  troubled  thoughts,  one  heart  is 

near 

That  feels  my  joy  or  grief,  with  sympathy  sin- 
cere. 

I  have  not  suffer'd  more  than  worthier  men, 
Nor  of  my  share  of  ill  do  I  complain  ; 
But  other  hearts  will  find  some  refuge,  when 
Above   them  lower   the  gathering  clouds   of 

pain. 

The  world  has  vanities,  and  man  is  vain — 
The  world  has  pleasures,  and  to  these  they  fly. 
I  too  have  tried  them,  but  they  left  a  stain 


Upon  my  heart,  and  as  their  tide  roll'd  by, 
The    cares   I    sought    to    drown,   emerged    with 
sterner  eye. 

Thou  hast  not  often  seen  my  clouded  brow  : 
The  tear  I  strove  with,  thou  hast  never  seen, — 
The  load  of  life  that  did  my  spirit  bow 
Was  hid  beneath  a  calm  or  mirthful  mien. 
The  wild-flower's  blossom,  and  the  dew-drops 

sheen 

Will  fling  their  light  and  beauty  o'er  the  spot 
Where,  in  its  cold  dark  chamber  all  unseen, 
The  water  trickles  through  the  lonely  grot, 
And  weeps  itself  to  stone, — such  long  hath  beea 

my  lot. 

It  matters  not  what  was,  or  is  the  cause, 
I  wish  not  even  thy  faithful  breast  to  know 
The  grief  which  magnet-like  my  spirit  draws 
True  to  itself  above  life's  waves  of  woe. 
The  gleams  of  happiness  I  feel  below, 
Awhile  may  play  around  me  and  depart, 
Like  sunlight  on  the  eternal  hills  of  snow, 
It  gilds  their  brow  but  never    warms    their 

heart. 
Such  cold  and  cheerless  beam  doth  joy  to  me 

impart. 

The  night  is  spent,  our  task  is  ended  now. 
See,  yonder  steals  the  green  and  yellow  light, 
The  lady  of  the  morning  lifts  her  brow 
Gleaming  through  dews  of  heaven,  all  pure 

and  bright, 

The  calm  waves  heave  with  tremulous  delight, 
The  far  Seven-Beads1  through  mists  of  pur- 
ple smile, 

The  lark  ascends  from  Inchidony's  height  : 
'Tis  morning — sweet  one  of  my  native  Isle, 
Wild  voice  of  Desmond,  hush — go  rest  thee  for 
awhile. 

1  Seven  Heads — Dtimleeily,  Dunowen,  Dunoro,  Puneenc,  Dun- 
ocwlg,  Dunworly,  and  Dimporly.  On  all  these  headland*  th« 
Irish  had  formerly  duns,  or  castles. 


560 


TEE   POEMS   OF  J.  J.  CALLANAN. 


ACCESSION    OF    GEORGE    THE    FOURTH. 


ON  Albion's  cliffs  the  sun  is  bright, 

And  still  Saint  George's  sea: 
O'er  her  blue  hills'  emerging  height 
Hover  soft  clouds  ot  silvery  light, 

As  in  expectancy  ; 
The  barks  that  seek  the  sister  shore 
Fly  gallantly  the  breeze  before, 

Like  messengers  of  joy, 
And  light  is  every  bosom's  bound, 
And  the  bright  eyes  that  glance  around 

Sparkle  with  transport  high. 
Hark !  the  cannon's  thundering  voice 
Bids  every  British  heart  rejoice, 

Upon  this  glorious  day. 
Slowly  the  lengthen'd  files  advance 
Mid  trumpet  swell  and  war-horse  prance, 
While  sabre's  sheen  and  glittering  lance 

Blaze  in  the  noontide  ray  ; 
Streamer  and  flag  from  each  mast-head 
On  the  glad  breeze  their  foldings  fling ; 
The  bells  their  merry  peals  ring  out, 
And  kerchiefs  wave  and  banners  flout, 
And  joyous  thousands  loudly  shout, 

Huzza  for  George  our  King ! 


'Tis  night — calm  night,  and  all  around 
The  listening  ear  can  catch  no  sound. 
The  shouts  that  with  departing  day 
Less  frequent  burst,  have  died  away  : 
The  moon  slow  mounts  the  cloudless  sk; 
With  modest  brow  and  pensive  eye, — 
Thames  owns  her  presence  with  delight 
And  trembles  to  her  kiss  of  night; 
Far  down  along  his  course  serene 
The  liquid  flash  of  oars  is  seen, 
Advancing  on  with  measured  sweep, — 
Lovely  to  view  is  the  time  they  keep : 
And  hark  !  the  voice  of  melody 
Comes  o'er  the  waters  joyously  ; 
It  is  from  that  returning  boat 
Those  sweet  sounds  of  triumph  float, 
And  nearer  as  she  glides  along 
Mingling  with  music  swells  the  song. 


SONG. 

Britannia,  exult  on  thy  throne  of  blue  waters, 
In  the  midst  of  thine  Islands,  thou  queen  of  the 

sea ; 
And    loud   be   the   hymn   of    thy  fair-bosom'd 

daughters 
To  hail  the  high  chief  of  the  brave  and  the  free. 

While  o'er  the  subject  deep 

Proudly  your  navies  sweep, 
Tars  of  old  England  still  shout  o'er  the  main, 

'Till  the  green  depths  of  ocean  ring, 

God  save  great  George  our  King, 
Honor  and  glory  and  length  to  his  reign ! 

Hush'd  be  your  war-song,  ye  sons  of  the  moun- 
tain, 

Pibroch  of  Donald  Dhu,  mute  be  thy  voice, 
Wizzard  that  slept  by  Saint  Fillan's  gray  foun- 
tain, 
With  loyalty's  rapture  bid  Scotia  rejoice; 

Then  to  your  stayless  spear 

Albyn's  brave  mountaineer, 
Should  foeman  awake  your  wild  slogan  again, 

And  loud  o'er  the  battle  sing, 

God  save  great  George  our  King, 
Honor  and  glory  and  le-ngth  to  his  reign  ! 

Strike  thy  wild  harp,  yon  green  Isle  of  the  ocean, 
And  light  as  thy  mirth  be  the  sound  of  its  strain, 
And  welcome,  with  Erin's  own  burst  of  emotion, 
The  Prince  that  shall  loose  the  last  links  of  thy 
chain  ; 

And  like  the  joyous  cry 

Hellas'  sons  raised  on  high, 
When  they  stood  like  their  fathers  all  free  os 
the  plain, 

Up  the  glad  chorus  fling, 

God  save  great  George  our  King, 
Honor  and  glory  and  length  to  his  reign ! 

Chief  of  the  mighty  and  the  free, 
Thy  joyous  Britain  welcomes  thee, 


THE   POEMS   OF  J.  J.  CALLANAN. 


561 


Her  longing  eyes  have  watch'd  afar 

The  mounting  of  thy  promised  star. 

Beneath  its  influence  benign 

Long  may  she  kneel  at  Freedom's  shrine. 

Its  rising  o'er  St.  George's  main 

lerne  hails  with  glad  acclaim. 

Dear  as  to  Hellas'  weary  few 

Their  own  blue  wave  roll'd  full  in  view, 

Such  Erin's  song  of  Jubilee, 

And  such  her  hopes,  0  Prince,  from  thee ; — 

From  thee,  for  thy  young  steps  have  stray'd 
In  converse  with  the  Athenian  maid, 
Listen'd  to  Virtue's  high  reward 
As  taught  by  sage  or  sung  by  bard, 
Smiled  at  Anacreon's  sportive  lyre, 
Or  glow'd  at  Pindar's  strain  of  fire, 
Or  heard  the  flood  of  Freedom  roll'd 
From  lips  that  now,  alas !  are  cold — 
Forever  cold  in  that  dark  tomb 
Where  Britain  mourns  her  Fox's  doom. 
Nurtured  with  these,  by  these  refined, 
She  watch'd  with  joy  thy  opening  mind. 
Young  as  thou  wert,  she  then  could  see 
That  Erin's  wail  was  dear  to  thee, 
And  look'd  with  transport  to  the  day 
Would  yield  the  sceptre  to  thy  sway. 
****** 

'Tis  done — on  yonder  deathless  field 
Ambition  closed  her  bloody  game, 
Bent  darkly  o'er  her  shatter' d  shield 

And  dropp'd  her  tear  of  flame. 
Europe  beheld  with  glistecieg  eye 

Her  wrong  avenged — her  fetters  riven  ; 
And  peace  and  mercy  from  on  high, 

Diffused  once  more  the  gifts  of  Heaven. 
With  Britain's  genius  hand  in  hand, 
Long  may  they  wait  on  thy  command, 
Long  to  our  vows  may  they  remain 
To  bless,  O  Prince,  thy  prosperous  reign, 
And  waft  Britannia's  halcyon  day 
To  every  land  that  owns  thy  sway. 

Yes,  even  to  those  stranger-lands 
Where  Niger  rolls  through  burning  sands ; 
Where  fragrant  spirits  ever  sigh 
On  the  fresh  breeze  of  Yemen's  sky  ; 
Or  where  indulgent  nature  smiles 
On  her  Pelew  or  Friendly  Isles, 
Commerce  and  peace  shall  waft  thy  fame 
And  teach  the  world  their  George's  name. 


In  yon  fair  land  of  sunny  skies 
Where  Brahma  hears  her  children's  sighs, 
And  Avarice  with  her  demon  crew 
Drains  to  the  life  the  meek  Gentoo, 
Justice  no  more  shall  plead  in  vain, 
But  point  to  thine  avenging  reign. 

Ganges  now  no  more  shall  hear, 

As  on  he  rolls  his  sacred  water, 
The  clash  of  arms — the  shout  of  fear 

Redden  no  more  with  kindred  slaughter  ; 
The  Hindoo  maid  shall  fearless  stray 

At  eve  his  peaceful  banks  along, 
And  dance  to  Scotia's  sprightly  lay 

Or  weep  at  Erin's  plaintive  song, 
Or  sit  amid  Acacia  bowers 

That  hang  their  cooling  shade  above  her, 
And  as  she  twines  the  fairest  flowers 

To  deck  the  brows  of  her  young  lover, 
She'll  think  from  whence  these  pleasures 

came, 
Look  to  the  west  and  bless  thy  name. 

Far  o'er  the  wave  where  Erin  draws 
The  sword  in  Heaven's  best,  holiest  cause, 
And  sees  her  green  flag  proudly  sail 
Aloft  on  Chili's  mountain  gale, 
When  swells  her  harp  with  freedom's  sound, 
And  freedom's  bowl  goes  circling  round, 
Then  shall  the  cup  be  crown'd  to  thee, 
Sparkling  with  smiles  of  liberty. 

The  glorious  task,  O  Prince,  be  thine 
To  guard  thy  Britain's  sacred  shrine, 
To  watch  o'er  Freedom's  vestal  fire, 
Call  forth  the  spirit  of  the  lyre, 
Bid  worth  and  genius  honord  be, 
Unbind  the  slave,  defend  the  free, 
And  bring  again  o'er  ocean's  foam 
The  wandering  Pargiot  to  his  home. 
Children  of  Pargar,  are  ye  gone — 
Children  of  Freedom,  shall  her  song 
Echo  no  more  your  cliffs  among  ? 
Shall  barbarous  Moslem  rites  profane 
The  shrines  that  bow'd  to  Issa's  name  ? 
To  guard  your  shores  from  despot's  tread. 
Was  it  in  vain  your  fathers  bled, 
Till  every  rock  and  every  wave 
Around  them  was  a  Pargiot's  grave  f 
Oh  !  that  their  sons  should  ever  roam 
O'er  ocean's  waste  to  seek  a  home  1 


6G2 


THE  POEMS   OF   J.  J.  CALLANAN. 


Oh  !  that  the  dwelling  of  the  free — 
Parga !  that  them  shouldst  sullied  be 
By  tread  of  Moslem  tyranny  ! 
0  Greece !  thou  ever  honor'd  name, 
Even  in  thy  bondage  and  thy  sharne 
Fondly  around  each  youthful  mind 
By,all  thy  classic  ties  entwined, 
How  shall  this  lay  address  the  free, 
Nor  turn  aside,  sweet  land,  to  thee, 
Mother  of  Arts  and  Liberty  ? 
From  thy  bright  pages  first  I  drew 
That  soul  that  makes  me  part  of  you ; 
There  caught  that  spark  of  heavenly  fire, 
If  such  e'er  warms  the  minstrel's  iyre, 
If  e'er  it  breathes  one  waking  tone 
O'er  Freedom's  slumbers — 'tis  thine  own. 

Oh  !  after  bondage  dark  and  long, 
Could  I  but  hear  young  Freedom's  song, 
And  scatter'd  see  the  Moslem's  pride 
Before  thy  battle's  whelming  tide, 
On  that  red  field  I'd  gladly  lie— 
My  requiem  thy  conquering  cry. 
Heavens !  'mid  the  sons  of  godlike  sires 
Is  there  no  soul  whom  Freedom  fires? 
And  is  the  lyre  of  Lesbos  hung 
In  slavery's  hall,  unswept,  unstrung  ? 
Is  every  glorious  relic  lost 

Of  that  immortal  patriot's  ashes, 
That,  on  the  winds  of  freedom  tost 

Where  Salamis'  blue  billow  dashes, 
Floated  all  burning  from  their  pile, 
And  slept  on  continent  and  isle, 
As  if  to  fire  with  that  embrace 
His  native  land  and  all  her  race  ? 
It  cannot  be — there  yet  remain 
Some  sparks  of  that  high  spirit's  flame 
Oh,  wake  them  with  thy  kindling  breath, 
Oh,  call  a  nation  back  from  death  ! 
Yes,  captives  !  yes,  at  his  command, 
Methinks  I  see  Britannia  stand, 
Where  stood  and  died  the  Spartan  band, 
WThere,  rising  o'er  Thermopylae, 
Thessalia's  mountains  view  the  sea, 
Sparkling  with  all  its  sunny  isles — 
Oh,  how  can  slavery  wear  such  smiles  ? — 
And  Marathon's,  Plataea's  plain, 
And  Thebes,  whose  heroes  died  in  vain, 
To  each  immortal  scene  about 
The  Queen  of  ocean  sends  her  shout, 
While  hill  and  plain  and  isle  around 
Answer  to  Freedom's  Jong-lost  sound. 


Sons  of  the  mighty  and  the  wise, 
Sons  of  the  Greeks,  awake  ! — arise  ! 
By  all  your  wrongs,  by  all  your  shame, 
By  Freedom's  self,  that  blessed  name, 
Think  of  the  fields  your  fathers  fought, 
Think  of  the  rights  they  dying  bought — 
Hark  !  hark  !  they  call  you  from  their  skies. 
Sons  of  the  mighty,  wake — arise  ! 
And  oh,  my  country,  shall  there  be 
From  these  wild  chords  no  prayer  for  thce  f 
Land  of  the  minstrel's  holiest  dream, 
Land  of  young  beauty's  brightest  beam, 
The  fearless  heart,  the  open  hand. 
My  own — my  dear — my  native  land  1 

And  can  the  noble  and  the  wise 

A  nation's  rightful  prayer  despise  ; 

Can  they  who  boast  of  being  free 

Refuse  that  blessed  boast  to  thee  ? 

See  yonder  ag6d  warrior  brave. 

Whose  blood  has  been  on  sward  and  wave. 

Is  he  refused  his  valor's  meed 

Because  he  loves  his  father's  creed  ? 

Or  is  there  in  that  creed  alone, 

What  Valor,  Genius,  should  disown  ;  ' 

To  its  fond  votary  is  there  given 

Less  of  the  mounting  flame  of  Heaven  ? 

When  his  young  hand  essays  the  lyre, 

Oh  !  can  he  wake  no  tone  of  fire  ? 

Does  war's  stern  aspect  blanch  his  cheek— 

Does  foeman  find  his  arm  more  weak, 

His  eye  less  bright  ?     Oh,  let  them  say 

Who  saw  the  sabre's  fearful  sway 

Cleave  its  red  path  through  many  a  fray ; 

Who  saw  his  minstrel  banner  waving 

Where  war's  wild  din  was  wildest  raving, 

And  heard  afar  the  onset  cry 

Of  hearts  th.at  know  to  win,  or  die  ' 

Oh,  Britain,  had  we  never  known 
The  kindling  breath  of  Freedom's  zone ; 
Or  vanquish 'd,  had  we  still  remain'd 
In  slavery's  deepest  dungeon  chain'd, 
Without  one  ray  of  Freedom's  sun 
To  wake  our  sighs  for  glories  gone, 
Such  cheerless  thraldom  we  might  bear 
With  the  dark  meekness  of  despair  : 
But  the  chain'd  eagle,  when  he  sees 
His  mates  upon  the  mountain  breeze, 
And  marks  their  free  wing  upward  soar 
To  heights  his  own  oft  reach'd  before, 
Again  that  kindred  clime  he  seeks — 
Bold  bird,  'tis  vain,  thy  wild  heart  breaks  I 


THE   POEMS  OF  J.  J.  CALLANAN. 


563 


0  monarch  !  by  a  monarch's  name, 
By  the  high  line  from  which  you  came, 
By  that  to  each  proud  spirit  dear, 
The  lofty  name  that  dies  not  here 


With  life's  short  day,  but  round  the  tomb 
Breathes  Immortality's  perfume, 
By  Royalty's  protecting  hand, 
Look  on  ray  dear,  my  native  land. 


RESTORATION   OP   THE   SPOILS   OF  ATHENS. 


RAISE,  Athens,  raise  thy  loftiest  tone, 
Eastward  the  tempest  cloud  hath  blown ; 
Vengeance  hung  darkly  on  its  wing : 
It  burst  in  ruin  ; — Athens,  ring 
Thy  loudest  peal  of  triumphing; 
Persia  is  fallen  :  in  smouldering  heaps 
Her  grand,  her  stately  city  sleeps. 
Above  her  towers  exulting  high, 
Susa  has  heard  the  victor's  cry ; 
And  Ecbatana,  nurse  of  pride, 
Tells  where  her  best,  her  bravest  died. 
Persia  is  sad, — her  virgins'  sighs 
Through  all  her  thousand  States  arise. 
Along  Arbela's  purple  plain 
Shrieks  the  wild  wail  above  the  slain  ; 
Long,  long  shall  Persia  curse  the  clay 
When,  at  the  voice  of  despot  sway, 
Her  millions  march'd  o'er  Belle's  wave 
To  chain — vain  boast — the  free,  the  brave. 
Raise,  Athens,  raise  thy  triumph  song ! 
Yet,  louder  yet,  the  peal  prolong  ! 
Avenged  at  length  our  slaughter'd  sires  ; 
Avenged  the  waste  of  Persian  fires ; 
And  these  dear  relics  of  the  brave, 
Torn  from  their  shrines  by  Satrap  slave, 
The  spoils  of  Persia's  haughty  king, 
Again  are  thine — ring,  Athens,  ring  1 

Oh  !  Liberty,  delightful  name, 
The  land  that  once  hath  felt  thy  flame, 
That  loved  thy  light,  but  wept  its  clouding, 
Oh  !  who  can  tell  her  joy's  dark  shrouding? 
Hut  if  to  cheer  that  night  of  sorrow 
Mem'ry  a  ray  of  thine  should  borrow, 
That  on  her  tears  and  on  her  woes, 
Uteda  one  soft  beam  of  sweot  repose, 
)h !   who  can  tell  her  bright  revealing, 
Her  deep — her  holy  thrills  of  feeling  I 

Bo  Athena  felt,  as  fix'd  her  gaze 
On  her  proud  wealth  of  better  days  : 


'Twas  not  the  Tripod's  costly  frame, 
Nor  vase  that  told  its  artist's  fame  ; 
Nor  veils  high  wrought  with  skill  divine, 
That  graced  the  old  Minerva's  shrine; 
Nor  marble  bust  where  vigor  breathed 
And  beauty's  living  ringlets  wreathed. 
Not  these  could  wake  that  joyous  tone, 
Those  transports  long  unfelt — unknown — 
'Twas  memory's  vision  robed  in  light, 
That  rush'd  upon  her  raptured  sight, 
Warm  from  the  fields  where  freedom  strove 
Fresh  with  the  wreaths  that  freedom  wove : 
This  bless'd  her  then,  if  that  could  be — 
If  aught  is  blest  that  is  not  free. 

But  did  no  voice  exulting  raise 
To  that  high  Chief  the  song  of  praise, 
And  did  no  peal  of  triumph  ring 
For  Macedon's  victorious  king, 
Who  from  the  foe  those  spoils  had  won  ; 
Was  there  no  shout  for  Philips  son? 
No — Monarch — no— what  is  thy  name, 
What  is  thine  high  career  of  fame, 
From  its  first  field  of  youthful  pride 
Where  Valor  fail'd  and  Freedom  died, 
Onward  by  mad  ambition  fired 
'Till. Greece  beneath  its  march  expired! 
Let  the  base  herd  to  whom  thy  gold 
Is  dearer  than  the  rights  they  sold, 
In  secret,  to  their  Lord  and  King, 
That  foul  unholy  incense  fling; 
But  let  no  slave  exalt  his  voice 
Where  hearts  in  glory's  trance  rejoice  : 
Oh,  breathe  not  now  her  tyrant's  name 
Oh,  wake  not  yet  Athense's  shame ! 
Would  that  the  hour  when  Xerxes'  ire 
Wrapt  fair  Athena's  walls  in  fire, 
All,  all  had  perish'd  in  the  blaze, 
And  that  had  been  her  last  of  days, — 
Gone  down  in  that  bright  shroud  of  glory, 
The  loveliest  wreck  in  after  story  I 


564 


THE   POEMS   OF   J.  J.  CALLANAN. 


Or -when  her  children,  forced  to  roam — 

Freedom  their  stars,  the  waves  their  home — 

Near  Salamis'  immortal  isle, 

Would  they  had  slept  in  victory's  smile  ; 

Or  Cheronea's  fatal  day, 

While  fronting  slavery's  dark  array, 

Had  seen  them  bravely,  nobly  die, 

Bosom  on  gushing  bosom  lie, 

Piling  fair  Freedom's  breast- work  high, 

Ere  one  Athenian  should  remain 

To  languish  life  in  captive  chain, 

Or  basely  wield  a  freeman's  sword 

Beneath  a  Macedonian  lord  ! 

Such     then     was     Greece, — though    conquer'd, 

chain'd, 

Some  pride,  some  virtue,  yet  remain'd; 
And  as  the  sun  when  down  he  glides 
Slowly  behind  the  mountains'  sides, 
Leaves  in  the  cloud  that  robes  the  hill 
His  own  bright  image  burning  still, 
Thus  Freedom's  lingering  flushes  shone 
O'er  Greece, — though  Freedom's  self  was  gone. 

Snch  then  was  Greece  !  how  fallen,  how  low! 
Yet  great  even  then  :  what  is  she  now ! 
Who  can  her  many  woes  deplore, 
Who  shall  her  freedom's  spoils  restore  ? 
Darkly  above  her  slavery's  night 
The  crescent  sheds  its  lurid  light ; 


Upon  her  breaks  no  cheering  ray, 

No  beam  of  freedom's  lovely  day  ; 

But  there  deep,  shrouded  in  her  doom, 

There  now  is  Greece — a  living  tomb. 

Look  at  her  sons,  and  seek  in  vain 

The  indignant  brow,  the  high  disdain, 

With  which  the  proud  soul  drags  her  chain  J 

The  living  spark  of  latent  fire 

That  smoulders  on,  but  can't  expire, 

That  bright  beneath  the  lowering  lashes 

Will  burst  at  times  in  angry  flashes, 

Like  Etna,  fitful  slumbers  taking, 

To  be  but  mightier  in  its  waking. 

Spirits  of  those  whose  ashes  sleep 

For  freedom's  cause  in  glory's  bed  ! 
Oh,  do  you  sometimes  come  and  weep 

That  that  is  lost  for  which  ye  bled, 
That  e'er  barbarian  flag  should  float 

O'er  your  own  home,  in  victory's  pride, 
That  e're  should  ring  barbarian  shout 

Where  Wisdom  taught  and  Valor  died  1 
Ob  for  that  minstrel's  soul  of  fire 

That  breathed,  and  Sparta's  arm  was  strong  t 
Oh  for  some  master  of  the  lyre 

To  wake  again  that  kindling  song! 
And  if,  sweet  land,  aught  lives  of  thee, 
What  Hellas  was  she  yet  may  be, 
Freedom,  like  her  to  Orpheus  given, 
May  visit  yet  her  home — her  heaven. 


THE  REVENGE  OF  DONAL  COMM. 


'Tis  midnight,  and  November's  gale 
Sweeps  hoarsely  down  Glengarav's1  vale, 

1  The  following  beautiful  description  of  Glengarav  and  the  B»y 
of  Bantry  is  taken  from  the  Rev.  Horace  Townsend's  Statistical 
Survey  of  the  County  of  Cork : 

"The  Bay  of  Bantry.  from  almost  every  point  of  view,  exhibits 
one  of  the  noblest  prospects,  on  a  scale  of  romantic  magnitude, 
that  imagination  can  well  conceive.  The  extent  of  this  great  body 
of  water,  from  the  eastern  extremity  to  the  ocean,  is  about  twenty- 
five  miles;  the  breadth,  including  the  islands,  from  six  to  eight 
It  contains,  besides  some  small,  two  very  large  islands,  differing 
.extremely  from  each  other  in  quality  and  appearance,  but  perfectly 
•uited  to  the  respective  purposes  of  their  different  situations. 
Bear  Island,  very  high,  rocky,  and  coarse,  standing  a  little  within 
the  mouth  of  the  bay,  braves  the  fury  of  the  western  waves,  and 
forms,  by  the  shelter  of  its  li.rge  body,  a  most  secure  and  spacious 
naven.  Safe  in  its  more  retired  situation,  at  the  upper  end  of  the 
bay,  the  Island  of  Whiddy  presents  a  surface  of  gentle  inequalities, 
covered  by  a  soil  of  uncommon  richness  and  fertility.  The  gran- 
deur of  the  scene  in  which  this  noble  expanse  of  water  bears  so 
conspicuous  a  part  is  greatly  enhanced  by  the  rugged  variety  of 
he  surrounding  mountains,  particularly  those  on  the  west  side, 


Through  the  thick  rain  its  fitful  tone 
Shrieks  like  a  troubled  spirit's  moan, 

which  far  exceed  the  rest  in  altitude  and  boldness  of  form. 
Among  these.  Hungry-hill,  rising  with  a  very  steep  ascent  from 
the  wuter,  raises  his  broad  and  majestic  head,  easily  distinguish- 
able froin  a  great  distance,  and  far  surpassing  all  the  other  moun- 
tains of  this  country  in  height  and  grandeur.  The  effect  produced 
by  such  an  assemblage  of  objects  can  hardly  be  conceived,  and  \a 
impossible  to  be  described.  The  mind,  filled  and  overborne  by 
a  prospect  so  various,  so  extended,  so  sublime,  sinks  br neath  it* 
magnitude,  and  feeling  the  utter  incapability  of  adequate  expr»s- 
sion,  rests  upon  the  scene  in  silent  and  solemn  adntirution.  Th« 
soul  must  be  insensible  indeed  which  will  not  be  moved  by  such 
a  contemplation  to  adore  the  God  of  nature,  from  whom  snob 
mighty  works  proceed.  Large  as  the  ground  of  this  great  picture 
is,  it  comes  within  the  scope  of  human  sight,  a  circumstance  upon 
which  the  powerfulness  of  its  impression  materially  depends.  A 
greater  extension  of  the  parts,  by  throwing  them  far  from  Tiew, 
would  diminish  their  effect  and  a  reduction  of  their  scale  would 
lessen  their  grandeur.  Much  and  justly  as  Killarney  is  celebrated 
for  the  beauty  of  its  scenes,  no  single  view  it  affords  can  vie  witli 
this  in  sublimity  of  character  and  greatness  of  effect. 


THE   POEMS   OF  J.  J.  CALL  A  NAN. 


666 


The  Moon  that  from  her  cloud  at  eve 
LookM  down  on  Ocean's  gentle  heave, 
And  bright  on  lake  and  mountain  shone, 
Now  wet  and  darkling  journeys  on  ; 
From  the  veil'd  heaven  there  breaks  no  ray 
To  guide  the  traveller  on  his  way, 
Save  when  the  lightning  gilds  awhile 
The  craggy  peak  of  Sliav-na-goil, 
Or  its  far-streaming  flashes  fall 
Upon  Glencjarav's  mountain  wall, 

"  But  the  place  most  celebrated  for  combining  the  softer  graces 
of  the  waving  wood,  with  the  wildest  rudeness  of  mountain  as- 
pect, is  Glengariff(the  rough  glen),  situated  on  the  north  side  of 
the  bay,  at  the  head  of  a  small  hurlior  or  cove.  The  bills  that 
enclose  Ibis  romantic  glen  rise  In  great  variety  of  rocky  forms, 
their  sides  and  hollows  being  covered  profusely  with  trees  and 
shrubs,  among  whicli  the  arbutus,  rarely  found  to  adorn  our  native 
woods,  appears  in  a  flourishing  state.  Here,  as  at  Killarney, 
nature  seems  to  have  been  at  wanton  variance  with  herself,  and 
after  exciting  a  war  between  two  rival  powers,  to  have  decided  in 
favor  of  the  weaker  party.  Among  stones  of  an  immense  size, 
thrown  together  In  the  wildest  confusion,  and  apparently  forbid- 
ding the  possibility  of  useful  produce,  among  bare  and  massive 
rocks,  that  should  seem  destined  to  reign  forever  in  barren  deso- 
lation, arises  a  luxuriance  of  sylvan  growth,  which  art  would 
hardly  hope  for  in  the  happiest  situations.  The  extent  of  this 
woody  region,  winding  through  the  mountains  for  some  miles,  is 
very  considerable,  tron  was  formerly  smelted  in  this  neighbor- 
hood, when  Umber  was  more  abundant  and  less  valuable.  A 
river,  abounding  with  saimon  and  sea-trout,  runs  through  this 
glen,  In  dry  weather  (as  Johnson  observes  of  a  similar  situation), 
'fretting  over  the  asperities  of  a  rocky  bottom,'1  wh"n  swollen 
with  rains,  rolling  a  torrent  of  frightful  magnitude  Into  the  bay. 
It  Is  passed  by  a  good  stone  bridge,  attributed  to  Cromwell,  and 
still  bearing  his  name. 

"The  last  of  nature's  uncommon  and  astonishing  displays  that 
remains  to  be  mentioned  Is  the  waterfall  or  cataract  of  Hunnry- 
hlll,  In  comparison  with  which  O'Sulllvan's  Cascade  at  Killarney 
and  the  waterfall  at  I'ower's-court,  near  Dublin,  shrink  into  insig- 
nificance. The  eye  accustomed  to  the  various  wonders  of  Alpine 
scenery  may  doubtless  view  this  stupendous  fall  with  less  emotion, 
but  what  will  the  lowland  inhabitant  think  of  a  river  tumbled  from 
the  summit  of  a  mountain  elevated  more  than  2,00i>  feet  above  its 
base  and  almost  perpendicular  in  its  ascent  In  the  first  part  of 
its  progress,  the  side  of  the  hill  is  so  steep  as  to  suffer  the  water 
to  fall  from  a  vast  height,  unimpeded  by  the  rocky  projections 
which  the  spreading  base  of  the  mountain  opposes  to  its  descent 
In  approaching  the  bottom.  It  thus  assumes  the  double  charac- 
ter of  a  fall  and  cataract.  At  the  back  of  this  great  mountain  are 
several  lakes,  one  of  which  supplies  the  water  of  the  fall.  This 
grand  and  singular  spectacle,  often  to  be  plainly  distinguished 
from  the  town  of  Banlry,  fourteen  miles  distant,  appears  in  fall 
majesty  only  alter  heavy  falls  of  rain,  sumriently  frequent  In  this 
district  to  give  the  inhabitants  numerous  opportunities  of  seeing 
It  in  all  its  glory." 

This  is  very  clear  and  graphic:  hut  It  would  he  Injustice  to  the 
reader  to  omit  the  following  picture  of  Olencnrlff,  by  a  gentleman, 
a  resident  of  Bantry,  whose  line  poetical  feeling  and  almost  In- 
tuitive pereepti'in  of  the  beautiful  in  natural  scenery  had  happily 
fitted  him  for  the  task  of  describing  this  magnificent  region,  which 
he  had  undertaken  In  the  ninth  number  of  "Bolster's  Maga- 
zine:'' 

•'  After  visiting  some  of  the  most  picturesque  parts  of  the  south- 
western coast,  we  line-Ted  a  few  days  nmld  the  enchanting  wilds 
of  Glengarlft  We  had  the  advantage  of  reviewing  Its  wood- 
crowned  steeps,  gleaming  under  a  cloudless  sky,  In  alt  the  rich 
variety  of  tints  which  the  fading  glory  of  uutumn  left  upon  the 
frail  but  beautiful  foliage.  Less  Imposing  in  Its  mountain  barriers 
than  Killarney,  and  less  enriched  by  the  fanciful  variety  of  spark- 
ling islands  In  Its  sea-views,  the  Inland  scenery  exhibits  a 
eharacter  equally  magical  and  partakes  as  much  of  the  seclusion, 
the  loneliness,  and  the  flowery  wilds  of  fairy-land  as  any  portion 


And  kindles  with  its  angry  streak 

The  rocky  zone  it  may  not  break. 

At  times  is  heard  the  distant  roar 

Of  billows  warring  'gainst  the  shore  ; 

And  rushing  from  their  native  hills, 

The  voices  of  a  thousand  rills 

Come  shouting  down  the  mountain's  side, 

When  the  deep  thunder's  peal  hath  died. 

How  fair  at  sunset  to  the  view 

On  its  loved  rock  the  Arbutus  grew  ! 


of  the  country  on  the  borders  of  the  lakes.  The  summer  tourist 
who  pays  a  hurried  visit  of  a  few  hours  to  the  Glen  Is  by  DO 
means  competent  to  pronounce  an  opinion  upon  its  peculiar  at- 
tractions. His  eye  may  wander  with  delight  over  the  startling 
irregularity  of  its  hills  and  dales,  but  he  has  not  time  sufficient  to 
explore  the  depths  and  recesses  of  its  woodland  solitude,  in  which 
the  witching  churms  of  this  romantic  region  operate  most  forcibly 
on  the  mind.  It  is  by  trending  Its  tangled  pathways  and  wander- 
Ing  amid  its  secret  dells  that  the  charms  of  Glengaritf  become 
revealed  in  all  their  power.  There  tlie  most  fanciful  and  pic- 
turesque views  spread  around  on  every  side.  A  twilight  grove, 
terminating  in  a  soft  vale,  whose  vivid  green  appears  as  if  it  had 
been  never  violated  by  mortal  foot;  a  bower  rich  in  the  fragrant 
woodbine,  intermingled  with  a  variety  of  clasping  evergreens- 
drooping  over  a  miniature  lake  of  transparent  brightness ;  a  lonely 
wild  suddenly  bursting  on  the  sight,  girded  on  all  sides  by  grim 
and  naked  mountains;  a  variety  of  natural  avenues,  leading 
through  the  embowered  wood  to  retreats  in  whose  breathless 
solitude  the  very  genius  of  meditation  would  appear  to  reside,  or 
to  golden  glades,  sonorous  with  the  songs  of  a  hundred  foaming 
rills.  But  what  appears  chiefly  lo  impress  the  mind  in  this  se- 
cluded region  Is  the  deep  conviction  you  feel  that  there  is  no 
dramatic  effect  in  all  you  behold,  no  pleasing  illti-ioti  of  art;  that 
it  is  nature  you  contemplate,  such  as  she  is  in  all  her  wildncss  and 
all  her  beauty. 

"The  situation  of  Lord  Bantry's  lodge  Is  very  picturesque;  the 
verdant  swell  on  which  It  rises,  and  the  tasteful  ardors  that  sur- 
round it.  appear  in  fine  relief  to  the  frowning  hills  in  the  rear. 
But  although  I  consider  what  may  be  called  the  inland  beauties 
of  Glengariff  the  most  striking  and  characteristic,  I  Mm  far  from 
depreciating  it»  coiust  scenery.  The  view  of  Mr.  White's  castel- 
lated mansion  and  demesne  from  the  water  Is  very  Imposing.  The 
architecture  of  the  house,  which  corresponds  with  its  situation, 
is  in  admirable  keeping  with  the  mountains  hi  the  background. 
The  demesne  Is  laid  out  in  very  good  taste,  exhibiting  no  violent 
triumph  of  art  over  nature,  but  that  inimitable  carelessness,  that 
touching  simplicity,  which  shows  thai  she  has  not  born  subdued 
and  conquered,  but  gently  wooed  and  won.  From  a  wooded 
steep  on  the  old  Berehaven  road,  to  the  north  of  Cromwell's 
bridge,  you  may  command  the  most  comprehensive  view  that  Is 
afforded  by  any  spot  In  the  neighborhood  of  the  Glen. 

"On  the  left, you  have  the  entire  woodland  sweep  of  Glengarlff 
stretching  tar  to  the  south  and  east,  and  clothing  many  a  hill  In  its 
imposing  verdure,  but  disclosing  most  Hgrfenl>!t<  vi.-tas,  through 
which  the  mountain  streams  may  be  M-en  wild  \  nulling  aid 
sparkling  in  their  course,  tr»  the  wc.-t.  you  have  the  lofty  moun- 
tains of  Berehaven,  with  their  grucofir;!  outline  terminated  by  the 
•  wa>te  of  waters  wild,'  whilst  Lord  liamry's  demesne  lies  to  the 
south  in  dim  perspective.  The  sunset  over  Uotil  and  Hungry,  the 
most  prominent  In  the  western  chntn  of  mountains,  as  seen  from 
Glungarltr,  or  any  of  the  heights  in  the  neighborhood  of  Bantrr, 
is  particularly  grand.  The  waterfall,  which  Uke*  a  leap  of  some 
hundred  feet  from  the  crest  of  the  former,  can  sometimes  be  plain- 
ly distinguished  at  a  distance  of  iwei.ly  miles,  with  Its  illuminated 
Iris.  The  white  mists  with  which  Its  brows  aie  frequently 
wreathed  give  this  mountain  a  jiecullarly  soft  and  graceful  rhai- 
actcr.  On  a  few  occasions.  It  has  exhibited  an  aspect  of  transcend- 
ent glory,  having  Its  entire  figure  veiled  In  a  transparent  curtain 
of  the  rainbow  tint  As  you  may  suppose,  the  majority  of  the 
mountains  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  Glou  are  crowned  with 
lakes;  no  less  than  865  of  these  Alpine  reservoir*  are  to  be  found 
on  the  summit  of  one  of  them." 


566 


THE  POEMS   OF  J.  J.  CALLANAN. 


How  motionless  the  heather  laj 
In  the  deep  gorge  of  that  wild  oay  ! 
Through  the  tall  forest  not  a  breeze 
Disuirb'd  the  silence  of  the  trees  ; 
O'er  the  calm  scene  their  foliage  red 
A  venerable  glory  shed, 
And  sad  and  sombre  beauty  gave 
To  the  wild  hill  and  peaceful  wave. 

To-morrow's  early  dawn  will  find 
That  beauty  scatter'd  on  the  wind; 
To-morrow's  sun  will  journey  on 
And  see  the  forest's  glory  gone — 
The  Arbutus  shiver'd  on  the  rock 
Beneath  the  tempest's  angry  shock, 
The  monarch  Oak  all  scathed  and  riven 
By  the  red  arrowy  bolt,  of  heaven  ; 
While  not  a  leaf  remains  behind, 
Save  some  lone  mourner  of  its  kind, 
Wither'd  and  drooping  on  its  bough, 
Like  him  who  treads  that  valley  now. 

Alone  he  treads — still  on  the  blast 
The  sheeted  rain  is  driving  fast, 
And  louder  peals  the  thunder's  crash, 
Louder  the  ocean's  distant  dash — 
Amid  the  elemental  strife 
He  walks  as  reckless,  as  if  life 
Were  but  a  debt  he'd  freely  pay 
To  the  next  flash  that  cross'd  his  way : 
Yet  is  there  something  in  his  air 
Of  purpose  firm  that  mocks  despair ; 
What  that,  and  whither  he  would  cro 

o 

Through  storm  and  darkness,  none  may  know ; 
But  his  unerring  steps  can  tell, 
There's  not  a  deer  in  that  wild  dell 
Can  track  its  mazy  depths  so  well. 

He  gains  the  shore — his  whistle  shrill 
Is  answer'd — ready  at  his  will ; 
In  a  small  cove  his  pinnace  lay — 
"  Weigh  quick,  my  lads,  I  cross  the  bay." 
No  question  ask  they,  but  a  cheer 
Proclaims  their  bosoms  know  not  fear. 
Sons  of  the  mountain  and  the  wave, 
They  shrink  not  from  a  billowy  grave. 
Those  hearts  have  oft  braved  death  before, 
'Mid  Erin's  rocks  and  Biscay's  roar ; 
Each  lightly  holds  the  life  he  draws, 
If  it  but  serve  his  Chieftain's  cause ; 
And  thinks  his  toil  full  well  he  pays, 
If  he  bestow  one  word  of  praise. 


At  length  they've  clear'd  the  narrow  bay — 

Up  with  the  sails,  away  !  away  ! 

O'er  the  broad  surge  she  flies  as  fleet 

As  on  the  tempest's  wing  the  sleet, 

And  fearless  as  the  sea-bird's  motion 

Across  his  own  wild  fields  of  ocean. 

Though  winds  may  wave  and  seas  o'erwhelm, 

There  is  a  hand  upon  that  helm 

That  can  control  its  trembling  power, 

And  quits  it  not  in  peril's  hour ; 

Full  frequently  from  sea  to  sky 

That  Chieftain  looks  with  anxious  eye, 

But  naught  can  be  distinguish'd  there 

More  desperate  than  his  heart's  despair. 

On  yonder  shore  what  means  that  light 

That  flings  its  murky  flame  through  night! 

Along  the  margin  of  the  ocean 

It  moves  with  slow  and  measured  motion. 

Another  follows,  and  behind 

Are  torches  flickering  in  the  wind. 

Hark  !  heard  you  on  the  dying  gale 

From  yonder  cliffs  the  voice  of  wail  ? 

'Twas  but  the  tempest's  moaning  sigh, 

Or  the  wild  sea-bird's  lonely  cry. 

Hush !  there  again — I  know  it  well, 

It  is  the  sad  Ululla's1  swell, 

That  mingles  with  the  death-bell's  toll 

Its  grief  for  p.ome  departed  soul. 

Inver-na-marc,s  thy  rugged  shore 
Is  alter'd  since  the  days  of  yore, 
Where  once  ascending  from  the  town 
A  narrow  path  look'd  fearful  clown, 


1  Though  Byron  has  Wulwulla  and  Campbell  Ollolla,  I  have  not 
hesitated  to  use  the  word,  as  no  one  has  a  better  claim  to  it  than 
an  Irishman. 

»  Inver-na-marc  (the  bay  of  ships),  the  old  name  for  Bantry 
Bay.  Inver  (properly  spelled  In-mar)  gives  name  to  many  places 
In  Ireland  ;  it  signifies  a  creek  or  bay.  Inverary,  Inverness.  Ac., 
In  Scotland,  have  the  same  origin.  This  bay  is  so  large  and  well 
sheltered  that  all  the  ships  in  Europe  micht  lie  there  in  perfect 
security.  In  1689,  there  was  a  partial  engagement  here  between 
the  English  fleet  under  Admiral  Herbert  and  the  French  com- 
manded by  Mons.  Renault,  in  which  the  former  lind  the  worst  of 
it,  owing  to  a  great  part  of  the  ships  being  unable  to  come  into 
action.  (See  Wilson's  Naval  History.)  The  division  of  the  French 
fleet  which  came  to  anchor  here  In  the  winter  of  1796  never  at- 
tempted a  landing.  A  Bantry  pilot,  who  ventured  on  board  one 
of  their  ships  and  remained  with  them  for  a  week,  said  that  they 
spent  the  time  in  every  species  of  amusement;  their  bands  were 
continually  playing,  and  they  were  very  often  seen  from  the  shore 
dancing  on  deck.  It  is  remarkable  that  it  was  in  Irish  they  con- 
versed with  this  person.  They  questioned  him  about  the  stnte  of 
the  roads,  which  some  of  them  appeared  to  know  very  well,  and 
the  disposition  of  the  people.  He  was  treated  with  the  greatest 
kindness,  and  nothing  but  his  having  a  family  could  have  induced 
him  to  leave  them.  By  this  account,  whish  we  have  hal  lately 
verified  in  the  Autobiography  of  Nappcr  Tandy,  there  were  • 
great  number  of  Irishmen  in  the  expedition 


TBE  POEMS  OF  J.  J.  CALLANAN. 


567 


O'er  the  bleak  cliffs  which  wildly  gave 
Their  rocky  bosom  to  the  wave. 
A  beauteous  and  unrivall'd  sweep 
Of  beach  extends  along  the  deep ; 
Above  is  seen  a  sloping  plain, 
With  princely  house  and  fair  domain, 
Where  erst  the  deer  from  covert  dark 
Gazed  wildly  on  the  anchor'd  bark, 
Or  listen'd  the  deep  copse  among 
To  hear  the  Spanish1  seaman's  song 
Come  sweetly  floating  up  the  bay, 
With  the  last  purple  gleam  of  day. — 
All  changed,  even  yon  projecting  steep 
That  darkly  bends  above  the  deep, 
And  mantles  with  its  joyless  shade 
The  waste  that  man  and  time  have  made 
There, 'mid  its  tall  and  circling  wood, 
In  olden  times  an  abbey  stood  : 
It  stands  no  more — no  more  at  even 
The  vesper  hymn  ascends  to  Heaven ; 
No  more  the  sound  of  Matin  bell 
Calls  forth  each  father  from  his  cell, 
Or  breaks  upon  the  sleeping  ear 
Of  Leim-a-tagartV  mountaineer, 
And  bids  him  on  his  purpose  pause, 
Ere  yet  the  foraying  brand  he  draws. 

Where  are  they  now  ?     Go  climb  that  height, 
Whose  depth  of  shade  yields  scanty  light, 
Where  the  dark  alders  droop  their  head 
O'er  Ard-na-mrahar's3  countless  dead, 


1  This  place  wn  formerly  much  frequented  by  the  Spaniards. 
It  carried  on  a  very  extensive  trade  In  pilchards  with  Spain,  Por- 
tugal, and  Italy,  hut  for  these  last  seventy  or  eighty  years  not  t 
pilchard  has  appeared  on  the  coast  The  following  two  instance*, 
taken  from  "Smith's  History  of  Cork,"  prove  what  an  inexhaust- 
ible source  of  wealth  and  comfort  the  Irish  fisheries  would  he  if 
properly  encouraged : 

"In  1749,  Mr.  Richard  Mead,  of  Bantry,  proved  to  the  Dublin 
Society  that  '.ie  bad  in  that  year  caught  and  cared  850,800  fish  of 
different  kinds,  six  score  to  the  hundred;  and  in  the  preceding 
year,  Mr.  James  Young,  of  the  same  place,  caught  and  cured 
4S2,  600  herrings  and  231  barrels  of  sprats.  * 

One  year  with  another,  fish  is  as  plentiful  on  this  coast  as  at  the 
above  period. 

1  Lelm-a-ugart  (the  priest's  leap)  is  a  wild  and  dangerous  moun- 
tain pass  from  Bantry  into  Kerry.  The  people  dwelling  about 
this  spot  have  been  from  time  Immemorial  noted  crtaak  drivers 
or  forayers.  They  go  by  the  name  of  Glannles,  or  the  Glen  boya, 
and  so  unsubdued,  even  at  this  day,  is  the  spirit  of  their  ancestors 
In  them,  that  rather  than  lead  an  Inactive  life,  they  make  frequent 
tescenU  upon  a  clan  of  Lowlanders  called  Kohanea,  or  boys  of 
the  mist,  not  for  the  purpose  of  driving  cattle,  for  that  would  not 
be  quite  so  safe  In  these  times,  but  for  the  mere  pleasure  of  light- 
ing, or  to  revenge  some  old  nffmnt.  This  gave  rise  to  numerous 
conflicts,  until  very  lately,  when  the  unwearied  and  persevering 
exertions  of  the  Kev.  Mr.  Barry,  Parish  Priest  of  Bantry,  effected 
what  the  law  might  attempt  In  vain  ;  fur  these  mountaineers, 
though  not  living  exactly  beyond  the  leap,  come  within  the  ap- 
plication of  the  proverbial  saying,  u  beyond  the  Leap,  beyond  the 


And  nettle  tall  and  hemlock  waves 
In  rank  luxuriance  o'er  the  graves; 
There  fragments  of  the  sculptured  stone, 
Still  sadly  sp«ak  of  grandeur  gone, 
And  point  the  spot,  where  dark  and  deep 
The  fathers  and  their  abbey  sleep. 
That  train  hath  reach'd  the  abbey  ground, 
The  flickering  lights  are  ranged  around, 

And  resting  on  tho  bier, 
Amid  the  attendants'  broken  sighs, 
And  pall'd  with  black,  the  coffin  lies; 

The  Monks  are  kneeling  near. 
The  abbot  stands  above  the  dead, 
With  gray  and  venerable  head, 

And  sallow  cheek  and  pale. 
The  Miserere  hymn  ascends, 
And  its  deep  solemn  sadness  blends 

With  the  hoarse  and  moaning  gale. 
The  last  "Amen"  was  breathed  by  all, 
And  now  they  had  removed  the  pall, 

And  up  the  coffin  rear'd  ; 
When  a  stern  "  Ilold  !"  was  heard  jiloud, 
And  wildly  bursting  through  the  crowd, 

A  frantic  form  appear'd. 

He  paused  awhile  and  gasp'd  for  breath  : 
His  look  bad  less  of  life  than  death, 

He  seem'd  as  from  the  grave — 
So  all  unearthly  was  his  tread  ; 
And  high  above  his  stately  head 

A  sable  plume  did  wave. 
Clansmen  and  fathers  look'd  aghast: 
But  when  the  first  surprise  was  past, 

Yet  louder  rose  their  grief; 
For  when  he  stood  above, the  dead, 
And  took  the  bonnet  from  his  head, 

All  knew  IveraV  Chief; 
No  length  of  time  could  e'er  erase, 
Once  seen,  that  Chieftain's  form  and  face. 
Calmly  he  stood  amid  their  gaze, 
While  the  red  torches'  shifting  blaze, 
As  strong  it  flicker'd  in  the  breeze, 
That  wildly  raved  among  the  trees, 
Its  fitful  light  upon  him  threw, 
And  Donal  Comm  stood  full  to  view. 


*  Ard-na-mrahsr  (the  brethren's,  or  monks',  height).  M  called 
from  an  abbey  which  once  stood  there.    The  "  {liberal*  I  'otnlnl- 
cana,"  In  Its  enumeration  of  the  monasteries  of   Friar-'  Minors, 
thus  speaks  of  It,  "  Bnntry  in  agro  Corcagifnui,  Canot/ium  fun- 
datum  a  Dermilo  O'Sullifiin,  circy  A.  1460 T" 

*  Ivera— th«  barony  of  Bear.     I-bera  la  the  Irish  word,  the  ft 
having  the  sound  of  t.    Smith  thinks  the  place  so  called  from  Ut 
Iberl,  a  Spanish  colony  which  settled  originally  in  this  quarter. 


568 


THE  POEMS  OF  J.  J.  CALLANAN. 


His  form  was  tall,  but  not  the  height 
Which  seems  unwieldy  to  the  sight ; 
His  mantle,  as  it  backward  flow'd, 
An  ample  breadth  of  bosom  show'd ; 
His  sabre's  girdle  round  his  waist 
A  golden  buckle  tightly  braced ; 
A  close-set  trews  display'd  a  frame 
You  could  not  all  distinctly  name 
If  it  had  more  of  strength  or  grace; 
But  when  the  light  fell  on  his  face, 
The  dullest  eye  beheld  a  man 
Fit  to  be  Chieftain  of  his  clan. 

His  cheek,  though  pale,  retain'd  the  hue 
Which  from  Iberian  blood  it  drew  ; 
His  sharp  and  well-form'd  features  bore 
Strong  semblance  to  his  sires  of  yore; 
Calm,  grave,  and  dignified,  his  eye 
Had  an  expression  proud  and  high, 
And  in  its  darkness  dwelt  a  flame 
Which  not  even  grief  like  his  could  tame ; 
Above  his  bent  brow's  sad  repose, 
A  high  heroic  forehead  rose, — 
But  o'er  its  calm  you  mark'd  the  cloud 
That  wrapp'd  his  spirit  in  its  shroud; 
His  clustering  locks  of  sable  hue, 
Upon  ihe  tempest  wildly  flew. 
Unreck'd  by  him  the  storm  may  blow  ; 
His  feelings  are  with  her  below. 

"  Remove  the  lid,"  at  length  he  cried. 

None  stirr'd,  they  thought  it  strange  ;  beside, 

Her  kinsman  mutter'd  something — "  Haste, 

I  have  not  breath  or  time  to  waste 

In  parley  now — Ivera's  chief 

May  be  permitted  one,  last,  brief 

Farewell  with  her  he  loved,  and  then, 

Eva  is  yours  and  earth's  again." 

At  length,  reluctant  they  obey'd  : 

Slowly  he  turn'd  aside  his  head, 

And  press'd  his  hand  against  his  brow — 

Tis  done  at  last,  he  knows  not  how  : 

But  when  he  heard  one  piercing  shriek, 

A  deadlier  paleness  spread  his  cheek; 

Sidelong  he  look'd,  and  fearfully, 

Dreading  the  sight  he  yet  would  see  ; 

Trembled  his  knees,  his  eye  grew  dim, 

His  stricken  brain  began  to  swim ; 

He  stagger'd  back  against  a  yew 

That  o'er  the  bier  its  branches  threw ; 

Upon  his  brows  the  dews  of  death 

Collected,  and  his  quick  low  breath 

Scem'd  but  the  last  and  feeble  strife, 


Ere  yet  it  yield,  of  parting  life. 
There  lay  his  bride — death  hath  not  quite 
O'ershadow'd  all  her  beauty's  light ; 
Still  on  her  brow  and  on  her  cheek 
It  linger'd,  like  the  sun's  last  streak 
On  Sliav-na-goila's  head  of  snow 
When  all  the  vales  are  dark  below — 
Her  lids  in  languid  stillness  lay 
Like  lilies  o'er  a  strearn-parch'd  way, 
Which  kiss  no  more  the  wave  of  light 
That  flash'd  beneath  them  purely  bright; 
Above  her  forehead,  fair  and  young, 
Her  dark-brown  tresses  clustering  hung, 
Like  summer  clouds,  that  still  shine  on 
When  he  who  gilds  their  folds  is  gone. 
Her  features  breathed  a  sad  sweet  tone 
Caught  ere  the  spirit  left  her  throne, 
Like  that  the  night-wind  often  makes 
When  some  forsaken  lyre  it  wakes, 
And  minds  us  of  the  master  hand 
That  once  could  all  its  voice  command. 

"  Cold  be  the  hand,  and  curst  the  blow," 
Her  kinsman  cried,  "that  laid  thee  low  ; — 
Curst  be  the  steel  that  pierced  thy  heart." 
Forth  sprang  that  Chief  with  sudden  start^ 
Tore  off  the  scarf  that  veil'd  her  breast — 
That  dark  deep  wound  can  tell  the  rest. 
He  gazed  a  moment,  then  his  brand 
Flash'd  out  so  sudden  in  his  hand, 
His  boldest  clansman  backward  reel'd — 
Trembling,  the  aged  abbot  kneel'd.^ 
"  Is  this  a  time  for  grief,"  he  cried, 
"  And  thou  thus  low,  my  murder'd  bride  f 
Fool !  to  such  boyish  feelings  bow, 
Far  other  task  hath  Donal  now ; 
Hear  me,  ye  thunder  upon  high  ! 
And  thou,  bless'd  ocean,  hear  my  cry ! 
Hear  me !  sole  resting  friend,  my  sword, 
Ar>d  thou,  dark  wound,  attest  rny  word ! 
No  food,  no  rest  shall  Donal  know, 
Until  he  lay  thy  murderer  low — 
Until  each  sever'd  quivering  limb 
In  its  own  lustful  blood  shall  swim. 
When  my  heart  gains  this  poor  relief, 
Then,  Eva,  wilt  thou  bless  thy  chief. 
Bless  him ! — no,  no,  that  word  is  o'er, 
My  sweet  one!  thou  can'st  bless  no  more, 
No  more,  returning  from  the  strife 
Where  Donal  fought  to  guard  thy  life 
And  free  his  native  land,  shalt  thou 
Wipe  the  red  war-drops  from  his  brow, 


THE  POEMS  OF  J.  J.  CALLANAN. 


669 


And  hush  his  toils  and  cares  to  rest 

Upon  thy  fond  and  faithful  breast." 

He  gazed  a  moment  on  her  face, 

And  stoop'd  to  take  the  last  embrace, 

And  as  his  lips  to  hers  he  prest, 

The  coffin  shook  beneath  his  breast, 

That  heaved  convulsive  as  'twould  break ; 

Then  in  a  tone  subdued  and  meek, 

"Take  her,"  he  said,  and  calmly  rose, 

And  through  the  friends  that  round  him  close, 

Unheeding  what  their  love  would  say, 

All  silently  he  urged  his  way  ; 

Then  wildly  rushing  down  the  steep 

He  plunged  amid  the  breaker's  sweep. 

Awfully  the  thunder 

Is  shouting  through  the  night, 
And  o'er  the  heaven  convulsed  and  riven 

The  lightning-streams  are  bright 
Beneath  their  fitful  flashing, 

As  from  hill  to  hill  they  leap, 
In  ridgy  brightness  dashing 

Conies  ou  loud  ocean's  sweep. 

Fearfully  the  tempest 

Sings  out  his  battle-song, 
His  war  is  with  the  unflinching  rocks 

And  the  forests  tall  and  strong  ; 
His  war  is  with  the  stately  bark ; 

But  ere  the  strife  be  o'er. 
Full  many  a  pine,  on  land  and  brine, 

Shall  rise  to  heaven  no  more. 

The  storm  shall  sink  in  slumber, 

The  lightning  fold  its  wing, 
And  the  morning  star  shall  gleam  afar, 

In  the  beauty  of  its  king ; 
But  there  are  eyes  shall  sleep  in  death 

Before  they  meet  its  ray  ; 
Avenger !  on  thine  errand  speed, 

Haste,  Donal,  on  thy  way ! 
Carriganassig,'  from  thy  walls 
No  longer  now  the  warder  calls ; 

1  The  castle  of  Cariganass,  situated  npon  the  river  Ouvane  (tn« 
fair  river),  ttve  miles  from  Bantry,  was  built  by  one  of  the  O'Sul- 
II  van»,  who  formerly  possessed  the  entire  of  the  country.  It  was 
a  hi^'li  structure,  wit!)  four  round  flunking  towers  and  a  square 
court.  In  Queen  EH/abetb's  time,  it  was  obstinately  defended 
against  the  English  forces  by  Daniel  O'Sulltvan,  surnamed  Comin. 
In  the  "  Pacata  Hibernia,"  its  surrender  Is  thus  related: 

•  sir  Charles  (Wllinot),  with  the  English  regiments,  overran  all 
Bcnre  and  Bantry,  destroying  all  they  could  find  meet  for  the  re- 
llefe  of  men,  so  as  the  conntrey  was  entirely  wanted.  He  sent 
also  Cnptain  Kit-mining,  with  his  pinnace  and  certain*  souldlera 
Into  O'Sulll  van's  Island ;  he  tooke  there  certalne  boats  and  an 
English  barke,  which  O'Sulllvan  had  gotten  for  his  transportation 
Into  Spalne,  when  he  should  be  enforced  thereunto ;  they  tooke 
aUn  from  thence  certalne  cows  and  sbeepe,  which  were  reserved 


No  more  is  heard  o'er  goblets  bright 
Thy  shout  of  revelry  at  night ; 
No  more  the  bugle's  merry  so  and 
Wakes  all  thy  mountain  echoes  round, 
When  for  the  foray,  or  the  chase, 
At  morn  rush'd  forth  thy  hardy  race 
And  northward  as  it  died  away 
Roused  the  wild  deer  of  Kaoim-an-e. 
All  bare  is  now  thy  mountain's  side, 
Where  rose  the  forest's  stately  pride ; 
No  solitary  friend  remains 
Of  all  that  graced  thy  fair  domains ; 
But  that  dark  stream  still  rushes  on 
Beneath  thy  walls,  the  swift  Ouvan, 
And  kisses  with  its  sorrowing  wave 
The  ruins  which  it  could  not  save. 
Fair  castle,  I  have  stood  at  night, 
When  summer's  moon  gave  all  her  light, 
And  gazed  upon  thee  till  the  past 
Came  o'er  my  spirit  sad  and  fast ; 
To  think  thy  strength  could  not  avail 
Against  the  Saxon's  iron  hail, 
And  thou  at  length  didst  cease  to  be 
The  shield  of  mountain  liberty. 

From  Carriganassig  shone  that  night, 

Through  storm  and  darkness,  many  a  light, 

And  loud  and  noisy  was  the  din 

Of  some  high  revelry  within  : 

At  times  was  heard  the  warder's  song, 

Upon  the  night- wind  borne  along, 

And  frequent  burst  upon  the  ear 

The  merry  soldier's  jovial  cheer; 

For  their  dark  Chieftain  in  his  hall 

That  day  held  joyous  festival, 

And  show'd  forth  all  his  wealth  and  pride 

To  welcome  home  his  beauteous  bride. 

Hush'd  was  the  music's  sprightly  sound, 
The  wine  had  ceased  to  sparkle  round, 
And  to  their  chambers,  one  by  one, 
The  drowsy  revellers  had  gone ; 
Alone  that  Chieftain  still  remains, 
And  still  by  starts  the  goblet  drains  : 

there  as  In  a  secure  storehouse,  and  put  the  chnrles  to  the  sword 
that  Inhabited  therein.  The  warders  of  the  castles  of  Ardea  and 
Carrikness.  on  the  sixth  of  the  same  month,  dispayriiig  of  their 
master,  O'Sulllvan's  n-turm>,  rendered  both  their  Chstlrs  and  their 
lives  to  the  Qneene's  mercy,  PO  that  although  he  should  have 
animum  revertmdi,  ho  had  neither  place  of  safelle  when-tinto  he 
might  retire,  nor  corn  nor  cattle  to  feed  hlmselfo,  much  leas  to  up- 
hold or  renew  any  warre  agsln.-t  the  state." 

William  O'Snlllvan,  Esq,,  had  an  Idea  of  restoring  this  noble 
edlflco.  of  his  ancestors,  but  its  ruinous  state  presenU-d  too  many 
difficulties  for  the  undertaking.  The  entire  country  aronmi  it 
was  formerly  very  tfcickly  wooded,  and  bad  plenty  of  r»d  neer. 


570 


THE  POEMS  OF  J.  J.  C  ALLAN  AX. 


He  paced  the  hall  with  hurried  tread, 
Oft  look'd  behind  and  shook  his  head, 
And  paused  and  listen'd  as  the  gi»le 
Swell'd  on  his  ear  with  wilder  wail ; 
And  where  the  tapers  faintly  flung 
Their  light,  and  where  the  arras  hung, 
He'd  start  and  look  with  fearful  glance 
And  quivering  lip,  then  quick  advance, 
And  laugh  in  mockery  of  his  fear, 
And  drink  again. 

"  Fitz-Eustace !  here, 
Close  well  that  door  and  sit  awhile, 
Some  foolish  thoughts  I  would  beguile. 
Fill  to  my  bride ;  and  say,  didst  e'er 
See  form  so  light  or  face  so  fair  ? 
I  little  deem'd  this  savage  land 
Such  witching  beauty  could  command ; 
That  rebel  Erin's  mountains  wild 
Could  nurse  McCarthy's  matchless  child. 
Then  drink  with  me  in  brimming  flow 
The  heiress  of  Clan-Dona'.-Roe."1 
Fitz-Eustace  quaff'd  the  cup,  and  said, 
"  I  saw  no  more — she's  with  the  dead, 
You  best  know  how." 

That  Chieftain  frown'd 
And  dash'd  the  goblet  to  the  ground  ; 
"  Curse  on  thy  tongue,  that  deed  is  past — 
But  one  word  more,  and  'tis  thy  last  : 
Art  thou  t'  upbraid  me,  also  doom'd !" 
He  paused  awhile  and  then  resumed — 

"  Eustace,  forgive  me  what  I  say, 

In  sooth,  I'm  not  myself  to-day, 

Some  demon  haunts  me,  since  my  pride 

Urged  me  to  stab  that  outlaw's  bride : 

Each  form  I  see,  each  sound  I  hear, 

Her  dying  threat  assails  my  ear, 

Which  warn'd  me  I  should  shortly  feel 

The  point  of  Donal's  vengeful  steel. 

I  know  that  devil's  desperate  ire 

Would  seek  revenge  through  walls  of  fire. 

Even  now,  upon  the  bridal  night, 

When  bridegroom's  heart  beats  ever  li^ht, 

No  joy  within  my  bosom  beams. 

Besides,  yon  silly  maiden  deems 

That  'twas  through  love  I  sought  her  hand. 

No,  Eustace,  'twas  her  father's  land: 

He  hath  retainers  many  a  one 

Who  with  this  wench  to  us  are  won. 

Vou  know  our  cause,  we  still  must  aid 


1  Clandonalroe  Is  a  small  tract  in  Carbery,  once  the  property  of 
fiie  McCarthys. 


As  well  by  policy  as  blade. 

I  loathe  each  one  of  Irish  birth, 

As  the  vile  worn;  that  crawls  the  earth. 

But  come — say,  canst  thou  aught  impart 

Could  give  some  comfort  to  my  heart; 

Fell  Donal  Comm  into  our  snare, 

Or  does  the  wolf  still  keep  his  lair?" 

"Neither; — the  wolf  now  roams  at  large; 
'Twas  but  last  evening  that  a  barge, 
Well  mann'd,  was  seen  at  close  of  day 
To  make  Glengarav's  lonely  bay, 
'Tis  said ; — but  one  who  more  can  tell 
Now  lodges  in  the  eastern  cell ; 
A  monk,  who  loudly  doth  complain 
Of  plunder  driven  and  brethren  slain 
By  Donal  Comm,  and  from  the  strife 
This  night  fled  here  with  scarcely  life." 

"  Now  dost  thou  lend  my  heart  some  cheer 
Good  Eustace, thou  await  me  here; 
I'll  see  him  straight,  and  if  he  show 
Where  I  may  find  my  deadly  foe, 
That  haunts  my  ways — the  rebel's  head 
Shall  grace  my  walls." 

With  cautious  tread 
He  reach'd  the  cell  and  gently  drew 
The  bolts, — that  monk  then  met  his  view. 
Within  that  dungeon's  furthest  nook 
He  lay; — one  hand  coutain'd  a  book, 
The  other  propp'd  his  weary  head  ; 
Some  scanty  straw  supplied  his  bed; 
His  order's  habit  coarse  and  gray 
Told  he  had  worn  it  many  a  day, 
Threadbare  and  travel-soil'd  ;  his  beads 
And  cross  hung  o'er  the  dripping  weeds, 
Whose  ample  folds  were  tightly  braced 
By  a  rough  cord  around  his  waist : 
No  wretch  of  earth  seem'd  lower  than 
That  outcast  solitary  man. 

He  spoke  not — moved  not  from  the  floor ; 
But  calmly  look'd  to  where  the  door 
Now  closed  behind  th'  intruding  knight, 
Who  slow  advanced  and  held  the  light 
Close  to  the  captive's  pallid  face, 
Who  shrank  not  from  his  gaze  : — a  space 
St.  Leger  paused  before  he  spoke, 
And  thus  at  length  his  silence  broke — 

"  Father,  thy  lodging  is  but  rude, 
Thou  seem'st  in  need  of  rest  and  food, 
If  but  escaped  from  Doual's  ire, 
And  wasting  brand  and  scathing  fire  ; 


THE  POEMS   OF  J.  J.  CALLANAN. 


r,7i 


But  prudent  reasons  still  demand, 
And  stern  St.  Leger's  strict  command, 
That  every  stranger,  friend  or  foe, 
Be  held  in  durance  'till  he  show 
What,  whence,  and  whither  he  would  go. 
For  thee,  if  thou  canst  tell  us  right 
Where  that  fierce  outlaw  strays  to-night, 
To-morrow's  sun  shall  see  thee  freed, 
With  rich  requital  for  thy  meed  ; 
If  false  thy  tale — then,  father,  hope 
For  a  short  shrift  and  shorter  rope." 

He  ceased,  and  as  the  Chief  he  eyed 
With  searching  glance,  the  monk  replied - 
"  I  fear  no  threat,  no  meed  I  crave, 
I  ask  no  freedom  but  the  grave. 
There  was  a  time  when  life  was  deal1 ; 
For,  Saxon,  though  this  garb  I  wear, 
This  hand  could  once  uplift  the  steel, 
This  heart  could  love  and  friendship  feel. 
That  love  is  sever'd,  friends  are  gone, 
And  I  am  left  on  earth  alone. 
Cursed  be  the  hand  that  sear'd  my  heart, 
And  smote  me  in  the  tenderest  part, 
Laid  waste  my  lands,  and  left  me  roam 
On  the  wide  world  without  a  home  ! 
I  took  these  weeds ; — but  why  relate 
The  spoiler's  ravage  and  my  hate? 
Vengeance  I  would  not  now  forego 
For  saints  above  or  man  below. 
Yes,  Doual  Comm  ; — but  let  me  hear, 
Fling  the  glad  story  to  mine  ear; 
How  fell  the  outlaw's  beauteous  bride  ? 
Say,  was  it  by  thy  hand  she  died  ? 
'Twill  be  some  solace,  and  I  swear 
By  the  all-saving  sign  I  wear, 
Before  to-morrow's  sun  to  show 
To  thine  own  eyes  thy  bitterest  foe." 

**  'Tis  well !"  exclaim'd  the  exulting  chief, 
"  Have  now  thy  wish,  the  tale  is  brief — 
Some  few  days  since,  as  I  pursued 
A  stately  stag  from  yonder  wood, 
Straight  northward  did  he  bend  his  way, 
Through  the  wild  pass  of  Kaolin  an  6; 
Then  to  tue  west,  with  hoof  of  pride, 
He  took  the  mountain's  heathery  side, 
And  evening  saw  him  safely  sleep 
In  far  Gleurochty's  forest  deep. 
Iv-iiirning  from  that  weary  chase, 
We  met  a  strange  and  lonely  place ; 


Dark-bosorn'd  in  the  hills  around, 

From  its  dim  silence  rose  no  sound, 

Except  the  dreary  dash  and  flow 

Of  waters  to  the  lake  below. 

There  was  an  island  in  that  lake, — 

(What  ails  thee,  monk?  why  dost  thou  shako? 

Why    blarich'd    thy  cheek  ? ) — from    thence    I 

brought 

A  richer  prey  than  that  I  sought ; 
It  were  but  feeble  praise  to  swear 
That  she  was  more  than  heavenly  fair ; 
I  tore  her  from  Finbarra's1  shrine 
Amid  her  tears,  arid  she  was  mine. 

1  The  lake  of  Oougaune  Barra,  i.  «.,  the  hollow  or  reeesa  of 
Saint  Finn  Barr,  in  the  ragged  territory  of  Ibb-Laoghaire  (the 
O'Leary's  country).  In  the  west  of  the  county  of  Cork.  In  the 
parent  of  the  river  Lee.  It  is  rather  of  an  irregular  oblong  form, 
running  from  northeast  to  southwest,  and  may  cover  about 
twenty  acres  of  ground.  Its  waters  embrace  a  small  but  verdant 
island,  of  about  half  an  acre  in  extent,  which  approaches  its 
eastern  shore.  The  lake,  as  it.°  name  implies,  is  situate  in  a  deep 
hollow,  surrounded  on  every  side  (save  the  east,  where  it*  super- 
abundant waters  are  discharged)  by  vast  and  almost  perpendicular 
mountains,  whose  dark  inverted  shadows  are  gloomily  reflected 
in  its  waters  beneath.  The  names  of  those  mountain!*  are  Derfen 
(the  little  oak  wood),  where  not  a  tree  now  remains;  Maolagh, 
which  signifies  a  country,  a  region,  a  map,  perhaps  so  called  from 
the  wide  prospect  which  it  affords;  Nad  ariuillar.  the  Kagle't 
Nest,  and  FaoiMe  nn  Gougaune,  i.  «.,  the  Cliffs  of  Oongauoe 
with  its  steep  and  frowning  precipices,  tlie  home  of  a  hundred 
echoes.  Between  the  bases  of  these  mountains  and  the  margin 
of  the  lake  runs  a  narrow  strip  of  land,  which  at  the  northeast 
affords  a  few  patches  for  coarse  meadow  and  tillage,  which  sup- 
port the  little  hamlet  of  Rattfinlucfut,  I.  «..  the  lake  inch.  Two  or 
three  houses  at  this  place  in  some  sort  redeem  the  solitude  of  the 
scene. 

"  As  wo  approached  the  causeway  leading  to  tho  island,"  says  • 
writer  in  the  eighth  number  of  '•  Bolster's  Magazine,"  who  de- 
scribes this  place  with  great  minuteness,  "  we  passed  a  small 
slated  fishing  lodge;  beside  It  lay  a  skiff  hauled  up  on  the  strand, 
and  at  a  small  distance,  on  a  little  irreen  eminence,  a  few  lowly 
mounds,  without  stone  or  inscription,  point  out  the  simple  bury- 
ing-place  of  the  district ;  their  number,  and  the  small  extent  of 
ground  co.vered,  gave  at  a  glance  the  census  and  the  condition  of 
a  thinly-peopled  mountain  country;  and  yet  this  unpretending 
spot  is  as  effectually  the  burial-place  of  human  hopes,  and  feelings, 
and  passions;  of  feverish  anxieties,  of  sorrows  and  agitations  ;  it 
affords  as  saddening  a  field  for  contemplation,  as  if  It  covered  the 
space  and  was  decked  out  with  all  the  cypresses,  tho  willows,  and 
the  marbles  of  a  P4r«  la  ChalM.  It  Is  a  meet  and  fitting  station 
for  the  penitentiary  pilgrim,  previous  to  his  entry  on  his  devotions 
within  the  Island.  Some  broken  walls  mark  the  grave  of  a  clergy- 
man of  the  name  of  O'Mahony,  who,  in  the  beginning  of  hut  cen- 
tury, closed  a  life  of  religious  seclusion  here.  Considering  how 
revered  Is  still  his  memory  amongst  these  mountains,  the  shame- 
ful state  of  neglect  In  which  wp  found  hi*  (rravr  aMmnshed  ua. 
We  sought  In  vain  for  the  Dag  mentioned  by  Smith  In  his  •  History 
of  Cork,'  from  which  he  copied  this  Inscription  :  '  l/«c  »ibi  ft  «uo- 
cfMoribu*  MHin  in  ettdfin  vocation*  monnmtntnm  iinj>i+-iit 
Dominwt  Doctor  Ditrniniu*  O'ittthony,  prttbyUr  lie  ft  intiig- 
nii*  ;'  either  it  has  been  removed,  or  burled  under  the  rubbish  of 
the  place. 

"  A  rude  artificial  causeway  led  us  Into  the  holy  Island ;  at  the 
entrance  stands  a  square,  narrow,  stone  enclo«nro.  flagged  over- 
head This  encloses  a  portion  of  the  water  of  the  lake,  which 
duds  admission  beneath.  In  the  busy  season  of  the  pnltern,  thll 
well  Is  frequented  by  pressing  crowds  of  men,  women,  and  cows 
Tin-  lame,  the  blind,  the  sick,  and  the  sore,  the  barren  and  un 
profitable,  the  stout  bocriivgfi  of  either  gender  repair  to  Its  heal- 
ing water.  In  the  sure  hope  of  not  celling  rid  of  thoee  lamentat!* 


572 


THE  POEMS  OF  J.  J.  CALLANAN. 


I  woo'd  her  like  a  love-sick  swain  ; 
I  thre.-iten'd, — would  have  forced, — in  vain  ; 
She  proudly  scorn'd  my  fond  embrace, 
She  cursed  my  land  and  all  its  race, 

maims  and  afflictions  of  person  which  form  their  best  source  of 
profit,  and  interest  the  charity  of  the  peasantry. 

"  We  find  the  greater  portion  of  the  island  covered  by  the  rutns 
of  the  small  chapel  with  its  appurtenant  cloisters,  and  a  large 
square  court  containing  eight  cells  arched  over.  This  square 
faces  the  causeway,  from  which  a  passage  leads  through  an  avenue 
of  trees  to  a  terrace  about  live  feet  in  height,  to  which  we  ascended 
by  a  few  steps.  In  the  middle  of  the  court,  on  a  little  mound, 
with  an  ascent  on  each  side  of  four  stone  steps,  stands  the  shat- 
tered and  lime-worn  shaft  of  a  wooden  cross.  The  number  of 
hair  and  hay  tethers,  halters,  and  spnncels  titwl  round  it  prove  that 
the  cattle  passed  through  the  waters  have  done  so  to  their  advan- 
tage. This  court  is  beautifully  shaded  with  trees.  Each  side 
contains  two  circular  cells,  ten  feet  deep  and  eight  feet  high,  by 
fsur  broad.  In  two  of  these  we  found  some  poor  women  at  their 
devotions,  preparing  to  pass  the  night  in  watching  and  penitence, 
for  which  purpose  they  had  lighted  up  fires  within  them,  and  on 
Inquiry  we  found  that  the  practice  was  quite  common. 

"  The  terrace  leads  by  a  few  steps  down  to  the  chapel,  which 
adjoins  it  at  the  north  side.  This  little  oratory,  together  with  the 
buildings  belonging  to  it,  are  all  in  complete  ruin  ;  they  were  built 
on  the  smallest  scale,  and  with  the  rudest  materials,  solidity  not 
appearing  to  have  been  at  all  looked  to  in  the  construction.  They 
are  evidently  very  ancient.  How,  in  so  remote  and  secluded  a 
situation,  the  hand  of  the  desecrator  could  have  aver  reached  them 
I  cannot  conceive;  hut  he  has  done  his  work  well  and  pitilessly. 
Though  here,  we  may  reasonably  presume,  was  none  of  the  pride 
of  the  churchman,  none  of  the  world's  wealth,  nothing  to  tempt 
rapacity ;  though  in  this  retreat,  sacred  '  to  ever  unusing  melan- 
choly,' dwelt  none  of  the  agitators  of  the  land,  yet  the  blind  and 
reckless  fury  of  the  fanatic  found  its  way  througli  the  wild  and 
rocky  land  that  encloses  it,  and  carried  his  polemical  rancor  into 
the  hut  of  the  hermit. 

"The  oratory  runs  east  and  west;  the  entrance  is  through  a 
low,  arched  doorway  in  the  eastern  wall ;  the  interior  is  about 
thirty -six  feet  long  by  fourteen  broad,  and  the  side  walls  by  four 
feet  high ;  so  that  when  roofed  it  must  have  been  extremely  low, 
being  at  the  highest,  judging  from  the  broken  gables,  about  twelve 
feet,  and  then  the  entire  lighted  by  the  door  and  two  small  win- 
dows, one  in  eacli  gable.  The  wulls  of  the  four  small  chambers 
adjoining  are  all  of  a  similar  height  to  those  of  the  chapel.  The 
entire  extent  is  fifty-six  feet  in  length,  by  thirty-six  in  breadth. 
One  or  two  of  these  consist  of  extremely  small  cells  ;  so  that  when 
we  consider  their  height,  extent,  and  the  light  they  enjoyed,  we 
may  easily  calculate  that  the  life  of  the  successive  anchorites  who 
inhabitrd  them  was  not  one  of  much  comfort  or  convenience,  hut 
much  the  reverse — of  silence,  gloom,  and  mortification.  Man 
elsewhere  loves  to  contend  with,  and,  if  possible,  emulate  nature 
in  the  greatness  and  majesty  of  her  works  ;  but  here,  as  if  awed 
by  the  sublimity  of  surrounding  objects,  and  ashamed  of  his  own 
real  littleness,  the  humble  founder  of  this  desecrated  shrine  con- 
structed it  on  a  scale  peculiarly  pigmy  and  diminutive. 

"The  buildings  stand  at  the  southeast  side,  and  cover  nearly 
half  the  island.  The  remainder,  which  is  clothed  with  the  most 
beautiful  verdure,  is  thickly  shaded  to  the  water's  edge  by  tall 
a.-h-trres.  Two  circular  furrows  at  the  north  side  of  the  cloisters 
are  pointed  out  as  the  sites  of  tents  pitched  here  during  the  pat- 
tern by  the  men  of  Bantry  and  their  servants. 

"  In  this  island  the  holy  anchorite  and  bishop,  St.  Finn  Barr, 
who  flourished,  I  conceive,  contrary  to  the  opinion  of  Ware,  early 
In  th.i  sixth  century,  wishing  to  lead  a  life  of  pious  retirement, 
found  a  situation  beyond  all  others  most  suitable  to  his  desire  ;  » 
retreat  as  impenetrable  as  the  imagination  could  well  conceive, 
and  seemingly  designed  by  nature  for  the  abode  of  some  seques- 
tered anchorite,  where,  in  undisturbed  solitude,  he  might  pour 
out  his  soul  in  prayer,  and  hold  converse  '  with  nature's  charms, 
and  *ee  her  stores  unrolled.'  8t  Fin  Barr,  however,  was  reserved 
tor  purposes  more  useful  to  society,  and  for  a  scene  where  the 
exnmple  of  his  v'rtuous  life  might  prove  more  extensively  bene- 
ficial He  became  the  founder  not  only  of  the  cathedral  but  of 


And  bade  me  hope  for  vengeance  from 
The  sure  strong  arm  of  Donal  Corura. 
I  stabb'd  her  I — 'twas  a  deed  of  guilt, 
But  then  'twas  Donal's  blood  I  spilt." 


the  city  of  Cork,  and  labored  successfully  in  the  conversion  of  the 
people  of  the  adjacent  country.  A  long  line  of  successive  aneho- 
rites  occupied  h:s  retreat  at  Gougaune,  who,  by  their  piety  and 
virtues,  rendered  its  name  celebrated  through  the  island,  and  a 
favorite  pilgrimage  and  scene  of  devotion  to  the  people.  The 
last  of  these  eremitical  occupants  was  Father  Denis  O'Mahony, 
whose  grave  on  the  mainland  I  have  before  spoken  of.  The  suc- 
cession seems  to  have  failed  in  him.  He  found  this  place  a  ruin^ 
and  the  times  in  which  he  lived  were  not  calculated  for  its  re- 
edification,  and  a  ruin  has  it  since  continued.  A  large  tombstone- 
shaped  slab,  which  lies  at  the  foot  of  a  tree,  contains,  together 
with  a  short  history  of  this  hermitage,  directions  for  the  devotions 
of  the  penitent  pilgrims;  but  Dr.  Murphy,  the  Catholic  Bishop  of 
Cork,  and  his  clergy  have  so  thoroughly  discountenanced  the  re- 
ligious visitations  to  this  place,  tnat  its  solitude  stands  little  chance 
of  much  future  interruption. 

"Old  people  remember  with  fond  regret  the  time  when  Gon- 
gaune  was  inaccessible  to  horses  and  almost  to  man  ;  when  It  was 
no  small  probationary  exercise  to  pilgrim'  or  palmer  to  overcome 
the  difficulties  of  the  way  ;  when  the  shores  of  the  lake,  and  even 
some  portions  of  the  surrounding  mountains,  now  naked  and 
barren,  were  a  continued  forest,  which  lent  its  gloomy  shade  to 
deepen  the  natural  solitude  of  the  place.  Kossalncha  had  then 
no  houses,  and  no  clumsy  whitewashed  fishing-hut  destroyed  the 
effect  of  the  surrounding  solitude  and  scenery;  but  man,  with  hi* 
improvements,  has  even  approached  this  desolate  spot,  and  famil- 
iarly squatted  himself  down  beside  its  waters,  cut  down  its  woods, 
smoothed  its  road,  and  given  an  air  of  society  to  Its  solitude. 

"The  view  from  the  summit  of  Derreen,  the  highest  point  of 
the  mountain-enclosure  of  the  lake,  Is  beautifully  magnificent 
Though  other  mountains  that  I  have  seen  may  boast  a  prospect  of 
greater  extent,  yet  it  is  reserved  for  Derreen  to  take  in  a  reach  of 
mountain  and  of  flood,  of  crag  and  glen,  as  wildly  diversified,  as 
bold  and  as  rugged  as  any  over  which  the  lofty  Reeks  iniiy  look 
down  from  his  royal  residence  ;  it  is  a  splendid  panoramic  picture, 
of  the  grandest  dimensions  and  outline. 

"From  the  Faoilte,  on  the  preceding  evenins,  we  had  obtained 
a  view  of  the  high  outline  of  the  Klllarney  mountains  to  the 
northwest;  but  here  now,  from  our  superior  height,  they  arose 
before  us  in  a'll  their  purple  grandeur,  visible  almost  from  their 
basis  in  one  long  and  splendid  range  from  Clara  to  the  lordly  Re°k- 
ach.  To  the  southwest  appeared,  In  the  distant  horizon,  the 
trackless  Atlantic, bounding  the  blue  hilly  shores  of  Ivera;  and 
reaching  inland,  the  fine  estuary  of  Bantry,  checkered  with  'Islets 
fair.'  spread  its  still  waters  to  meet  the  lone  brown  valley  which 
ertends  from  the  foot  of  Derreen.  skirting  Hungry-hill  and  Glen- 
gariff  to  the  right  Wheeda,  or  Whiddy,  Island  appeared  promi- 
nent in  this  calm  and  reposing  picture;  and  near  the  head  of  the 
bay  lay,  bright  and  sparkling,  the  small  mountain  lake  of  ioc/t-o- 
derry-faddd,  the  lough  of  the  long  oaken  wood — but  the  wood 
was  gone;  cultivated  gardens  and  brown  pastures  covered  its  site. 
Before  us  lay  the  infant  Lee,  a  long  winding  silver  thread,  stealing 
through  sterile  glens,  until  in  the  distance  it  readied  the  lakes  of 
Inchageela,  and  spread  itself  along  their  rocky  shores,  brightening 
in  the  morning  rays.  Between  the  chain  of  lakes  and  the  head  of 
the  Bay  of  Bantry  lay  three  dark,  disconnected,  and  cone-flsrured 
mountains:  Sheha,  the  furthest  south,  feeding  at  its  base  a  bin* 
lake,  called  Luch  an  bhric  dfarig,  the  loch  of  the  red  trout  or 
charr ;  the  other  two  mountains  are,  Douchil,  i.  e.,  dark-wooded, 
and  Duush,  a  name  which  also  occurs  amongst  the  mountains  of 
Wicklow.  Beneath  us,  apparently  at  the  mountain's  foot,  we  could 
observe  for  a  considerable  distance  a  dark  tortuous  line,  proceed- 
ing inwards  from  the  course  of  the  Lee,  and  resembling  the  ir- 
regular and  fretted  course  of  a  small  mountain  stream.  This  was 
the  celebrated  pass  of  Kaoim-an-eigh,  i.  e.,  the  pass  of  deer, 
through  which  a  good  road  winds  now  to  Bantry. 

"  We  had  heard  so  much  of  Kaim-an-eigh,  that  we  were  im- 
patient to  see  it,  and  after  having  bade  our  long  farewell  to  Derreen 
and  Gougaune.  we  descended  the  steep  sid«  of  the  former.  W« 
had  arrived  on  the  verge  o»  a  cliff,  and  on  looking  down,  t.eheltf 


THE    TOEMS   OF    J.  J.  CALLANAN. 


573 


That  raonk  sprang  forward  front  the  bed, 
Flung  back  his  cowl,  and  furious  said, 
"  Monster,  behold  my  promise  free, 
'Tis  Donal  Comm  himself  you  see." 
He  started  back  with  sudden  cry, 
And  raised  the  lantern.    Oh,  that  eye 
And  vengeful  smile  lie  knew  too  well; 
For  him  not  all  the  fiends  of  hell, 
With  tortures  from  their  burning  place, 
Had  half  the  horrors  of  that  face. 
One  rush  he  made  to  gain  the  door — 
'Twas  vain,  that  monk  stood  there  before. 
He  shouted  iotid,  and  sudden  drew 
A  dagger  which  lay  hid  from  view  ; 


the  road  winding  at  a  great  distance  below,  at  the  bottom  of  a 
narrow  strait,  the  deepest,  the  most  abrupt,  and  romantic  imagin- 
able. To  get  on  this  road  we  (bond  a  matter  of  difficulty,  from 
the  great  general  steepness  and  abruptness  of  its  deep  overhanging 
sides,  and  it  was  after  considerable  lime  and  exertion  that  we 
effected  onr  descent  from  rock  to  eras,  through  thorn  and  tangled 
brier,  grasping  at  times  the  long  heath  and  furze  and  brambles,  or 
holding  the  dwarfy  branches  of  the  underwood,  which  grew 
abundantly  in  the  interstices. 

"Nothing  that  ever  I  beheld  in  mountain  scenery  of  glen,  or 
dell,  or  defile,  can  at  all  equal  the  gloomy  pass  in  which  we  now 
found  ourselves.  The  separation  of  the  mountain  ground  at  either 
side  Is  only  Just  sufficient  to  afford  room  for  a  road  of  moderate 
breadth,  with  a  fretted  channel  at  one  side  for  tbe  waters,  which, 
In  the  winter  season,  rush  down  from  the  hich  places  above,  and 
meeting  here,  find  a  passage  to  pay  a  first  tribute  to  the  Lee.  A 
romantic  or  creative  imagination  would  here  find  a  grand  and  ex- 
tensive field  for  the  exercise  of  its  powers.  Every  turn  of  the 
road  brings  ns  to  some  new  appearance  of  the  abrupt  and  shattered 
walls  which  at  either  side  arise  up  darkling  to  a  gre«.t  height,  and 
the  mind  is  continually  occupied  with  the  quick  succession  and 
change  of  objects  so  interesting,  resolving  and  comparing  realities, 
sometimes  giving  form  and  substance  to  'airy  nothings.' 

'  The  enthusiasm  of  my  companions  was  unbounded  as  they 
slowly  strided  along,  every  faculty  Intent  on  the  scene  before  ttiem  ; 
their  classic  minds  found  ready  associations  everywhere;  each 
crag  and  cliff  renewed  classical  reminiscences,  and  •  infttmet 
tcvpul? — 'Altn"1  and  '  Nemoroga?  were  flying  out  between  them 
without  Intermission.  They  found  no  difficulty  in  fancying  them- 
selves in  Thermopylse's  far-famed  strait,  and  having  decided  on 
the  resemblance,  the  location  of  the  Polyandrium,  or  tomb  of  the 
mighty  Loonldas  and  his  associate  heroes,  that  grove  'whose 
dwellers  shall  be  themes  to  verse  forever,'  was  quickly  settled, 
ami  so  was  the  temple  of  Ceres  Amphyctlonis.  The  fountain 
where  the  Persian  horseman  found  the  advanced  guard  of  the 
Spartans  occupied  in  combing  their  hair  was  easily  discovered  in 
one  of  the  placid  pools  of  the  trickling  stream.  The  Phocian  wall 
was  also  manifest;  and  to  perfect  the  picture,  they  ascended  again 
to  the  head  of  the  pass,  to  catch  another  glimpse  of  the  Maliao 
Gulf,  as  they  called  the  Bay  of  Bantry.  Time  and  space  became 
annihilated  before  them,  and  a  brace  of  thousand  years  were  but 
•«  a  day  In  their  Imagination.  Their  eager  eyes  sought  out  and 
found  everywhere  monuments  of  the  untorgotten  brave  of  Greece, 
•nd  all  the  burial-places  of  memory  sent  forth  their  phantoms  of 
the  olden  demigods  to  people  the  scene.  I  confess,  I  could  not 
see  things  In  the  same  light.  Tbe  place  reminded  me  of  nearer 
times— our  own  classic  middle  ages— and  of  different  people;  their 
arche*  were  gray  ruins,  keeps,  and  dungeons  in  me.  I  saw  but 
'bristling  walls,'  battlemented  courts,  turrets,  and  embrazures,  to 
which  their  perverted  judgments  gave  other  names. 

'While  memory  ran 
O'er  many  a  ye*r  of  guilt  and  strife,' 

«nd  Creatfhmloir  and  Ronnozht,  Kern  and  GallowglaM,  Tory  and 


At  Donal's  breast  one  plunge  he  made : 

That  watchful  arm  threw  off  the  blade. 

But  hark  !  what  noise  comes  from  below, 

Surely  that  cry  hath  roused  the  foe 

They  come,  they  come,  with  hurrying  tramp 

And  clashing  steel.     The  fallen  lamp 

That  mountaineer  snatch'd  from  the  ground, 

A  moment  glanced  his  prison  round, 

Heaved  quickly  back  a  massy  bar — 

A  narrow  doorway  flew  ajar, 

A  moment  cast  the  light's  red  glow 

Upon  the  flood,  far,  far  below ; 

"  No  flight  is  there,"  St.  Leger  cried. 

"Thou'rt  mine."    "Now,  now, my  immUVd  bride," 


Rapparee,  passed  before  me,  sweeping  the  encumbered  pass,  driving 
th«ir  prey  of  lordly  cattle  down  the  defile :  and  loudly  in  my  mind's 
ear  rang  the  hostile,  shouts  of  the  wild  O'SuIlivans  and  the 
O'Learys,  their  fierce  hurras  and  fumighs  ami  <ifn>r>v  mingling 
with  the  rinsing  of  their  swords  and  their  lusty  strokes  on  helm 
and  s'.iield.  It  is  with  associations  of  spoil,  adventure,  and  darin;: — 
of  chasing  the  red  deer,  the  wolf,  or  the  boar — with  horn  and 
bound — that  this  place  Is  properly  connected.  To  behold  it  with 
other  eye  than  that  of  an  Irish  ^enachie  is  a  deed  less  worthy, 
assuvedly,  than  to  drink,  as  my  friend  !•  alstaff  says. 

"1  think  I  may  say  that  at  its  entrance  from  the  Gouganne 
side  this  pass  is  seen  with  be.st  ett'ect;  there  its  hiah  cliff's  are 
steepest,  and  Che  toppling  crags  assume  their  most  picturesque 
forms  ami  resemblances  of  piles  and  ancient  ruins.  These  receive 
beauty  and  variety  from  the  various  mosses  which  encrust  them, 
and  the  ilwnrf  shrubs  and  tin  ierwood.  ivy,  and  creeping  plant*, 
which  lend  their  mellow  hues  to  soften  and  give  effect  to  the 
whole  The  arbutus,  a  plant  most  indigenous  to  Ki'larney  and 
Glengariff  (Into  the  first  of  which  places  it  has  been  plausibly 
conjectured  it  had  been  brought  from  the  continent  by  the  monks 
who  settled  in  the  Islands  of  its  lakes),  is  not  even  uncommon 
among  the  rocks  of  Kaoim-an-eigh.  We  behold  itself  and  the 
as-h  and  other  hardy  plants  and  shrubs  with  wonder  crowing  at 
immense  heights  overhead,  tufting  crags  Inaccessible  to  the  human 
foot,  where  we  are  astonished  to  think  how  they  ever  got  there. 
The  London  pride  grows  here  and  on  tbe  surrounding  mountains, 
as  well  as  amongst  the  ruins  of  Gougatine  Bavro,  In  most  astonish- 
ing profusion.  I  have  seen  it  in  great  abundance  on  Turk  and 
Manserton,  near  Klllarney,  but  its  plenty  in  the  neighborhood  of 
the  Lee  far  exceeds  all  comparison. 

•'  A  number  of  lesser  defiles,  formed  by  many  a  headlong  tor- 
rent or  shelving  cascade,  shoot  Inward  from  the  pass  in  deep  and 
gloomy  hollows,  as  yon  wind  along,  which  greatly  increase  the 
Interest  of  the  place;  and  these,  forming  at  their  entrance  iiigii 
round  headlands,  thickly  covered  with  the  most  luxuriant  clothing 
cf  long  flowering  heath,  have  at  a  distance  the  appearance  of  rich 
overhanging  woods.  As  we  proceeded,  we  found  the  channel  •>( 
the  stream  which  winds  along  with  the  road  blocked  up  in  various 
places  with  vast  fragments  of  rock,  rent  in  some  violent  convul- 
sion or  tempest  from  the  cltffs  around,  or  hurled  downward  in 
wild  sport  by  the  presiding  genius  of  the  scene.  Trophicd  evi- 
dences of  his  giant  energies  long  choked  up  the  now  unenciunt>ere<t 
defile,  and  told  the  history  of  bis  fierce  pastime  during  tbe  many 
ages  that  lie  continued  its  uninterrupted  lord.  But  the  roadmaker 
has  successfully  encroached  upon  Its  stvage  dominions,  and  crum- 
bled his  ponderous  masses,  and  smoothed  down  the  difficulties 
which  he  had  accumulated.  The  present  diminished  number  of 
these  vast  fragments  remain,  however,  as  a  sufficient  record  of  the 
rocky  chaos  which  Smith  spoke  of  eighty  years  ago,  and  which 
long  remained  the  astonishment  of  successive  travellers." 

Dr.  Smith's  description  of  this  place  Is  far  from  being  correct, 
and  Is  too  highly  colored ;  a  person  visiting  the  place  after  having 
read  It  would  feel  a  little  disappointed,  though  it  is.  in  reality,  «« 
may  be  seen  from  the  above  extracts,  one  of  the  wildest  and  nio»\ 
romantic  retreats  that  can  well  be  Imagined. 


574 


THE  POEMS  OF  J.  J.  CALLANAN. 


He  answer'd,  and  with  furious  bound 
One  arm  had  clasp'd  his  foeinan  round  : 
A  moment,  with  a  giant's  might, 
He  shook  him  o'er  that  dreadful  height ; 
"  Saxon  !  'tis  Eva  gives  this  grave," 
He  said,  and  plunged  him  in  the  wave. 

One  piercing  shriek  was  heard,  no  more ; 
Up  flash'd  the  billow  dyed  with  gore, 
When  in  they  burst.     Oh,  where  to  fly ! 
He  fix'd  his  foot  and  strain'd  his  eye, 
And  o'er  that  deep  and  fearful  tide 
Sprang  safely  to  the  farther  side. 
Above  they  crowd  in  wild  amaze, 
And  by  the  hurrying  torches'  blaze 
They  saw  where  fearlessly  he  stood, 
And  down,  far  tost  upon  the  flood, 
St.  Leger's  body  :  "  Quick !  to  horse — 
Pursue  the  fiend  with  all  your  force, 
'Tis  Doual  Comm."     Light  held  he  then 
Pursuit,  while  mountain,  wood,  and  glen 
Before  him  lay.     A  moment's  space 
He  ran,  and  in  th'  appointed  place 
His  courser  found.     Then  as  his  hand 
Drew  from  the  copse  his  trusty  brand, 
"Twas  well  I  left  thee  here,  my  blade, 
That  search  my  purpose  had  betray'd  ; 
But  here  they  come — now,  now,  my  steed, 
Son  of  the  hills  !  exert  thy  speed," 
He  said,  and  on  the  moaning  wind 
Heard  their  faint  foot-tramp  die  behind. 

'Tis  morning,  and  the  purple  light 
On  Noc-na-ve'  gleams  coldly  bright, 
And  from  his  heathery  brow  the  streams 
Rush  joyous  in  the  kindling  beams ; 
O'er  hill,  and  wave,  and  forest  red, 
One  wide  blue  sea  of  mist  is  spread ; 

>  Noo-na-ve  (the  hill  of  the  deer),  IB  the  name  of  the  hill  over 
Jbo  town  of  Bantry. 


Save  where  more  brightly,  deeply  blue, 
Ivera's  mountains  meet  the  view, 
And  falls  the  sun  with  mellower  streak 
On  Sliav-na-goilass  giant  peak. 
Still  as  its  dead,  is  now  the  breeze 
In  Ard-na-rnrahir's  weeping  trees — 
So  deep  its  silence,  you  might  tell 
Each  plashing  rain-drop  as  it  fell. 
Beneath  its  brow  the  waters  wild 
Are  sleeping,  like  a  merry  child 
That  sinks  from  fretful  fit  to  rest, 
On  its  fond  mother's  peaceful  breast 

On  yonder  grave  cold  lies  the  turf 

Besprent  with  rain  and  ocean's  surf, 

So  purely,  freshly  green ; 

And  kneeling  by  that  narrow  bed, 

With  pallid  cheek  and  drooping  head, 

A  lonely  form  is  seen. 

Long  kneels  he  there  in  speechless  woe, 

Silent  as  she  who  lies  below 

In  her  cold  and  silent  room  ; 

The  trees  bang  motionless  above, 

There's  not  a  breath  of  wind  to  move 

The  dripping  eagle  plume  ; 

Well  might  you  know  that  man  of  grief 

To  be  Ivera's  widow'd  chief. 

He  rose  at  last,  and  as  he  took 
Of  that  dear  spot  his  last  sad  look, 
Convulsive  trembled  all  his  frame — 
He  strove  to  utter  Eva's  name  ; 
Then  wildly  rushing  to  the  shore, 
Was  never  seen  or  heard  of  more.5 


5  8Hav-na-goil  (the  mountain  of  the  wild  people),  no* 
I  lo*f  hill,  appears,  from  its  proximity  and  conical  form,  U>  be  th« 
I  highest  of  that  chain  of  mountains  which  runs  all  along  the  weal- 
em  side  of  Bantry  Bay,  and  divides  the  counties  of  Cork  aod 
Kerry. 

'  Ttankl  Comm  made  bU  escape  into  Spain. 


THE  POEMS   OF  J.  J.  CALLANAN. 


575 


0*ms. 


GOUGANE  BARRA. 

THKRE  is  a  green  island  in  lone  Gougane  Barra, 
Where  Allua  of  songs  rushes  forth  as  an  arrow  ; 
In  deep-valley'd  Desmond  —  a  thousand  wild  foun- 

tains 
Come  down  to  that  lake,  from  their  home  in  the 

mountains. 
There  grows  the  wild  ash,  and  a  time-stricken 

willow 

Looks  chidingly  down  on  the  mirth  of  the  billow. 
As,  like  some  gay  child,  that  sad  monitor  scorn- 

ing, 
It  lightly  laughs  back  to  the  laugh  of  the  morn- 

ing. 
And    its   zone   of  dark  hills  —  oh!  to   see   them 

all  bright'ning, 
When  the  tempest  flings  out  its  red  banner  of 

lightning  ; 
And    the  waters  rush  down,  mid  the  thunder's 

deep  rattle, 
Like  clans  from  their   hills   at  the  voice  of  the 

battle  ; 
And  brightly  ths  fire-crested  billows  are  gleam- 

ing. 
And  wildly  from  Mullagh  the  eagles  are  scream- 

ing. 

Oh  !  where  is  the  dwelling  in  valley,  or  highland, 
So  meet  for  a  bard  as  this  lone  little  island  ! 


How  oft  when  the  summer  sun  rested  on 

And  lit  the  dark  heath  on  the  hills  of  Ivora, 

I  Live  I  sought  thee,  sweet  spot,  from  my  home 

by  the  ocean, 

And  trod  all  thy  wilds  with  a  minstrel's  devotion, 
And  thought  of  thy  bards,  when  assembling  to- 

gether, 
In  the  cleft   of  thy  rocks   or   the  depth  of  thy 

heather, 
They  fled  from  the  Saxon's  dark  bondage  and 

slaughter, 


And   waked  their  last  song  by  the  rush   of  thy 

water ! 
High  sons  of  the  lyre,  oh !  how  proud  was  the 

feeling, 

To  think  while  alone  through  that  solitude  steal- 
ing. 

Though  loftier  Minstrels  green   Erin  can  number, 
1  only  awoke  your  wild  harp  from  its  slumber, 
And  mingled  once  more   with  the  voice  of  those 

fountains, 

The  songs  even  echo  forgot  on  her  mountains, 
And  gleaned  each  gray  legend,  that  darkly  was 

sleeping 

Where  the  mist   and  the  rain  o'er  their   beauty 
was  creeping ! 


Lesst  bard  of  the  hills  !  were  it  mine  to  inherit 
The  fire  of  thy  harp  and  the  wing  of  thy  spirit, 
With  the  wrongs  which  like  thee  to  our  country 

has  bound  me ; 
Did  your  mantle  of  song  fling  its  radiance  around 

me, 

Still,  still  in  those  wilds  may  young  Liberty  rally, 
And  send  her  strong  shout  over  mountain  and 

valley ; 

The  star  of  the  west  may  yet  rise  in  its  glory, 
And  the  land  that  WAS  darkest  be  brightest  in 

story. 

I  too  shall  be  gone ;  but  my  name  shall  be  spoken 
When  Erin  awakes,  and  her  fetters  are  broken  : 
Some  minstrel  will  come,  in  the  summer  e«e'a 

gleaming, 
When  Freedom's  young  light  on   his  spirit   is 

beaming. 

And  bend  o'er  my  grave  with  a  tear  of  emotion, 
Where  calm  Avon  Buee  seeks  the  kisses  of  ocean, 
Or  plant  a  wild  wreath,  from  the  banks  of  that 

river, 

O'er  the  heart  and  the  harp  that  arc  sleeping  for- 
ever. 


576 


THE   POEMS   OF   J.  J.  CALLANAN 


TO  A  SPRIG  OF  MOUNTAIN  HEATH. 

THOU  little  stem  of  lowly  heath  ! 
Nursed  by  the  wild  wind's  hardy  breath, 
Dost  thou  survive,  uuconquer'd  still, 
Thy  stately  brethren  of  the  hill  ? 
No  more  the  morning  mist  shall  break 
Around  Clogh-grenan's  towering  peak ; 
The  stag  no  more  with  glance  of  pride 
Looks  fearless  from  its  hazel  side ; 
But  there  thou  livest  lone  and  free, 
The  hermit  plant  of  Liberty. 

Child  of  the  mountain !  many  a  storm 

Hath  drench'd  thy  head  and  shook  thy  form, 

Since  in  thy  depths  Clon-muire  lay, 

To  wait  the  dawning  of  that  day ; 

And  many  a  sabre,  as  it  beam'd 

Forth  from  its  heather  scabbard,  gleam'd 

When  Leix  its  vengeance  hot  did  slake 

In  yonder  city  of  the  lake, 

And  its  proud  Saxon  fortress1  bore 

The  banner  green  of  Riery  More. 

Thou  wert  not  then,  as  thou  art  now, 
Upon  a  bondsman-minstrel's  brow  ; 
But  wreathing  round  the  harp  of  Leix, 
When  to  the  strife  it  fired  the  free, 
Or  from  the  helmet  battle-sprent 
Waved  where  the  cowering  Saxon  bent. 
Yet  blush  not,  for  the  bard  you  crown 
Ne'er  stoop'd  his  spirit's  homage  down, 
And  he  can  wake,  though  rude  his  skill, 
The  songs  you  loved  on  yonder  hill. 

Repine  not,  that  no  more  the  spring 
Its  balmy  breath  shall  round  thee  fling : 
No  more  the  heathcock's  pinion  sway 
Shall  from  thy  bosom  dash  the  spray. 
More  sweet,  more  blest  thy  lot  shall  prove : 
Go — to  the  breast  of  her  I  love, 
And  speak  for  me  to  that  blue  eye  ; 
Breathe  to  that  heart  my  fondest  sigh  ; 
And  tell  her  in  thy  softest  tone 
That  he  who  sent  thee  is — her  own. 


The  fortress  alluded  to  is  the  Castle  of  Carlow,  bnllt  hi 
the  time  of  King  .J;>hn,  and  still  an  imposing  ruin.  Riery  More 
was  the  Chieftain  of  Leix  (the  present  Queen's  County)  in  the  time 
of  Elizabeth.  He  was  brave,  politic,  and  accomplished  above  his 
rt'der  countrymen  of  that  period ;  he  stormed  the  Castle  of  Carlow, 
wlich,  being  within  the  pale,  belonged  to  the  English  ;  they  never 
had  a  more  skilful  enemy  in  the  country.  Riere,  Anglice  Roger. 
—Carlow,  or  Cahir-lough,  literally  the  City  of  the  Lake.— Clough- 
jrenna,  the  sunny  MU.  It  is  near  <"arlow,  but  in  the  Queen's 
County  Mid  was  formerly  thickly  coverwd  with  o»k. 


SPANISH  WAR-SONG. 

YE  sons  of  old  Iberia,  brave  Spaniards,  up,  arise  ; 
Along  your  hills,  like   distant  rills,  the  voice  of 

battle  flies ; 
Once  more,  with  threats  of  tyranny,    come   on 

the  host  of  France. 
Ye  men  of  Spain,  awake  again,  to  Freedom's  fight 

advance. 

Like   snow  upon   your  mountains,  they  gather 

from  afar, 
j  To  launch  upon  your  olive-fields  the  avalanche 

of  war ; 
Above   the    dark'ning  Pyrenees  their  cloud  of 

battle  flies, 
To  burst    in    thunder    on    your  plains ; — brave 

Spaniards,  up,  arise. 

O  sons  of  Viriatus,  Hispania's  boast  and  pride, 
Who    long   withstood,    in    fields   of  blood,    the 

Roman's  battle- tide, 
Arise  again  to  match  his  deeds  and  kindle  at  his 

name, 
And  let  its  light,  through  Freedom's  fight,  still 

guide  you  on  to  fame. 

Descendants   of  those  heroes    in    Roman    song 

renown'd, 
Whose  glorious  strife  for  Liberty  with  deathless 

name  was  crown'd — 
Come  down  again,  unconquer'd  men,  like  Biscay's 

ocean  roar, 
And  show  yourselves  the  Cantabers  your  fathers 

were  of  yore. 

Saguntum's  tale  of  wonder   shines   bright  upon 

your  page, 
And    old    Numantia's  story  shall    live    through 

every  age : 
Her  children  sung  their  farewell  song,  their  own 

loved  homes  they  fired, 
And    in   the    blaze,   'mid    Freedom's    rays,    all 

gloriously  expired. 

( Two  vertet  of  the  Spanish  War-nong,  not  in  the  printed 
copy.) 

Long,  long  each  Spanish  father  his  kindling 
boys  shall  tell, 

How  gallantly  Gerona  fought,  how  Saragoza  fell ; 

Long,  long,  above  the  waves  of  time  those  death- 
less names  shall  be 

A  beacon  light  to  all  who  fight  for  home  or 
liberty. 


THE   POEMS   OF  J.  J.  CALLANAN. 


677 


Ok,  offspring  of  that  hero  by  Spanish  hearts 

adored, 
Who  on  fche  proud  Morescoe  bands  his  mountain 

vengeance  pourM, 


Once  more  to  waste  your  lovely  fields  coine  on 

the  hordes  of  France — 
Descendants  of  Pelayo,  to  Freedom's  fight  ad- 


vance. 


Songs,  Jjjrical  Jjieets, 


"SI  JE  TE  PERDS,  JE  SUIS  PERDU." 

TfatiM  stanzas  were  suggested  by  an  Impress  on  a  Seal,  repre- 
senting a  boat  at  sea,  and  a  man  at  the  holm  looking  up  at  a 
*oliurj-  star,  with  a  motto— Si  je  t«p«rdt,j«  suit  perdu. 

SHINE  on,  thou  bright  beacon, 

Unclouded  and  free, 
From  thy  high  place  of  calmness 

O'er  life's  troubled  sea  ; 
Its  morning  of  promise, 

Its  smooth  waves  are  gone, 
And  the  billows  rave  wildly — 

Then,  bright  one,  shine  on. 

The  wings  of  the  tempest 

May  rush  o'er  thy  ray ; 
But  tranquil  thou  srailest, 

Undimm'd  by  its  sway  : 
High,  high  o'er  the  worlds 

Where  storms  are  unknown, 
Thon  dwellest  all-beauteous, 

All-glorious, — alone. 

From  the  deep  womb  of  darkness 

The  lightning  flash  leaps, 
O*cr  the  bark  of  my  fortunes 

Each  mad  billow  e,weeps, — 
From  the  port  of  her  safety, 

By  warring  winds  driven, 
And  no  light  o'er  her  course 

But  yon  lone  one  of  heaven. 

Yet  fear  not,  thou  frail  one, 

The  hour  may  be  near, 
When  our  own  sunny  headland 

Far  off  shall  appear  : 
When  the  voice  of  the  storm 

Shall  be  silent  and  past, 
In  some  island  of  heaven 

We  may  anchor  at  last. 


But,  bark  of  Eternity, 

Where  art  thou  now  ? 
The  wild  waters  shriek 

O'er  each  plunge  of  thy  prow  : 
On  the  world's  dreary  Ocean, 

Thus  shatter'd  and  tost-  - 
Then,  lone  one,  shine  on, 

"IF  I  LOSE  THEE,  I'M  LOST." 


HOW  KEEN  THE  PANG. 

How  keen  the  pang  when  friends  must  part, 
And  bid  the  unwilling  last  adieu  ; 

When  every  sigh  that  rends  the  heart, 
Awakes  the  bliss  that  once  it  knew  ! 


He  that  has  felt,  alone  can  tell 
The  dreary  desert  of  the  mind, 

When  those  whom  once  we  loved  so  well 
Have  left  us  weeping  here  behind  • 

When  every  look  so  kindly  shed, 
And  every  word  so  fondly  °poken, 

And  every  smile,  is  faded,  fled, 

And  leaves  the  heart  alone  and  broken. 

Yes,  dearest  maid  !  that  grief  was  mine, 
When,  bending  o'er  thy  shrouded  bier, 

I  saw  the  form  that  once  was  thine — 
My  Mary  was  no  longer  there. 

But  on  the  relics  pale  and  cold. 
There  sat  a  sweet  seraphic  smile, 

A  calm  celestial  grace,  that  told 
Our  parting  was  but  for  a  while. 


578 


THE  POEMS   OF  J.  J.  CALLANAN. 


WRITTEN  TO  A  YOUNG  LADY 

ON    ENTKRINO    A    CONVENT. 

Tis  the  rose  of  the  desert — 

So  lovely,  so  wild  ; 
In  the  lap  of  the  desert 

Its  infancy  smiled  : 
In  the  languish  of  beauty 

It  droops  o'er  the  thorn, 
And  its  leaves  are  all  wet 

With  the  bright  tears  of  morn. 

Yet  'tis  better,  thou  fair  one, 

To  dwell  all  alone, 
Than  recline  on  a  bosom 

Less  pure  than  thine  own  : 
Thy  form  is  too  lovely 

To  be  torn  from  its  stem, 
And  thy  breath  is  too  sweet 

For  the  children  of  men. 

Bloom  on  thus  in  secret, 

Sweet  child  of  the  waste, 
Where  no  lips  of  profaner 

Thy  fragrance  shall  taste  ; 
Bloom  on  where  no  footstep 

Unhallow'd  hath  trod, 
And  give  all  thy  blushes 

And  sweets  to  thy  God. 


LINES  ON  A  DECEASED  CLERGYMAN. 

BREATHE  not  his  honor'd  name, 

Silently  keep  it ; 
Hush'd  be  the  sadd'ning  theme, 

In  secrecy  weep  it ; 
Call  not  a  warmer  flow 

To  eyes  that  are  aching  ; 
Wake  not  a  deeper  throe 

In  hearts  that  are  breaking. 

Oh,  'tis  a  placid  rest  ; 

Who  should  deplore   it  ? 
Trance  of  the  pure  and  blest — 

Angels  watch  o'er  it : 
Sleep  of  his  mortal  night, 

Sorrow  can't  break  it ; 
Heaven's  own  morning  light 

Alone  shall  awake  it. 


Nobly  thy  course  is  run — 

Splendor  is  round  it ; 
Bravely  thy  fight  is  won — 

Freedom  hath  crown'd  it ; 
In  the  high  warfare 

Of  heaven  grown  hoary, 
Thou'rt  gone  like  the  summer-sunt 

Shrouded  in  glory. 

Twine — twine  the  victor  wreath, 

Spirits  that  meet  him  ; 
Sweet  songs  of  triumph  breathe, 

Seraphs,  to  greet  him  ! 
From  his  high  resting-place 

Who  shall  him  sever  ? 
With  his  God  face  to  face, 

Leave  him  forever. 


LINES 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  AN  AMIABLE  AND  HIGHLY 
TALENTED  YOUNG  MAN,  WHO  FELL  A  VICTIM 
TO  FEVER  IN  THE  WEST  INDIES. 

ALL  vack'd  on  his  feverish  bed  he  lay, 

And  none  but  the  stranger  were  near  him ; 

No  friend  to  console,  in  his  last  sad  day, 
No  look  of  affection  to  cheer  him. 

Frequent  and  deep  were  the  groans  he  drew, 

On  that  couch  of  torture  turning  ; 
And  often  his  hot  wild  hand  he  threw 

O'er  his  brows,  still  wilder  burning. 

But,  oh  !  what  anguish  his  bosom  tore, 

How  throbb'd  each  strong  pulse  of  emotion, 

When  he    thought  of   the    friends    he    should 

never  see  more, 
In  his  own  green  Isle  of  the  Ocean  ! — 

When  he  thought  of  the  distant  maid  of  hi* 
heart, — 

Oh,  must  they  thus  darkly  sever — 
No  last  farewell,  ere  his  spirit  depart — 

Must  he  leave  her  unseen,  and  forever  ? 

One  sigh  for  that  maid  his  fond  heart  heaVed, 
One  prayer  for  her  weal  he  breathed  ; 

And  his  eyes  to  that  land  for  whose  woes  he  had- 

grieved, 
Once  look'd — and  forever  were  sheathed. 


Till-:    POEMS   OF  J.  J.  CALLANAN. 


579 


On  a  cliff  that  by  footstep  is  seldom  prest, 
Far  seaward  its  dark  head  rearing, 

A  rude  stone  marks  the  place  of  his  rest ; — 
*'  Here  lies  a  poor  exile  of  Erin." 

Yet  think  not,  dear  Youth,  though  far,  far  away 
From  thy  own  native  Isle  tliou  art  sleeping, 

That  no  heart  for  thy  slumber  is  aching  to-day, 
That  no  eye  for  thy  mem'ry  is  weeping. 

Oh!  yes — when  the  hearts  that  have  wailed  thy 

young  blight, 

Some  joy  from  forgetful  ness  borrow, 
The  thought  of  thy  doom   will  come  over  their 

light, 
And  shade  them  more  deeply  with  sorrow. 

And  the  maid  who  so  long  held  her  home  in  thy 
breast, 

As  she  strains  her  wet  eye  o'er  the  billow, 
Will  vainly  embrace,  as  it  comes  from  the  west, 

Every  breeze  that  has  swept  o'er  thy  pillow. 


AND  MUST  WE  PART. 

AND  must  we  part  ?  then  fare  thcc  well ; 
But  he  that  wails  it — he  can  tell 
How  dear  thou  wert,  how  dear  thou  art, 
And  ever  must  be  to  this  heart : 
But  now  'tis  vain — it  cannot  be  ; 
Farewell  !  and  think  no  more  ou  me. 

Oh  !  yes — this  heart  would  sooner  break, 

Than  one  unholy  thought  awake ; 

I'd  sooner  slumber  into  clay, 

Than  cloud  thy  spirit's  beauteous  ray  : 

Go  free  as  air — as  Angel  free, 

And,  lady,  think  no  more  on  me. 

Oh,  did  we  meet  when  brighter  star 
Sent  its  fair  promise  from  afar, 
I  then  might  hope  to  call  thee  mine, 
The  Minstrel's  heart  and  harp  were  thine ; 
But  now  'tis  past — it  cannot  be: 
Farewell !  and  think  no  more  on  me. 

Or  do  ! — bnt  let  it  be  the  hour, 

When  Mercy's  all-atoning  power 

From  his  high  throne  of  glory  hears 

Of  souls  like  thine  the  prayers,  the  tears ; 

Then,  whilst  you  bend  the  suppliant  knee— 

Then   then,  O  Lady,  think  on  me. 


PURE  IS  THE  DEWY    <;KM.' 

PURK  is  the  dewy  gem  that  sleeps 
Within  the  rose's  fragrant  bed, 
And  dear  the  heart-warm  drop  that  steeps 

•  The  turf  where  all  we  loved  is  laid  ; 
But  far  more  dear,  more  pure  than  they, 
The  tear  that  washes  guilt  «way. 

Sweet  is  the  morning's  balmy  breath 
Along  the  valley's  flowery  side, 

And  lovely  on  the  moonlit  heath 

The  lute's  soft  tone  complaining  wide; 

But  still  more  lovely,  sweeter  still, 

The  sigh  that  wails  a  life  of  ill. 

Bright  is  the  morning's  roseate  gleam 
Upon  the  mountains  of  the  East, 

And  soft  the  moonlight  silvery  beam 
Above  the  billow's  placid  rest ; 

But  oh,  what  ray  ere  shone  from  heaven 

Like  God's  first  smile  on  a  soul  forgiven  I 


TO 


LADY — the  lyre  thou  bid'st  me  take, 

No  more  can  breathe  the  minstrel  strain  ; 
The  cold  and  trembling  notes  I  wake, 

Fall  on  the  ear  like  plashing  rain  ; 
For  days  of  suffering  and  of  pain, 

And  nights  that  lull'd  no  care  for  me, 
Have  tamed  ray  spirit, — then  in  vain 

Thon  bid'st  me  wake  my  harp  for  thee. 

But  could  I  sweep  my  ocean  lyre, 

As  once  this  feeble  hand  could  sweep, 
Or  catch  once  more  the  thought  of  fire, 

That  lit  the  Mizen's  stormy  steep, 
Or  bid  the  fancy  cease  to  sleep, 

That  once  could  soar  on  pinion  free, 
And  dream  I  was  not  born  to  weep  ; 

Oh,  then  I'd  wake  my  harp  for  thee. 

And  now  'tis  on'y  friendship's  call 
That  bids  my  slumbering  lyre  awake. 

It  long  hath  slept  in  sorrow's  hall : 
Again  that  slumber  it  must  seek  : 


1  This  trifle  WM  oompoMd  before  the  author  rMd   Uooct'l 
Paradiw  and  the  Pert 


580 


THE   POEMS   OF  J.  J.  CALLANAN. 


Not  even  the  light  of  beauty's  cheek, 
Or  blue  eye  beaming  kind  and  free, 

Can  bid  its  mournful  numbers  speak  : 
Then,  lady,  ask  no  lay  from  me. 

Yet  if,  on  Desmond's  mountain  wild, 

By  glens  I  love,  or  ocean  cave, 
Nature  once  more  should  own  her  child, 

And  give  the  strength  that  once  she  gave  ; 
If  he  who  lights  my  path  should  save, 

And  what  I  was  I  yet  may  be  ; 
Then,  lady,  by  green  Erin's  wave, 

I'll  gladly  wake  my  harp  for  thee. 


STANZAS. 

HOURS  like  those  I  spent  with  you, 

So  bright,  so  passing,  and  so  few, 

May  never  bless  me  more, — farewell ! 

My  heart  can  feel,  but  dare  not  tell, 

The  rapture  of  those  hours  of  light, 

Thus  snatch'd  from  sorrow's  cheerless  night. 

'Tis  not  thy  cheek's  soft  blended  hue  ; 
'Ti-s  not  thine  eye  of  heavenly  blue  ; 
Tis  not  the  radiance  of  thy  b-row, 
That  thus  would  win  or  charm  me  now ; 
It  is  thy  heart's  warm  light,  that  glows 
Like  sunbeams  on  December  snows. 


It  is  thy  wit,  that  flashes  bright 
As  lightning  on  a  stormy  night, 
Illuming  even  the  clouds  that  roll 
Along  the  darkness  of  my  soul, 
And  bidding,  with  an  angel's  voice, 
The  heart  that  knew  no  joy — rejoice. 

Too  late  we  met — too  soon  we  part, 
Yet  dearer  to  my  soul  thou  art 
Than  some  whose  love  has  grown  for  years, 
Smiled  with  my  smile,  and  wept  my  tears. 
Farewell ! — but  absent,  thou  shall  seem 
The  vision  of  some  heavenly  dream, 
Too  bright  on  child  of  earth  to  dwell. 
It  must  be  so — My  friend,  farewell. 


THE  NIGHT  WAS  STILL. 

TEE  night  was  still — the  air  was  balm — 

Soft  dews  around  were  weeping  ; 
No  whisper  rose  o'er  ocean's  calm, 

Its  waves  in  light  were  sleeping. 
With  Mary  on  the  beach  I  stray'd, 

The  stars  bearn'd  joy  above  me — 
I  press'd  her  hand  and  said,  "  Sweet  maid, 

Oh  tell  me,  do  you  love  me?" 
With  modest  air  she  droop'd  her  head, 

Her  cheek  of  beauty  vailing : 
Her  bosom  heaved — no  word  she  said — 

I  mark'd  her  strife  of  feeling ; 
"  Oh  speak  my  doom,  dear  maid,"  I  cried, 

"By  yon  bright  heaven  above  thee:" 
She  gently  raised  her  eyes  and  sigh'd, 

"  Too  well  you  know  I  love  thee." 


SERENADE. 

THE  blue  waves  are  sleeping; 

The  breezes  are  still ; 
The  light  dews  are  weeping 

Soft  tears  on  the  hill ; 
The  moon  in  mild  beauty 

Looks  bright  from  above ; 
Then  come  to  the  casement, 

0  Mary,  my  love. 

Not  a  sound  or  a  motion 

Is  over  the  lake, 
But  the  whisper  of  ripples, 

As  shoreward  they  break ; 
My  skiff  wakes  no  ruffle 

The  waters  among  ; 
Then  listen,  dear  maid, 

To  thy  true  lover's  song. 

No  form  from  the  lattice 

Did  ever  recline 
Over  Italy's  waters, 

More  lovely  than  thine ; 
Then  come  to  thy  window, 

And  shed  from  above 
One  glance  of  thy  dark  eye, 

One  smile  of  thy  love. 

Oh  !  the  soul  of  that  eye, 

When  it  breaks  from  its  shrond. 


THE   POEMS   OF  J.  J.  CALL  AN  AN 


581 


Shines  beauteously  out, 

Like  the  moon  from  a  cloud  ; 
And  thy  whisper  of  love, 

Breathed  thus  from  afar, 
Is  sweeter  to  me 

Than  the  sweetest  guitar. 

From  the  storms  of  this  world 

How  gladly  I'd  fly 
To  the  calm  of  that  breast, 

To  the  heaven  of  that  eye ! 
How  deeply  I  love  thee 

'Twere  useless  to  tell ; 
Farewell,  then,  my  dear  one — 

My  Mary,  farewell. 


ROUSSEAU'S  DREAM.1 

Am — "Rousseau's  Dream." 

LIFE  for  me  is  dark  and  dreary ; 

Every  light  is  quench'd  and  gone ; 
O'er  its  waste,  all  lone  and  weary, 

Sorrow's  child,  I  journey  on. 
Thou  whose  smile  alone  can  cheer  me, 

Whose  bright  form  still  haunts  my  breast, 
From  this  world  in  pity  bear  me 

To  thy  own  high  home  of  rest. 

Hush  ! — o'er  Leman's  sleeping  water, 

Whispering  tones  of  love  I  hear ; 
Tis  some  fond  unearthly  daughter 

Woos  me  to  her  own  bright  sphere. 
Immortal  beauty  !  yes,  I  see  thee, 

Come,  oh !  come  to  this  wild  breast  1 
Oh  !  I  fly — I  burn  to  meet  thee — 

Take  me  to  thy  home  of  rest. 


WHEN  EACH  BRIGHT  STAR  IS 
CLOUDED. 

An— u  CUr  Bag  Dale." 

WHEN  each  bright  star  is  clouded  that  illumined 

our  way, 
And  darkly  through  the  bleak  night  of  life  we 

stray, 


rlld  RnniMtau, 


The  Apostle  of  affliction.  Ac. 

His  was  not  the  love  of  mortal  dame— 

•  ••••• 

Bat  of  lilot    beauty,  &o.— CHILD!  HABOL* 


What  joy  then  is  left  us,  but  alone  to  weep 
O'er  the  cold  dreary  pillow  where  loved  onet 
sleep  t 


This  world  has  no  pleasure  that  is  half  so  deart 
That  can  soothe  the  widow'd  bosom  like  memory'i 

tear; 
'Tis   the   desert   rose   drooping   in  moon's  soft 

dew, 
In  those  pure  drops  looks  saddest,  but  softest 

too. 


Oh,  if  ever  death  should  sever  fond  hearts  from 

me, 

And  I  linger  like  the  last  leaf  on  autumn's  tree, 
While  pining  o'er  the  dead  mates  all  sear'd  below. 
How  welcome  will  the  last  blast  be  that  lays  me 

lowl 


HUSSA  THA  MEASG  NA  RE  ALT  AN 
MORE.1 

Mr  love,  my  still  unchanging  love, 
As  fond,  as  true,  as  hope  above, 
Though  many  a  year  of  pain  pass'd  by 
Since  last  I  heard  thy  farewell  sigh, 
This  faithful  heart  doth  still  adore 
Hussa  tha  measg  na  realtdn  more. 

What  once  we  hoped,  might  then  have  been, 
But  fortune  darkly  frown'd  between  : 
And  though  far  distant  is  the  ray 
That  lights  me  on  my  weary  way, 
I  love,  and  shall  'till  life  is  o'er, 
Hussa  tha  measg  na  realtdn  more. 

Though  many  a  light  of  beauty  shone 
Along  my  path,  and  lured  me  on, 
I  better  loved  thy  dark  bright  eye. 
Thy  witching  smile,  thy  spi-aking  sigh  : 
Shine  on — this  heart  shall  still  adore 
Hussa  tha  measg  na  realtdn  mure. 

1  7\cw  tf  ta  art  amitngtt  On  grtaUr  pionttt 


,582 


THE   POEMS   OF   J.  J.  CALLANAN. 


acreb  Subjects. 


THE  VIRGIN  MARY'S  BANK. 

FROM  the  foot  of  Incbidony  Tuland  an  elevated  tract  of  wnd 
run*  out  into  the  sea  and  terminates  in  a  high  green  bank,  which 
forms  a  pleasing  contrast  with  the  little  desert  behind  it  and  the 
black  solitary  rock  immediately  tinder.  Tradition  tells  that  the 
Virgin  came  one  night  to  this  hillock  to  pray,  and  was  discovered 
kneeling:  there  by  the  crew  of  a  vessel  that  was  coming  to  anchor 
near  the  place.  They  laughed  at  her  piety,  and  made  some  merry 
and  unbecoming  remarks  on  her  beauty,  upon  which  a  storm  arose 
•nd  destroyed  the  ship  and  her  crew.  Since  that  time  no  vessel 
has  been  known  to  anchor  near  the  spot 

Such  is  the  story  upon  which  the  following  stanzas  are  founded. 

THE  evening  star  rose  beauteous  above  the  fading 
day, 

As  to  the  lone  and  silent  beach  the  Virgin  came 
to  pray, 

And  hill  and  wave  shone  brightly  in  the  moon- 
light's mellow  fall ; 

But  the  bank  of  green  where  Mary  knelt  was 
brightest  of  them  all. 

Slow  moving  o'er  the  waters  a  gallant  bark  ap- 

pear'd, 
And  her  joyous  crew  look'd  from  the  deck  as  to 

the  land  she  near'd : 
To  the  calm  and  shelter'd  haven  she  floated  like 

a  swan, 
And  her  wings  of  snow  o'er  the  waves  below  in 

pride  and  beauty  shone. 

The  Master  saw  our  Lady  as  he  stood  upon  the 
prow, 

And  niark'd  the  whiteness  of  her  robe  and  the 
radiance  of  her  brow ; 

3er  arms  were  folded  gracefully  upon  her  stain- 
less brea&t, 

And  her  eyes  look'd  up  among  the  staus  to  Him 
her  soul  loved  best. 

He  show'd  her  to  his  sailors,  and  he  hail'd  her 

with  a  cheer ; 
Aud  on  the  kneeling  Virgin  they  gazed   with 

laugh  and  jeer, 


And  madly  swore  a  form  so  fair  they  never  saw 

before ; 
And  they  cursed  the  faint  and  lagging  breeze 

that  kept  them  from  the  shore. 

The  ocean  from  its  bosom  shook  off  the  moon- 
light sheen, 

And  up  its  wrathful  billows  rose  to  vindicate 
their  Queen ; 

And  a  cloud  came  o'er  the  heavens,  and  a  dark- 
ness o'er  the  land, 

And  the  scoffing  crew  beheld  no  more  that  Lady 
on  the  strand. 

Out  burst  the  pealing  thunder,  and  the  lightning 

leap'd  about, 
And  rushing  with  his  watery  war,  the  tempest 

gave  a  shout, 
And  that  vessel  from  a  mountain  wave   cams 

down  with  thundering  shock, 
And  her  timbers  flew  like  scatter'd  spray  on  In- 

chidony's  rock. 

Then  loud  from  all  that  guilty  crew  one  shriek 
rose  wild  and  high ; 

But  the  angry  surge  swept  over  them  and  hush'd 
their  gurgling  cry ; 

And  with  a  hoarse  exulting  tone  the  tempest 
pass'd  away, 

And  down,  still  charing  from  their  strife,  the  in- 
dignant waters  lay. 

When  the  calm  and  purple  morning  shone  out 

on  high  Dunmore, 
Full  many  a  mangled  corpse  was  seen  on  Inchi- 

clony's  shore  ; 
And  to  this  day  the  fisherman  shows  where  the 

scoffers  sank, 
And  still  he  calls  that  hillock  green  "  the  Virgin 

Mury's  bank." 


THE  POEMS   OF  J.  J.  CALLANAN. 


588 


(  Ftrsg  omitted/rom  "  Tlu  Virgin  J/ary'* 

And  from  his  brow  she  wiped  the  blood  and 
wrung  his  dripping  hair, 

And  o'er  the  breathless  sailor  boy  she  bent  her- 
self in  prayer, 

And  life  came  rushing  to  his  cheek  and  his  bosom 
heaved  a  sigh, 

And  up  the  lifeless  sailor  rose  in  the  mercy  of 
her  eye. 


MARY  MAGDALEN. 

To  the  hall  of  that  feast  came  the  sinful  and  fair  ; 
She  heard  in  the  city  that  Jesus  was  there : 
She  mark'd  not  the  splendor  that  blazed  on  their 

board, 
But  silentlv  knelt  at  the  feet  of  the  Lord. 


The  hair  from  her  forehead,  so  sad  and  so  meek, 
Hung  dark  o'er  the  blushes  that  burn'd  on  her 

cheek ; 

And  so  still  and  so  lowly  she  bent  in  her  shame, 
It  seem'd  as  her  spirit  had  flown  from  its  frame. 

The  frown  and  the  murmur  went  round  through 

them  all, 
That  one    so  unhallow'd  should  tread  in  that 

hall; 
And  some  said  the  poor  would  be  objects  more 

meet 
For  the  wealth  of  the  perfume*  she  shower'd  on 

his  feet. 


She  mark'd  but  her  Saviour,  she  spoke  but  in 

sighs, 

She  dared  not  look  up  to  the  heaven  of  his  eyes, 
And  the  hot  tears  gush'd  forth  at  each  heave  of 

her  breast, 
As  her  lips  to  his  sandal  were  throbbingly  press'd. 

On  the  cloud  after  tempests,  as  shineth  the  bow, 
Tn  the  glance  of  the  sunbeam,  as  meltcth  the  snow, 
He  look'd  on  that  lost  one — her  sins  were  for- 
given, 
And  Mary  went  forth  in  the  beauty  of  heaven. 


SAUL, 

HOLDING   THE    GARMENTS   OK   THE    MUKDHREK8    Of 
STEPHEN. 

THE  soldier  of  Christ  to  the  stake  was  bound, 
And  the  foes  of  the  Lord  beset  him  round  ; 
But  his  forehead  beam'd  with  unearthly  light, 
As  he  laok'd  with  joy  to  his  last  high  fight. 

Beyond  that  circle  of  death  was  one 
Whose  hand  was  unarm'd  with  glaive  or  stone; 
But  the  garments  he  held,  as  apart  lie  stood, 
Of  the  men  who  were  bared  for  the  work  of  blood. 

His  form  not  tall,  but  his  bearing  high, 
And  courage  sat  in  his  dark  deep  eye  ; 
His  cheek  was  young,  and  he  seein'd  to  stand 
Like  one  who  was  destined  for  high  command. 

But  the  hate  of  his  spirit  you  well  might  learn 
From  his  pale  high  brow  so  bent  and  stern, 
And  the  glance  that  at  times  shot  angry  light, 
Like  a  flash  from  the  depth  of  a  stormy  night 

'Twas  Saul  of  Tarsus ! — a  fearful  name, 
And  wed  in  the  land  with  sword  and  flame ; 
And  the  faithful  of  Israel  trembled  all 
At  the  deeds  that  were  wrought  by  the  furiotu 
Saul. 

'Tis  done  ! — the  martyr  hath  slept  at  last, 
And  his  victor  soul  to  the  Lord  hath  pass'd ; 
And  the  murderers'  hearts  wax'd  sore  with  guilt, 
As  they  gazed  on  the  innocent  blood  they  spilt 

But  Saul  went  on  in  his  fiery  zeal ; 
The  thirst  of  his  fury  no  blood  could  quell ; 
And  he  went  to  Damascus  with  words  of  doom, 
To  bury  the  faithful  in  dungeon-gloom ; 

When  lo! — as  a  rock  by  the  lightning  riven, 
His  heart  was  smote  by  a  voice  from  heaven, 
And  the  hater  of  Jesus  loved  nanght  beside, 
And  died  for  the  name  of  the  Crucified. 


THE  MOTHER  OF  THE  MACHABEES, 

THAT  mother  view'd  the  scene  of  blood — 
Her  six  unconquer'd  sons  were  gone — 

Tearless  she  viewed  :  beside  her  stood 
Her  last — her  youngest — dearest  one  ; 


584 


THE  POEMS   OF  J.  J.  CALLANAN. 


lie  look'd  upon  her,  and  he  smiled  — 
Oh  !  will  she  save  that  only  child  ' 

"  By  all  ray  love,  my  son,"  she  said — 

"The  breast  that  nursed  —  the   womb    that 
bore — 

The  unsleeping  care  that  watch'd  thee — fed — 
'Till  manhood's  years  required  no  more  ; 

By  all  I've  wept  and  pray'd  for  thee, 

Now,  now,  be  firm  and  pity  me. 

"  Look,  I  beseech  thee,  on  yon  heaven, 

With  its  high  field  of  azure  light, 
Look  on  this  earth,  to  mankind  given, 

Array'd  in  beauty  and  in  might, 
And  think — nor  scorn  thy  mother's  prayer — 
On  ilim  who  said  it,  and  they  were! 

"  So  shalt  thou  not  this  tyrant  fear, 
Nor  recreant  shun  the  glorious  strife. 

Hohold  !  thy  battle-field  is  near  : 
Then  go,  my  son,,  nor  heed  thy  life ; 

Go ! — like  thy  faithful  brothers  die, 

That  I  may  meet  you  all  on  high." 

Like  arrow  from  the  bended  bow, 
He  sprang  upon  the  bloody  pile — 

Like  sunrise  on  the  morning's  snow, 
Was  that  heroic  mother's  smile. 

He  died — nor  fear'd  the  tyrant's  nod — 

For  Judah's  law,  and  Judah's  God  ! 


MOONLIGHT. 

Trs  sweet  at  hush  of  night 
By  the  calm  moon  to  wander, 

And  view  those  isles  oi  light 
That  float  so  far  beyond  her, 


In  that  wide  sea, 

Whose  waters  free 
Can  find  no  shore  to  bound  them — 

On  whose  calm  breast 

Pure  spirits  rest 

With  all  their  glory  round  them : 
Oh  that  my  soul  all  free, 

From  bonds  of  earth  might  sever ! 
Oh  that  those  isles  might  be 

Her  resting-place  forever  ! 

When  all  those  glorious  spheres 

The  watch  of  heaven  are  keeping, 
And  dews,  like  angels'  tears, 
Around  are  gently  weeping  ; 
Oh  who  is  he 
That  carelessly 
On  virtue's  bound  encroaches, 
But  then  will  feel 
Upon  him  steal 
Their  silent  sweet  reproaches  ? 
Oh  that  my  soul  all  free, 

From  bonds  of  earth  might  sever! 
Oh  that  those  isles  might  be 
Her  resting-place  forever  1 

And  when  in  secret  sighs 

o 

The  lonely  heart  is  pining, 
If  we  but  view  those  skies 

With  ail  their  bright  host  shining- 
While  sad  we  gaze 
On  their  mild  rays, 
They  seem  like  seraphs  smiling, 
To  joys  above, 
With  looks  of  love, 
The  weary  spirit  wiling  : 
Oh  that  my  soul  all  free, 

From  bonds  of  earth  could  sevar  I 
Oh  that  those  isles  might  be 
Her  resting-place  forever  1 


THE  POEMS  OF  J.  J.  CALLANAN. 


585 


translations  from  tjjc  |ris|j. 


THOUGH  the  Irish  are  undoubtedly  of  a  poetic  temperament,  yet 
the  popular  songs  of  the  lower  order  are  neither  numerous  nor 
In  general  possessed  of  much  beauty.  For  this  various  causes 
may  be  assigned ;  but  the  most  prominent  is  the  division  of  lan- 
guage which  prevails  in  Ireland.  English,  though  of  late  years  it 
is  gaining  ground  with  great  rapidity,  is  not  even  yet  the  popular 
language  in  many  districts  of  the  country,  and  thirty  years  since 
tt  was  still  less  so.  Few  songs,  therefore,  were  composed  in  English 
by  humble  minstrels,  and  the  few  that  I  know,  are  of  very  little 
value  indeed  in  any  point  of  view.  The  poets  of  the  populace 
confined  themselves  chiefly  to  Irish — a  tongue  which,  whatever 
may  be  its  capabilities,  had  ceased  to  be  the  langunge  of  the  great 
and  polished  for  centuries  before  the  poetic  taste  revived  in 
Kurope.  They  were  compelled  to  use  a  despised  dialect,  which, 
moreover,  the  political  divisions  of  the  country  had  rendered  an 
object  of  suspicion  to  the  ruling  powers.  The  government  and 
populace  were  indeed  so  decidedly  at  variance,  that  the  topics 
which  the  village  bards  were  obliged  to  select  were  such  as  often 
to  render  the  indulgence  of  their  poetic  powers  rather  dangerous. 
Their  heroes  were  frequently  inmates  of  jails  or  doomed  to  the 
gibbet,  and  the  severe  criticism  of  the  cat-o'-nine-tails  might  be 
the  lot  of  the  panegyrist. 

Wales  to  be  sure  has  produced  and  continues  to  produce  her 
bards,  though  the  Welsh  &!so  use  a  language  differing  from  that 
of  their  conquerors.  But  Wales  is  so  completely  dovetailed  into 
Englar.d,  that  resistance  to  the  victorious  power  was  hopeless,  and 
therefore  after  the  first  struggles  not  attempted.  The  Welsh  lan- 
guage was  consequently  no  distinguishing  mark  of  a  cast  deter- 
mlnately  hostile  to  the  English  domination,  and  continually  the 
object  of  suspicion.  It  was  and  is  still  cultivated  by  all  classes, 
though  I  understand  not  as  much  as  formerly.  The  case  was  quite 
different  In  Ireland.  No  gentleman  has  used  Irish  as  his  common 
i/xnguage  for  generations;  multitudes  do  not  understand  a  word  of 
It;  it  was  left  to  the  lower  orders  exclusively,  and  they  were  de- 
pressed and  uneducated,  and  consequently  wild  and  Illiterate. 

Lot  no  zealous  countryman  of  mine  imagine  that  I  am  going  to 
Impeach  the  ancient  fame  of  our  bards  and  senacblea,  or  to  aban- 
don our  claims,  or  'he  glories,  sncb  as  they  are,  of  cbe  Ossianio 
fragments.  I  mere'.y  speak  of  the  state  of  popular  Irish  poetry 
during  the  last  century  or  century  and  a  half.  With  our  ancient 
minstrels  I  meddle  not  Osslan  I  leave  to  his  wrangling  commen- 
tators and  still  more  wrangling  antiquaries;  and  for  the  bards  of 
in  -rr  modern  times  (those  for  Instance  who  flourished  In  the  days 
of  Kiir.al>eth),  I  accept  the  compliment  of  Sponsor,  who  knew  them 
well  and  hated  thorn  bitterly.  But  the  poetic  sympathies  of  the 
mlzlity  minstrel  of  Old  Mule  could  not  allow  his  political  feelings 
to  hinder  htm  from  acknowledging,  in  his  View  of  Ireland,  that 
he  had  caused  several  songs  of  the  Irish  bards  to  be  translated, 
•  tli  it  bo  might  understand  them;  "and  surely,"  he  says,  "they 
navorcd  of  sweet  wit  and  good  Invention,  hut  skilled  not  of  the 
goodly  ornament*  of  poetry  ;  yea,  they  were  sprinkled  with  some 
pretty  flowers  of  their  natural  device,  which  gave  good  grace  and 
e..in.'lini'8-e  unto  them,  the  which  It  is  great  pity  to  see  abused  to 
ihr  gracing  of  wickedness  and  vice,  which  with  good  usage  would 
wrve  to  »'lorne  and  beautlfle  virtue." 

The  following  songs  are  specimens  of  the  popular  poetry  o 
Inter  days.  I  have  translated  them  a*  closely  aa  possible,  and  pre- 
wiit  them  to  the  public  more  M  literary  curiosities  than  on  any 
viiier  account 


DIRGE  OF  O'SULLIVAN  BEAR. 

In  IT—,  one  of  the  CVSnllivans  of  Bearhaven,  who  went  by  th* 
name  of  Morty  Oge,  fell  un.ler  the  vengeance  of  the  law.  Ho  had 
long  been  a  turbulent  character  In  the  wild  district  which  ho  in- 
habited, and  was  particularly  obnoxious  to  the  local  authorities, 
who  had  good  reason  to  suspect  him  of  enlisting  men  for  the  Irish 
Brigade  In  the  French  service.  In  which  it  was  said  he  held  a 
Captain's  commission. 

Information  of  his  raising  these  "  wild  geese"  (the  name  by 
which  such  recrulfct  were  known)  was  given  by  a  Mr.  Puxley,  on 
whom,  in  consequence,  O'Sullivan  vowed  revenge,  which  he  exe- 
cuted by  shooting  him  on  Sunday,  while  on  his  way  to  church. 
This  called  for  the  Interposition  of  the  higher  powers,  and  accord- 
ingly a  party  of  military  were  sent  round  from  Cork  to  Htuck 
O'Sulltvan's  house.  He  was  daring  and  well  armed,  and  the  house 
was  fortified,  so  that  he  made  an  obstinate  defence.  At  last  a  con- 
fidential servant  of  his,  named  Scully,  was  bribed  to  wet  the 
powder  in  the  guns  and  pistols  prepared  for  bis  defence,  which 
rendered  him  powerless.  He  attempted  to  escape;  but  while 
springing  over  a  high  wall  in  the  rear  of  his  house,  he  received  a 
mortal  wound  in  the  back.  They  tied  his  body  to  a  boat,  and 
dragged  it  in  that  manner  through  the  sea  from  Boarhaven  to 
Cork,  where  his  head  was  cut  off  and  fixed  on  the  county  jail, 
where  It  remained  fur  several  years. 

Such  is  the  story  current  among  the  lower  orders  about  Bear- 
haven.  In  the  version  given  of  it  in  the  rude  chronicle  of  the 
local  occurrences  of  Cork,  there  is  no  mention  made  of  Scully'* 
perfidy,  and  perhaps  that  circumstance  might  have  been  added  by 
those  by  whom  O'Sullivan  was  deemed  a  hero,  in  order  to  save  hit 
credit  as  much  as  possible.  The  dirge  was  composed  by  his  mine, 
who  has  made  no  sparing  use  of  the  energy  of  cursing,  which  the 
Irish  language  Is  by  all  allowed  to  possess. 

(In  the  following  song,  Morty— in  Irish,  Mniertach.  or  Mulr- 
cheartach— la  a  name  very  common  among  the  old  families  of 
Ireland.  It  signifies  expert  at  sea.  Og,  or  Oge,  Is  young.  Where 
a  whole  district  Is  peopled  in  a  great  measure  by  a  sept  of  one 
name,  such  distinguishing  titles  are  necessary,  and  in  some  ease* 
even  supersede  the  original  appellation.  I-vera,  or  Aol-vera,  It 
the  original  name  of  Bearhaven  ;  Aol,  or  I,  signifying  an  Island  o» 
territory.) 

THE  suu  upon  Ivera 

No  longer  shines  brightly  ; 
The  voice  of  her  music 

No  longer  is  sprightly  ; 
No  more  to  her  maidens 

The  light  dance  is  dear, 
Since  the  death  of  our  darling, 

O'Sullivan  B«ar. 


Scully !  thou  false  one, 
You  basely  betray'd  him, 


586 


THE    POEMS   OF  J.  J.  CALLANAN. 


I'n  his  strong  hour  of  need, 

When  thy  right  hand  should  aid  him 
He  fed  thee — he  chid  thee — 

You  had  all  could  delight  thee  ; 
You  left  him — you  sold  him — 

May  heaven  requite  thee ! 

Scully  !  may  all  kinds 

Of  evil  attend  thee; 
On  thy  dark  road  of  life 

May  no  kind  one  befriend  thee ; 
May  fevers  long  burn  thee, 

And  agues  long  freeze  thee ! 
May  the  strong  hand  of  God 

In  hio  red  anger  seize  thee. 

Had  he  died  calmly, 

I  would  not  deplore  him  ; 
Or  if  the  wild  strife 

Of  the  sea-war  closed  o'er  him ; 
But  with  ropes  round  his  white  limbs 

Through  ocean  to  trail  him, 
Like  a  fish  after  slaughter  ! — 

"Tis  therefore  I  wail  him. 

Long  may  the  curse 

Of  his  people  pursue  them — 
Scully  that  sold  him, 

And  soldier  that  slew  him  ; 
One  glimpse  of  heaven's  light 

May  they  see  never ; 
May  the  hearthstone  of  hell 

Be  their  best  bed  forever ! 

In  the  hole  which  the  vile  .hands 

Of  soldiers  had  made  thee, 
Unhonor'd,  unshrouded, 

And  headless  they  laid  thee  ; 
No  sigh  to  regret  thee, 

No  eye  to  rain  o'er  thee, 
No  dirge  to  lament  thee, 

No  friend  to  deplore  thee. 

Dear  head  of  my  darling, 

How  gory  and  pale, 
These  aged  eyes  saw  thee 

High  spiked  on  their  jail ! 
That  cheek  in  the  summer  sun 

Ne'er  shall  grow  warm, 
Nor  that  eye  e'er  catch  light 

Bat  the  flash  of  the  siorm. 


A  curse,  blessed  ocean, 

Is  on  thy  green  water. 
From  the  haven  of  Cork 

To  Ivcnt  of  slaughter. 
Since  the  billows  w«re  dyed 

With  the  red  wounds  of  fe;ir, 
Of  Muicrtach  Oge, 

Our  O'Sullivan  Bear. 


THE  GIRL  I  LOVE. 

Sud  i  s'os  an  ca6in  ban  alaln  6g. 

A  large  proportion  of  the  songs  I  have  met  with  are  lov« 
songs.  Somehow  or  other,  truly  or  untruly,  tlie  Irish  have  ob- 
tained a  character  for  gallantry,  and  the  peasantry,  beyond  doubt, 
do  not  belie  the  '-soft  impeachment"  Tlieir  modes  of  courtship 
are  sometimes  amusing.  The  "malome  Galatea  petit"  of  Virtril 
would  still  find  a  counterpart  among  them — except  that  the  mis- 
sile of  love  (which  I  am  afraid  is  not  so  poetical  as  tlie  apple  of 
the  pastoral,  being  neither  more  nor  less  than  a  potato)  comes 
first  from  the  gentleman.  He  flings  it,  with  aim  designedly  er- 
ring, at  his  sweetheart;  and  if  she  returns  the  fire,  a  warmer  ad- 
vance concludes  the  preliminaries  and  establishes  the  suitor. 
Courtships,  however,  are  sometimes  curried  on  smong  them  with 
a  delicacy  worthy  of  a  more  refined  stage  of  society,  and  un- 
chastity  is  very  rare.  This,  perhaps,  is  in  a  great  degree  occasioned 
by  their  extremely  early  marriages,  the  advantage  or  disadvantage 
of  which  I  leave  to  be  discussed  by  Mr.  Malthus  and  his  antago- 
nists. 

At  their  dances  (of  which  they  are  very  fond),  whether  a-field 
or  In  ale-house,  a  piece  of  gallantry  frequently  occurs,  which  Is 
alluded  to  in  the  following  song.  A  young  man,  smitten  suddenly 
by  the  charms  of  a  dansevxe  belonging  to  a  company  to  which  he 
is  a  stranger,  rises,  and  with  his  best  bow  offers  her  his  glass  mid 
requests  her  to  drink  to  hiui.  After  due  refusal,  it  is  usually  ac- 
cepted, and  is  looked  on  as  a  good  omen  of  successful  wooing. 
Goldsmith  alludes  to  this  custom  of  his  country  in  the  Deserted 
Village: 

"The  coy  maid,  half  willing  to  be  press'd, 
Shall  kiss  the  cup,  and  pass  it  to  the  rest" 

The  parties  may  be  totally  unacquainted,  and  perhaps  never 
meet  again — under  which  circumstances  it  would  appear  that  thl* 
song  was  written. 

THE  girl  I  love  is  comely,  straight,  and  tall, 
Down  her  white  neck  her  auburn  tresses  fall ; 
Her  dress  is  neat,  her  carriage  light  and  free — 
Here's  a  health  to  that  charming  maid,  whoe'er 
she  be ! 

The  rose's  blush  but  fades  beside  her  cheek, 
Her  eyes  are  blue,  her  forehead  pale  and  meek, 
Her  lips  like  cherries  on  a  summer  tree — 
Here's  a  health  to  the  charming  maid,  whoe'er 
she  be ! 

When  I  go  to  the  field  no  youth  can  lighter 

bound, 
And  I  freely  pay  when  the   cheerful  jug  goes 

round ; 


TilE    POEMS    OF    J.  J.  C ALLAN  AN. 


587 


The  barrel  is  full,  but  its  heart  we  soon  shall 

see — 
Come,   here's   to  that  charming  maid,  whoe'er 

she  be ! 

Had  I  the  wealth  that  props  the  Saxon's  reign, 
Or  the  diamond  crown  that  decks  the  King  of 

Spain, 

I'd  yield  them  all  if  she  kindly  smiled  on  me  — 
Here's  a  health  to  the  maid  I  love,  whoe'er  she 

be! 

Five  pounds  of  gold  for  each  lock  of  her  hair 

I'd  pay, 
And  five  times  five  for  my  love  one  hour  each 

day ; 
Her  voice  is  more  sweet  than  the  thrush  on  its 

own  green  tree — 
Then,  my  dear,  may  I  drink  a  fond  deep  health 

to  thee ! 


THE  CONVICT  OF  CLONMEL. 

Is  dubac  6  mo  efts. 

Who  the  hero  of  this  song  is  I  know  not,  but  convicts,  from 
obviou>  reason*,  have  lieon  peculiar  object.*  of  sympathy  in  Ire- 
land. Hurling,  which  Is  mentioned  in  one  of  the  verses,  Is  the 
principal  national  diversion,  and  is  played  with  Intense  zeal  by 
parish  agfdnst  parish,  barony  against  barony,  county  against  county, 
or  even  province  against  province.  It  Is  played  not  only  by  the 
peasant,  hut  by  the  patrician  students  of  the  University,  where  it 
i.>  an  established  pastime.  Twiss,  the  most  sweeping  calumniator 
of  Ireland,  calls  It.  if  I  mistake  not,  the  cricket  of  barbarians;  but 
though  fully  prepared  to  pay  every  tribute  to  the  elegance  of  the 
English  game.  I  own  that  1  think  the  Irish  sport  fully  as  civilized, 
&nd  much  belter  calculalcd  for  the  display  of  vigor  and  activity. 
Perhaps  I  shall  offend  Scottish  nationality  if  I  prefer  either  to  gol< 
which  is,  I  think,  but  tritlins:  compared  with  them.  In  the  room 
belonging  to  the  Goif  Club  on  the  Links  of  Leith.  there  hangs  a 
picture  of  an  old  lord  (Rosslyn),  which  I  never  could  look  at  with- 
out being  struck  with  the  disproportion  between  the' gaunt  figure 
of  the  peer  and  the  petty  Instrument  in  his  hand.  Strutt.  in 
"Sports  and  I'agtimes"  (page  7S),  eulogizes  the  activity  of  some 
Irishmen,  who  played  the  irame  about  twenty-five  years  before 
the  publication  of  his  work  (1801),  at  the  bnck  of  the  British 
Museum,  and  deduces  it  from  the  Roman  harptuttum.  "  It  was 
played  in  Cornwall  formerly,"  he  adds;  "but  neither  the  Romans 
nor  the  Corni«bmen  used  a  bat,  or,  as  we  call  it  in  Ireland,  a 
hurly.  Tku>  description  Ptrutt  quotes  from  old  Caivw  is  (julte 
graphic.  The  late  Dr.  Gregory,  I  am  told,  used  to  be  loud  In 
panciryritf* on  the  superiority  of  this  enine,  when  played  by  the 
Irish  students,  over  that  adopted  by  his  young  countrymen  north 
and  south  of  the  Tweed,  particularly  over  goif,  which  be  called 
"  riddling  wl'  a  pick  ;"  bat  enough  of  Una. 

How  hard  is  my  fortune, 

And  vain  my  repining  ! 
The  strong  rope  of  fate 

For  this  young  ne<-k  is  twining  1 


My  strength  is  departed, 
My  cheeks  sunk  and  sallow, 

While  I  languish  in  chains 
In  I  he  jail  of  Clonutala.1 

No  boy  of  the  village 

Was  ever  yet  milder  ; 
I'd  play  with  a  child 

And  my  sport  would  be  wilder; 
I'd  dance  without  tiring 

From  morning  till  even, 
And  the  goal-ball  I'd  strike 

To  the  lightning  of  heaven. 

At  my  bed-foot  decaying, 

My  hurl-bat  is  lying  ; 
Through  tlie  boys  of  the  village 

Mv  goal-ball  is  dying; 
My  horse  'mong  the  neighbors 

Neglected  may  fallow, 
While-  I  pine  in  my  chains 

In  the  jail  of  Clonmala. 

Next  Sunday  the  patron1 

At  home  will  be  keeping, 
And  the  young  active  hurlers 

The  field  will  be  sweeping  ; 
With  the  dance  of  fair  maidens 

The  evening  they'll  hallow, 
While  this  heart  once  so  gay 

Shall  be  cold  in  Clonmala. 


THE  OUTLAW  OF  LOCH  LENE. 

On,  many  a  day  have  I  rnado  good  ale  in  th« 
glen. 

That  came  not  of  stream,  or  malt,  like  the  brew- 
ing of  men. 

My  bed  was  the  ground,  my  roof  the  greenwood 
above, 

And  the  wealth  that  I  sought  —  one  far  kind 
glance  from  my  love. 

Alasl    on  that  night  when  the  horses  I  drove 

from  the  field, 
That  I  was  not  near,  from  terror  my  angel  to 

ahicld  ! 


1  Clonmala,  i.  e.,  the  solitude  of  deceit,  the  Irish  name  of  Clon 
mel. 

1  Patron— Irish,  Pati-uin—*  fe»tive  gathering  of  the  people  on 
tented  ground. 


588 


THE  POEMS  OF  J.  J.  CALLANAN. 


She  stretch'd  forth  her  arras — her  mantle  she 

flung  to  the  wind, 
And  swam  o'er  Loch  Lene,  her  outlaw'd  lover  to 

find. 

Oh,  would  that  a  freezing,  sleet-wing'd  tempest 

did  sweep, 

And  I  and  my  love  were  alone  far  off  on  the  deep  ! 
I'd  ask  not  a  ship,  or    a   bark,  or   pinnace   to 

save — 


With  her  hand  round  my  waist,  I'd  fear  not  the- 
wind  or  the  wave. 

'Tis  down  by  the  lake  where  the  wild  tree  fringe* 

its  sides, 
The  maid  of  my  heart,  the  fair  one  of  heaven 

resides  : 

I  think,  as  at  eve  she  wanders  its  mazes  along, 
The  birds  go  to  sleep  by  the  sweet  wild  twist  of 

her  song. 


acobite  Sengs. 


That  the  Roman  Catholics  of  Ireland  should  have  been  Jacobites 
almost  to  a  man  is  little  wonderful ;  Indeed,  the  wonder  would  be 
were  it  otherwise.  They  had  lost  every  thing  fighting  for  th« 
cause  of  the  Stuarts,  and  the  conquerors  had  made  stern  use  of 
the  victory.  But  while  various  movements  in  favor  of  that  un- 
happy family  were  made  in  England  and  Scotland,  Ireland  was 
quiet;  not  indeed  from  want  of  inclination,  but  from  want  of 
power.  The  Roman  Catholics  were  disarmed  throughout  the 
entire  land,  and  the  Protestants,  who  retained  a  lerco  hatred  of 
the  exiled  family,  were  armed  and  united.  The  personal  influence 
of  the  Earl  of  Chesterfield,  who  was  Lord  Lieutenant  in  1745,  and 
who  made  himself  very  popular,  is  generally  supposed  to  have 
contributed  to  keep  Ireland  at  peace  in  that  dangerous  year;  but 
the  reason  I  have  assigned  is  perhaps  more  substantial. 

But  though  Jacobirfcal,  even  these  songs  will  suffice  to  prove 
that  it  was  not  out  of  love  for  the  Stuarts  that  they  were  anxious 
to  take  up  arms,  but  to  revenge  themselves  on  the  Saxons  (that  is, 
the  English  generally,  but  in  Ireland  the  Protestants),  for  the  de- 
feat they  experienced  in  the  days  of  William  III.,  and  the  subse- 
quent depression  of  their  party  and  their  religion.  James  II.  is 
universally  spoken  of  by  the  lower  orders  of  Ireland  with  th« 
almost  contempt  and  distinguished  by  an  appellation  which  is  too 
strong  for  ears  polite,  but  which  is  universally  given  him.  His 
celebrated  expression  at  the  battle  of  the  Boyne,  "  Oh,  spare  my 
English  subjects,"  being  taken  in  the  most  perverse  sense,  instead 
of  obtaining  for  him  the  praise  of  wishing  to  show  some  lenity  to 
those  whom  he  still  considered  as  rightfully  under  his  sceptre, 
even  in  opposition  to  his  cause,  was,  by  his  Irish  partisans,  con- 
strued into  a  desire  of  preferring  the  English  on  all  occasions  to 
them.  The  celebrated  reply  of  the  captive  officer  to  William, 
that  "if  the  armies  changed  generals,  victory  would  take  a  differ- 
ent fiiie."  is  carefully  remembered;  and  every  misfortune  that 
happened  in  the  war  of  the  Involution  is  laid  to  'he  charge  of 
James's  want  of  courage.  The  truth  is.  he  appears  to  have  dis- 
pltyed  little  of  the  military  qualities  which  distinguished  him  In 
former  days. 

Th«  first  of  these  three  songs  is  a  great  favorite,  principally  from 
ts  beautiful  air.  I  am  sure  there  is  scarcely  a  peasant  in  the  south 
ef  Ireland  who  has  not  heard  it  The  second  Is  the  White  Cock- 
ade, of  which  the  first  verse  is  English.  The  third  is  (at  least  In 
Irish)  a  strain  of  higher  mood,  and,  from  its  style  and  language, 
evidently  written  by  a  man  of  more  than  ordinary  information. 


0  SAY,  MY  BROWN  DRIMIN. 

A  Drimin  d6wn  dilis  no  sioda1  na  mbo. 

(Drimin  is  the  favorite  name  of  a  cow,  by  which  Ireland  is  her* 
allegorically  denoted.  The  five  ends  of  Erin  are  the  flve  king- 
doms— Munster,  Leinster,  Ulster,  Connaught,  and  Meath— into 
which  the  island  was  divided  under  the  Milesian  dynasty.) 

O  SAY,  my  brown  Drimin,  thou  silk  of  the  kiue, 
Where,  where  are  thy  strong  ones,  last  hope  of 

thy  line  ? 

Too  deep  and  too  long  is  the  slumber  they  take ; 
At  the  loud  call  of  Freedom  why  don't  they  awake? 

My  strong  ones  have  fallen — from  the  bright  eye 

of  day, 

All  darkly  they  sleep  in  their  dwelling  of  clay; 
The  cold  turf  is  o'er  them — they  hear  not  my 

cries, 
And  since  Louis  no  aid  gives,  I  cannot  arise. 

Oh  !  where  art  thou,  Louis  ?  our  eyes  are  on  thee  J 
Are  thy  lofty  ships  walking  in  strength  o'er  the  sea  \ 
In  Freedom's  last  strife  if  you  linger  or  quail, 
No  morn  e'er  shall  break  on  the  night  of  the  Gael, 

But  should  the  king's  son,   now  bereft  of  his 

right, 
Come  proud  in  his  strength  for  his  country  to 

fight, 

Like  leaves  on  the  trees  will  new  people  arise, 
And  deep  from  their  mountains  shout  back  to 

my  cries. 


1  Silk  of  Vie  Coiet — an  Idiomatic  expression  for  in*  tnoet 
tlfal  of  cattle,  which  I  have  preserve^  In  translating. 


THE   POEMS   OF  J.  J.  CALLANAN. 


680 


When  the  Prince,  now  an  exile,  shall  come  for 

his  own, 

The  isles  of  his  father,  his  rights  and  his  throne, 
My  people  in  battle  the  Saxons  will  meet, 
And  kick  them  before,  like  old  shoes  from  their 

feet. 

O'er  mountains  and  vaUeys  they'll  press  on  their 

route, 

The  five  ends  of  Erin  shall  ring  to  their  shout : 
My  sons  all  united,  shall  bless  the  glad  day 
When  the  flint-hearted  Saxons  they've  chased 

far  away. 


THE  WHITE  COCKADE. 

Tald  mo  gra  flr  fl  breataib  do. 

KINO  CHARLES  he  is  King  James's  son, 
And  from  a  royal  line  is  sprung  ; 
Then  up  with  shout,  and  out  with  blade, 
And  we'll  raise  once  more  the  white  cockade. 
Oh  !  my  dear,  my  fair-hair'd  youth, 
Thou  yet  hast  hearts  of  fire  and  truth  ; 
Then  up  with  shout,  and  out  with  blade — 
We'll  raise  once  more  the  white  cockade. 

My  young  men's  hearts  are  dark  with  woe, 
On  my  virgins'  cheeks  the  grief-drops  flow ; 
The  sun  scarce  lights  the  sorrowing  day, 
Since  our  rightful  prince  went  far  away. 
He's  gone,  the  stranger  holds  his  throne, 
The  royal  bird  far  off  is  flown  ; 
I'.nt  up  with  shout,  and  out  with  blade — 
We'll  stand  or  fall  with  the  white  cockade. 

No  more  the  cuckoo  hails  the  spring, 

The  woods  no  more  with  the  staunch-hounds 

ring; 

The  song  from  the  glen,  so  sweet  before,- 
Is  hush'd  since  our  Charles  has  left  our  shore. 
The  Prince  is  gone ;  but  he  soon  will  come, 
With  trumpet  sound  and  with  beat  of  drum  : 
Then  up  with  ghout,  and  out  with  blade ; 
Huzza  for  the  right  and  the  white  cockade ! 


THE  AVENGER. 

DA  bfeacln  se'n  la  tin  bo  seasta  bfeie  m'lntln. 

OHKAVKNS!  if  that  long-wished-for  morning  I 

spied, 
As  high  as  throe  kings  I'd  leap  up  in  my  pride ; 


With  transport  I'd  laugh,  and  my  shout  should 

arise, 
As  the  fires  from  each  mountain  blazed  bright  to 

the  skies. 

The  avenger  shall  lead  us  right  on  to  the  foo, 
Our  horns  should  sound  out,  and  our  trumpet* 

should  blow ; 
Ten   thousand    huzzas  should   ascend    to    high 

heaven, 
When  our  Prince  was  restored,  and  our  fetter* 

were  riven. 

0  chieftains  of  Ulster  1  when  will  you  come  forth, 
And  send  your  strong  cry  to  the  winds  of  the 

north  ? 

The  wrongs  of  a  king  call  aloud  for  your  steel- 
Red  stars  of  the  battle— O'Donnell,  O'Neal ! 

Bright  house  of  O'Connor,  high  offspring  of  kings, 
Up,  up,  like  the  eagle,  when  heavenward    he 


springs 


Oh,  break  ye  once  more  from  the  Saxon's  strong 

rule, 
Lost  race  of  MacMurchad,  O'Byrne,  and  O'Toole ! 

Momonia  of  Druids — green  dwelling  of  song! 
Where,  where  are  thy  minstrels?  why  sleep  they 

so  long  ? 

Does  no  bard  live  to  wake,  as  they  oft  did  before, 
M'Carthy— O'Brien— O'Sullivan  More  ? 

Ok,  come  from  your  hills,  like  the  waves  to  the 

shore, 
When  the  storm-girded  headlands  are  mad  with 

the  roar ! 

Ten  thousand  hurrahs  shall  ascend  to  high  heaven, 
When  our  Prince  is  restored  and  our  fetters  are 

riven.1 


1  The  name*  In  this  song  are  those  of  the  principal  families 
In  Ireland,  many  of  whom,  however,  were  decided  enemies  to 
the  bouse  of  Stuart  Toe  reader  cannot  fail  lo  observe  the  strange 
expectation  which  tbeso  writers  entertained  of  the  nature  of  the 
Pretender's  designs:  they  call  on  him  not  to  come  to  reinstate 
himself  on  the  throne  of  his  fathers,  but  to  nid  thtm  In  doing  ven- 
geance on  "the  flint-hearted  Saxon."  Nothing,  however,  could 
be  more  natural.  The  Irish  Jacobites,  at  least  the  Kom«n  Catho- 
lics, were  in  the  habit  of  claiming  the  Stuarts  >.*  of  Hi.-  Milesian 
line,  fondly  deducing  them  from  Fergus  and  the  Celt-  of  Ireland. 
Who  the  aveneer  Is,  whose  arrival  is  prayed  for  in  thin  fume.  I 
am  not  sure;  but  circumstances  too  ted  loin  to  be  detailed  makn 
me  tbtalc  that  the  date  of  the  song  Is  1708.  when  a  general  Im- 
pression prevailed  that  the  field  would  be  taken  In  favor  of  r.>« 
Pretender,  under  a  commander  of  more  weight  and  authority  th*& 
had  come  forward  before,  his  name  was  krpt  a  secret.  Very 
little  hat  been  written  on  the  history  of  the  Jacobites  of  IrelMxi. 
and  yet  I  think  It  would  be  an  Interesting  subject.  We  have  now 


590 


THE  POEMS  OF  J.  J.  CALLANAN. 


THE  LAMENT  OF  O'GNIVE. 

(FEARFLATUA  O'GNIAMH  was  family  Olamh,  or  bard,  to  the 
O'Neil  of  Claneboy  about  the  year  1556.  The  poem,  of  which  the 
following  lines  are  the  translation,  commences  with  "  Ma  thruagh 
mar  ata'uf  Goadhil") 

How  dinim'd  is  the  glory  that  circled  the  Gael, 
And  fallen  the  high  people  of  green  Innisfail!1 
The  sword  of  the  Saxon  is  red  with  their  gore ; 
And  the  mighty  of  nations  is  mighty  no  more! 

Like  a  bark  on  the  ocean,  long  shatter'd  and 
toss'd, 

On  the  land  of  your  fathers  at  length  you  are 
lost; 

The  hand  of  the  spoiler  is  strctch'd  on  your 
plains, 

And  you're  doom'd  from  your  cradles  to  bond- 
age and  chains. 

Oh,  where  is  the  beauty  that  beam'd  on  thy  brow  ? 
Strong  hand  in  the  battle,  how  weak  art  thou 

now ! 

That  heart  is  now  broken  that  never  would  quail, 
And  thy  high  songs  are  turn'd  into  weeping  and 

wail. 

Bright  shades  of  our  sires!  from  your  home  in 

the  skies, 
Oh,  blast  not  your  sons  with  the  scorn  of  your 

eyes ! 

Proud  spirit  of  Gollam,*  how  red  is  thy  cheek, 
For  thy  freemen  are  slaves,  and  thy  mighty  are 

weak ! 

O'Neil*  of  the  hostages — Con/  whose  high  name 
On  a  hundred  red  battles  has  floated  to  fame, 
Let  the  long  grass  still  sigh  undisturb'd  o'er  thy 

sleep ; 
Arise  not  to  shame  us,  awake  not  to  weep. 


arrived  at  a  time  when  it  could  be  done  without  exciting  any 
anery  feelings. 

In  Momonia  (Munster),  Druidism  appears  to  have  flourished 
most,  as  we  may  conjecture  from  the  numerous  remains  of  Druid- 
'cal  workmanship,  and  the  names  of  places  indicating  that  worship. 
The  records  of  the  province  are  the  best  kept  of  any  in  Ireland, 
nnd  it  has  proverbially  retained  among  the  peasantry  a  character 
for  superior  learning. 

1  Innisfail— the  Island  of  Destiny— one  of  the  names  of  Ireland. 

8  Gollamh — a  name  of  Milesius,  the  Spanish  progenitor  of  the 
Irish  O'§  and  Macs. 

"•  Nial  of  the  Nine  Hostages,  the  heroic  monarch  of  Ireland  in 
the  fourth  century,  and  ancestor  of  the  O'Neil  family.  • 

4  Con  Cead  Catha— Con  of  the  Hundred  Fights,  monarch  of  the 
island  in  the  second  century;  although  the  fighter  of  a  hundred 
battles,  he  was  not  the  victor  of  a  hundred  fit-Ids.  His  valorous 
rival,  Owen,  king  of  Munster,  compelled  him  to  a  division  of  the 
kingdom. 


In  thy  broad  wing  of  darkness  enfold  us,  0  nighw, 
Withhold,   0  bright  sun,  the  reproach  of    thy 

light; 

For  freedom  or  valor  no  more  canst  thou  see 
In  the  home  of  the  brave,  in  the  isle  of  the  free. 

Affliction's  dark  waters  your  spirits  have  bow'd, 
And  oppression  hath  wrapp'd  all  your  land   in 

its  shroud, 
Since  first  from  the  Brehons"  pure  justice  you 

stray'd, 
And  bent  to  the  laws  the  proud  Saxon  has  made. 

We  know  not  our  country,  so  strange  is  her  face  ; 
Her  sons,  once  her  glory,  are  now  her  disgrace; 
Gone,  gone  is  the  beauty  of  fair  Innisfail, 
For  the  stranger  now  rules  in  the  land  of  the 
Gael. 

Where,  where  are  the  woods  that  oft  rung  to 
your  cheer, 

Where  you  waked  the  wild  chase  of  the  wolf 
and  the  deer  ? 

Can  those  dark  heights  with  ramparts  all  frown- 
ing and  riven 

Be  the  hills  where  your  forests  waved  brightly 
in  heaven  ? 

0  bondsmen  of  Egypt!  no  Moses  appears 

To  light  your  dark  steps  through  this  desert  of 

tears ; 

Degraded  and  lost  ones !  no  Hector  is  nigh 
To  lead  you  to  freedom,  or  tea-ch  you  to  die ! 


ON  THE  LAST  DAY. 

OH  !  after  life's  dark  sinful  way, 
How  shall  I  meet  that  dreadful  day, 
When  heaven's  red  blaze  spreads  frightfully 
Above  the  hissing,  withering  sea, 
And  earth  through  al!  her  regions  reels 
With  the  strong,  shivering  fear  she  feels ! 

When  that  high  trumpet's  awful  sound 
Shall  send  its  deep-voiced  summons  round. 
And,  starting  from  their  long,  cold  sleep. 
The  living-dead  shall  wildly  leap — 
Oh!  by  the  painful  path  you  trod, 
Have  mercy  then,  my  Lord  !  my  God  ! 

•  Brehons — the  hereditary  judges  of  the  Irish  aepU, 


THE   POEMS   OF  J.  J.  CALLAN.xN. 


591 


Ob !  thoii  who  on  that  hill  of  blood, 
Beside  thy  Son  it)  anguish  stood ; — 
Thou,  who  above  this  life  of  ill, 
Art  the  bright  star  to  guide  us  still  ; — 
Pray  that  my  soul,  its  sins  forgiven, 
May  find  some  lonely  home  in  heaven. 


A  LAY  OF  MIZEN  HEAD. 

The  subject  of  the  "  Lay  of  Mizen  Head"  was  the  wreck  of  the 
C'<mn>.rice,  sloop-of-war,  lost  April,  IS'J'J,  about  a  mile  west  of 
Mizon  Head.  All  on  board  perished;  among  the  rest  many  young 
midshipmen  who  bad  just  joined  the  service  and  were  going  to 
Join  their  respective  ships. 

IT  was  the   noon   of   Sabbath,  the   spring-wind 

swept  the  sky, 
And  o'er  the  heaven's  savannah  blue  the  boding 

scuds  did  fly. 
And  a  stir  was  heard   amongst  the  waves  o'er 

all  their  fields  of  might, 
Like  the  distant  hum  of  hurrying  hosts  when  they 

muster  for  the  fight. 

The  fisher  mark'd  the  changing  heaven,  and  high 

his  pinnace  drew, 
And  to  her  wild  and  rocky  home  the  screaming 

sea-bird  flew ; 
But. safely  in  Cork  haven  the  shelter'd  bark  may 

rest 
Within  the  zone  of  ocean  hills  that  girds  its 

beauteous  breast. 

Amongst  the  stately  vessels  in  that  calm  port 

was  one 
Whose  streamers  waved  out  joyously  to  hail  the 

Sabbath  sun ; 
And  scatter'd  o'er  her  ample  deck  were  careless 

hearts  and  free, 
That  laugh'd  to  hear  the  rising  wind,  and  mock'd 

the  frowning  sea. 

One  yonth  alone  bent  darkly  above  the  heaving 

tide— 
Ilis  heart  was  with  his  native  hills  and  with  his 

beauteous  bride ; 
And  with  the  rush  of  feelings  deep  his  manly 

bosom  strove, 
As  he  thought  of  her  he  had  left  afar  in  the 

spring-time  of  their  love. 


What  checks  the  seaman's  jovial  mirth  and  cloud* 
his  sunny  brow  ? 

Why  does  he  look  with  troubled  gaze  from  port- 
hole, side,  and  prow  ? 

A  moment — 'twas  a  death-like  pause — that  sig- 
nal— can  it  be? — 

That  signal  quickly  orders  out  the  Confiance  to 
sea. 

Then  there  was  springing  up  aloft  and   hurrying 

down  below, 
And  the  windlass  hoarsely  answer'd  to  the  hoarse 

and  wild  "  heave  yo  !" 
And  vows  were  briefly  spoken  then  that  long  had 

silent  lain, 
And  hearts  and  lips  together  met  that  ne'er  may 

meet  again. 

Now  darker  lower'd  the  threatening  sky,  and 
wilder  heaved  the  wave, 

And  through  the  cordage  fearfully  the  wind  be- 
gan to  rave : 

The  sails  are  set,  the  anchor  weigh'd — what  recks 
that  gallant  ship  ? 

Blow  on !  Upon  her  course  she  springs,  like 
greyhound  from  the  slip. 

0  heavens !  it  was  a  glorious  sight,  that  stately 
ship  to  see, 

In  the  beauty  of  her  gleaming  sails  and  her  pen- 
nant floating  free, 

As  to  the  gale  with  bending  tops  she  made  her 
haughty  bow, 

And  proudly  spurn'd  the  waves  that  burn'd 
around  her  flashing  prow  ! 

The  sun  went  down,  and  through  the  cloud* 
look'd  out  the  evening  star, 

And  westward  from  old  Ocean's  Head1  beheld 
that  ship  afar. 

Still  onward  fearlessly  she  flew,  in  her  snowy 
pinion-sweep, 

Like  a  bright  and  beauteous  spirit  o'er  the  moun- 
tains of  the  deep. 


It  blows  a  fearful  tempest — 'tis  the  dead  watch 

of  the  night — 
The  Mizen's  giant  brow  is  streak'd  with  red  nnd 

angry  light — 


>  Th«  old  bead  of  Klniale.    Such  It  th«  meaning  of  tb«  IrUk 
Dam*. 


592 


THE   POEMS   OF   J.  J.  CALLANAN. 


Arid  by  its  far-illuming  glance  a  struggling  bark 
I  see. 

Wear,  wear !  the  land,  ill-fated  one,  is  close  be- 
neath your  lee  ! 

Another  flash — they  still  hold  out  for  home  and 
love  and  life, 

And  under  close-reef'd  topsail  maintain  the  un- 
equal strife. 

Now  out  the  rallying  foresail  flies,  the  last,  the 
desperate  chance — 

Can  that  be  she? — O heavens,  it  is — the  luckless 
Confiance ! 

Hark !  heard  you  not  that  dismal  cry  ?     'Twas 

stifled  in  the  gale — 
Oh  !  clasp,  young  bride,  thine  orphan  child,  and 

raise  the  widow's  wail ! 
The  morning  rose  iu  purple  light  o'er  ocean's 

tranquil  sleep  ; 
But  o'er  their  gallant  quarry  lay  the  spoilers  of 

the  deep. 


THE  LAMENT  OF  KIRKE  WHITE. 

'TWAS  evening,  and  the  sun's  last  golden  beam 
On  that  sad  chamber  cast  its  farewell  gleam, 
Then  sunk — to  him,  forever.     Yet  one  streak 
Of  lingering  radiance  lit  his  faded  cheek. 
His  hand  was  press'd  to  his  pale,  clouded  brow, 
Where  sat  a  spirit  that  might  break,  not  bow; 
And  the  cold  starry  lustre  of  his  eye, 
Than  inspiration's  scarce  less  purely  high, 
Seem'd,  through  the  mist  of  one  o'ermastering 

tear, 

The  herald  of  the  minstrel's  loftier  sphere. 
On  a  small  table  by  the  sufferer's  bed 
The  sibyl  leaves  of  song  were  rudely  spread. 
His  sad  eye  wander'd  with  a  dark  delight 
O'er  scatter'd  gleams  of  many  a  thought  of  light ; 
And  pride  could  not  suppress  one  low  deep  sigh, 
To  thiuk  when  he  was  gone  they  too  must  die. 

Fame  long  had  woo'd  him  with  her  sunny  smile 
To  tread  her  paths  of  glory  and  of  toil. 
His  was  the  wreath  that  many  vainly  seek ; 
His  the  proud  temple  on  the  mountain  peak ; 
But  the  vile  shaft  from  some  ignoble  string 
Brought  down  to  earth   the  minstrel's  soaring 
wing. 


They  little  knew,  who  dealt  the  dastard  stroke, 
The  mind  they  clouded  and  the  heart  they  broke 

He  thought  of  home  and  mother  :  dearer  far, 
He  thought  of  her,  his  far-off,  beauteous  star. 
He  loved,  it  may  be  madly,  but  too  well, 
One  whom  he  may  not  breathe,  and  dare  not  tell. 
He  could  not  boast  the  line  of  which  he  came, 
Of  lofty  title,  honor,  wealth,  or  fame. 
Hemm'd  in  by  adverse  fate,  his  fiery  soul 
Like  prison'cl  eagle  felt  its  dark  control : 
Give  but  his  spirit  scope — to  win  that  hand 
His  pilgrim  foot  had  trod  earth's  farthest  land. 
He  would  have  courted  danger  on  the  deep, 
Or  'mid  the  battle's  desolating  sweep — 
All,  all  endured,  unblenching  gaged  even  life 
For  one  sweet  word,  to  call  that  dear  one  wife. 

What  now  had  woman  left  to  gaze  upon — 
Himself   a  wreck,   his   bright    hopes    queuch'd 

and  gone  ? 

Some  thus  would  live  :  the  lightning  of  his  mind 
Shiver'd  his  frame,  and  left  him  with  mankind 
Scathed  and  lone  ;  yet  stood  he  fearlessly 
On  the  last  wave-mark  of  eternity, 
And  as  above  its  shoreless  waste  lie  hung, 
Thus  to  his  harp's  low  tone  the  minstrel  sung  : — 


THE    LAMENT. 

Awake,  my  lyre,  though  to  thy  lay  no  voice  of 
gladness  sings, 

Ere  yet  the  viewless  power  be  fled  that  oft  hath 
swept  thy  strings ; 

I  feel  the  flickering  flame  of  life  grow  cold  with- 
in my  breast — 

Yet  once  again,  my  lyre,  awake,  and  then  I  sink 
to  rest. 

And  must  I  die  ?     Then  let  it  be,  since  thus  'tis 

better  far, 
Than  with  the  world  and  conquering  fate  to  wage 

eternal  war. 
Come,  then,  thou  dark  and  dreamless  sleep ;  to 

thy  cold  clasp  I  fly 
From  shatter'd   hopes  and  blighted   heart,  and 

pangs  that  cannot  die. 

Yet  would  I  live — for,  oh  1  at  times  I  feel  th« 

tide  of  song 
In  swells  of  light  come  strong  and  bright  my 

heaving  heart  along ; 


THE   POEMS   OF  J.  J.  CALLANAN. 


503 


Yet  would  I  live — in  happier  day,  to  wake,  with 

master  hand, 
A  lay  that  should  embalm  tny  name  in  Albin's 

beauteous  land. 

Oh,  had  I  been  in  battle-field  amid  the  charging 

brave, 
I  then  had  won  a  soldier's  fame  or  fill'd  a  soldier's 

grave ; 
I  then  had  lived  to  call  thee  mine,  thou  all  of 

bliss  to  me, 
Or  smiled  in  death,  my  sweetest  one,  to  think  I 

died  for  thee. 

'Tis  past,  they've  won — my  sun  has  set — I  see 

ray  coining  night ; 
1  never  more  shall  press  that  hand  or  meet  that 

look  of  light. 
Among  old  Albin's  future  bards  no  song  of  mine 

shall  rise. 
Go,  sleep,  my  harp,  forever  sleep — go,  leave  me 

to  iny  sighs ! 

They've  won — but,  Mary,  from  this  breast  tby 

love  they  could  not  part, 
All  freshly  green  it  lingers  round  the  ruin  of  my 

heart. 
One  thought  of  me  may  cloud  thy  soul,  one  tear 

in;iv  dim  thine  eye, 
That  I  have  sung  and  loved  in  vain,  forsaken 

thus  to  die  ! 

0  England !  O  my  country !  despite  of  all  my 

wrongs, 
(  love  thee'  still,  my  native  land,  thou  land  of 

sweetest  songs  ; 
One  thought  still  cheers  my  life's  last  close — that 

I  shall  rest  in  thee, 
And  sleep  as  minstrel  heart  should  sleep,  among 

the  brave  and  free. 


LINES 

WKIITRN    TO    A    YOUWO    LAUY, 

If  ho.  in  thf  author'i  prfgtimf,  find  Utarfit  U>*  Iritlt  with  teant  of 
gallantry,  proving  htr  potitiun  liy  Ihr  fact  o/lhrir  mil  ifre- 
nadiiig,  tin  the  Iluliunt,  <£o.,  do. 

YKS,  lady,  'tis  true  in  our  cold  rugged  isle 
Love  seldom  puts  on  him  his  warm  sunny  smile. 


No  youth  from  his  boat  or  the  orange-tree  shado 
Sings  at  eve  to  his  lady  the  sweet  serenade. 
Yet,  'tis  not  that  Erin  has  daughters  less  fair 
Than  Italy's  maids  with  their  dark-flowing  hail 
And  'tis  not  the  souls  of  her  sons  are  less  brave 
Than  the  gay  gondoliers  on  Neapoli's  wave. 
Saw  you  not  when  his  country  her  banner  dis- 

play'd, 
And  'mid  victory's  glad  shout  on  high  flash'd 

her  blade, 

How  that  lover  so  true  with  his  sprightly  guitar 
Grew  pale  at  the  first  blast  of  liberty's  war  ? 
Saw  you  not  how,  when  prostrate  yon  eagle  was 

hurl'd, 
Whose  proud  flight  of  conquest  would  compass 

the  world, 

Our  Erin  rear'd  o'er  it  her  green  flag  on  high, 
And  the  shouts  of  her  victor  sons  peal'd  in  the 

sky? 
Thus,  though   scorn'd  and   rejected,  long,  long 

may  they  prove 
The  strongest  in  fight  and  the  fondest  in  love ! 


STANZAS  TO  ERIN. 

Competed,  probably,  after  lie  had  If  ft  for  LUbon. 

STILL  green  are  thy  mountains  and  bright  is  thy 

shore, 
And  the  voice  of  thy  fountains  is  heard  as  of 

yore : 

The  sun  o'er  thy  valleys,  dear  Erin,  shines  on, 
Though  thy  bard  and  thy  lover  forever  is  gone. 

Nor  shall  he,  an  exile,  thy  glad  scenes  forget — 
The  friends  fondly  loved,  ne'er  again  to  be  met — 
The  glens  where  he  mused  on  the  deeds  of  his 

nation, 

And  waked  his  young  harp  with  a  wild  inspira- 
tion. 

Still,  still,  though  between  us  may  roll  the  broad 
ocean, 

Will  I  cherish  thy  name  with  the  same  deep  de- 
votion ; 

And  though  minstrels  more  brilliant  my  pUce 
may  supply, 

None  loves  you  more  fondly,  more  truly  than  I. 


594 


THE  POEMS  OF  J.  J.  CALL  AN  AN. 


LINES  TO  MISS  O.  D , 

Who  had  replied,  to  som*  questions  of  Mr.  CV»  about  verte*, 
that  the  "  was  getting  tense,  »h«  would  write  no  more." 

YOU'RK  "  getting  sense,"  you'll  "  write  no  more !'' 

The  sweet  delusive  dream  is  o'er, 

And  fancy's  bright  and  meteor  ray 

Is  but  a  light  that  leads  astray  ; 

No  more  the  wreath  of  song  you'll  twine — 

Calm  reason,  common  sense  be  thine  1 

As  well  command  the  troubled  sky, 
When  winds  are  loud  and  waves  are  high  ; 
As  well  call  back  the  parted  soul, 
Or  force  the  needle  from  the  pole, 
False  to  the  star  it  loved  so  long — 
As  turn  the  poet's  heart  from  song. 

If  aught  be  true  that  minstrel  deems 

Of  sister  spirit  in  his  dreams — 

The  still  pale  brow's  expression  high — 

The  silent  eloquence  of  eye, 

Its  fitful  flashes,  bright  and  wild — 

Thou  art  and  must  be  fancy's  child. 

And  reason,  sense — are  they  confined 
To  the  austere  and  cold  of  mind ! 
Must  thoughtless  folly  still  belong 
To  those  who  haunt  the  paths  of  song, 
And  o'er  this  vale  of  woe  and  tears 
Pour  the  sweet  strain  of  happier  spheres  ? 

No,  lady — still  let  fancy  spring 
On  her  own  wild  and  wayward  wing  ; 
Still  let  the  fire  of  genius  glow, 
And  the  strong  tide  of  feeling  flow : 
The  bright  imaginings  of  youth 
Are  but  the  Titian  tints  of  truth. 

When  chill  November  sweeps  along 
With  its  own  hoarse  and  sullen  song, 
And  wither'd  lies  the  autumn's  pride, 
And  every  flower  you  nursed  hath  died ; 
Whilst  other  hearts  in  ennui  pine, 
The  poet's  raptures  shall  be  thine. 

Then  gaze  upon  the  lightning's  flash, 
And  listen  to  the  wild  wave's  dash. 
Others  may  tremble  at  their  tone  ; 
Not  thou — their  language  is  thine  own. 
Mark  how  the  seagull  wings  his  way 
Through  billow's  foam  anc5  wintry  spray — 
With  tireless  wing  and  joyous  cry 
Proclaims  its  ocean  liberty  ! 


Yes,  my  young  friend,  if  I  may  claim 
For  humble  bard  so  dear  a  name, 
Still  let  thy  heart  revere  the  lyre, 
Still  let  thy  hands  awake  its  fire, 
Walk  in  the  light  that  God  hath  given, 
And  make  Dunmanus'  wilds  a  heaven. 

For  me,  believe,  where'er  1  stray 
Through  life's  uncertain,  toilsome  way, 
Whether  calm  peace  my  lot  may  be, 
Or  toss'd  on  fortune's  stormy  sea, 
I'll  think  upon  the  young,  the  fair, 
The  kind  warm  hearts  that  met  me  there. 


LINES  TO  ERIN. 

WHEN  dulness  shall  chain   the   wild  harp  that 

would  praise  thee, 
When  its  last  sigh  of  freedom  is  heard  on  thy 

shore, 
When  its  raptures  shall  bless  the  false  heart  that 

betrays  thee — 
Oh,  then,  dearest  Erin,  I'll  love  thee  no  more! 

Wnen  thy  sons  are   less  tame  than  their  own 

ocean  waters, 
When  their  last  flash  of  wit  and  of  genius  is 

o'er, 
When    virtue    and   beauty    forsake   thy    young 

daughters — 
Oh,  then,  dearest  Erin,  I'll  love  thee  no  more ! 

When  the  sun  that  now  holds  his  bright  path 

o'er  thy  mountains 
Forgets  the  green  fields  that  he  smiled  on  be- 

o  O 

fore, 
When  no  moonlight  shall  sleep  on  thy  lakes  and 

thy  fountains — 
Oh,  then,  dearest  Erin,  Fll  love  thee  no  more  ! 

When  the  name  of  the  Saxon  and  tyrant  shall 

sever, 

When  the  freedom  you  lost  you  no  longer  de- 
plore, 
When  the  thoughts  of  your  wrongs   shall    be 

sleeping  forever — 
Oh,  then,  dearest  Erin,  I'll  love  thee  no  more  ' 


TIIK   POEMS   OF   J.  J.  CALLANAN. 


595 


WELLINGTON'S  NAME. 

How  bless'd  were   the  moments  when   liberty 

found  thee 

The  first  in  her  cause  on  the  fields  of  the  brave, 
When  the  young  lines  of  ocean  were  charging 

around  thee 

With  the  strength  of  their  hills  and  the  roar 
of  their  wave ! 


Oh,  chieftain,  what  then  was  the  throb  of  thy 

pride, 
When  loud  through  the  war-cloud  exultingly 

came, 
O'er  the  battle's  red  tide,  which  they  swell'd  as 

they  died, 
The  shout  of  green  Erin  for  Wellington's  name! 

How  sweet,  when  thy  country  thy  garland  was 

wreathing, 
And  the  fires  of  thy  triumph  blazed  brightly 

along, 

Came  the  voice  of  its  harp  all  its  witchery  breath- 
ing. 

And  hallow'd  thy  name  with  the  light  of  her 
song  ! 

And  oh,  'twas  a  strain  in  each  patriot  breast 
That  waked  all  the  transport,  that  lit  all  the 

flame, 

And  raptured  and  blest  was  the  Isle  of  the  West 
When  her  own  sweetest  bard  sang  her  Wel- 
lington's name ! 

But  'tis  past — thou  art  false,  and  thy  country's 

sad  story 
Shall  tell  how  she  bled  and  she  pleaded  in 

vain  ; 
How  the  arm  that  should  lead  her  to  freedom  and 

glory, 
The  child  of  her  bosom,  did  rivet  her  chain  ! 

Yet  think  not  forever  her  vengeance  shall  deep : 
Wild  harp  that  once  praised  him,  sing  louder 

his  shame, 
And    where'er  o'er  the  deep  thy  free  numbers 

may  sweep, 

Bear  the  curse  of  a  nation  on  Wellington's 
name  1 


THE  EXILE'S  FAREWELL. 

ADIEU,  my  own  dear  Erin, 

Receive  my  fond,  my  last  adieu ; 

I  go,  but  with  me  bearing 

A  heart  still  fondly  turn'd  to  you. 

The  charms  that  nature  gave  thee 

With  lavish  hand,  shall  cease  to  smile, 

And  the  soul  of  friendship  leave  thee, 
E'er  I  forget  my  own  green  isle. 

Ye  fields  where  heroes  bounded 

To  meet  the  foes  of  liberty; 
Ye  hills  that  oft  resounded 

The  joyful  shouts  of  victory, 

Obscured  is  all  your  glory, 

Forgotten  all  your  former  fame, 

And  the  minstrel's  mournful  story 
Now  calls  a  tear  at  Eriu's  name. 

But  still  the  day  may  brighten 

When  those  tears  shall  cease  to  flow, 

And  the  shout  of  freedom  lighten 
Spirits  now  so  drooping  low. 

Then  should  the  glad  breeze  blowing 

Convey  the  echo  o'er  the  sea, 
My  heart,  with  transport  glowing, 

Shall  bless  the  hand  that  made  thee  free. 


SONG. 

Ai»—  "  Lkildlp  of  Bucban." 


AWAKE  tlicc,  my  Bessy,  the  morning  is  fair, 
The  breath  of  young  roses  is  fresh  on  the  air, 
The  sun  has  long  glanced  over  mountain   and 

lake  — 
Then  awake  from  thy  slumbers,  my  li.-ssy,  awake, 

Oh,  come  whilst  the  dowers  are  still  wet  with 

the  dew  — 

I'll  gather  the  fairest,  my  Bessy,  for  you  ; 
The  lark  poureth  forth  his  sweet  strain  for  thy 

sake  — 
Then  awake  from  thy  slumbers,  my  Bessy,  awake. 

The  hare  from  her  soft  bed  of  heather  hath  gone, 
The  coot  to  the  water  already  hath  flown  ; 
There  is  life  on  the  mountain  and  joy  on  the  lake- 
Then  awake  from  thy  slumbers,  my  Bessy,  awake 


THE   POEMS   OF  J.  J.  CALLANAN. 


DE  LA  VIDA  DEL  CIELO. 

[OF    HKAVEXLT    LIFE.] 
(From  the  Spanish  of  Luis  <le  Leon.) 

CI.IMK  forever  fair  and  bright, 

Cloudless  region  of  the  blest, 
Summer's  heat  or  winter's  blight 
Comes  not  o'er  thy  fields  of  light, 
Vielder  of  endless  joy  and  home  of  endles?  rest. 

There  his  flock  whilst  fondly  tending, 

All  unarm'd  with  staff  or  sling, 
Flowers  of  white  and  purple  blending 
O'er  his  brow  of  beauty  bending, 
The  heavenly  Shepherd  walks  thy  breathing  fields 
of  spring. 

Still  his  look  of  love  reposes 

On  the  happy  sheep  he  feeds 
With  thine  own  undying  roses, 
Flowers  no  clime  but  thine  discloses ; 
And  still  the  more  they  feast  more  freshly  bloom 
thy  meads. 

To  thy  hills  in  glory  blushing 

Next  his  charge  the  Shepherd  guides, 
And  in  streams  all  sorrow  hushing, 
Streams  of  life  in  gladness  gushing, 
His  happy  flock  he  bathes  and  their  high  food 
provides. 

And  when  sleep  their  eye  encumbers 
In  the  noontide  radiance  strong, 

O ' 

With  his  calumet's  sweet  numbers 
Lulls  them  in  delicious  slumbers, 
And  rapt  in  holy  dreams  they  hear  that  'trancing 
song. 

At  that  pipe's  melodious  sounding, 
Thrilling  joys  transfix  the  soul ; 
And  in  visions  bright  surrounding, 
Up  the  ardent  spirit  bounding, 
Springs  on  her  pinion  free  to  love's  eternal  goal. 

Minstrel  of  heaven,  if  earthward  stealing, 
This  ear  might  catch  thy  faintest  tone, 
Then  would  thy  voice's  sweet  revealing 
Drown  my  soul  with  holiest  feeling, 
And  this  weak  heart  that  strays,  at  length  be  all 
thine  own. 

Then,  with  a  joy  that  knows  no  speaking, 
I  would  wait  thy  smile  on  yon  high  shore, 


And  from  earth's  vile  bondage  breaking 
Thy  bright  home,  good  Shepherd,  seeking — 
Live  with  thy  blessed  flock,  nor  darkly  wander 


more. 


TO  THE  STAR  OF  BETHLEHEM. 

FAIR  star  of  the  morning. 

How  pure  is  thy  beam, 
Though  the  spirit  of  darkness 

Half  shadow  its  gleam  ! 
In  the  host  of  yon  heaven 

No  bright  one  doth  shine 
With  a  glory  more  purely 

Kef  ul  gen  t  than  thine. 


LINES  TO  THE  BLESSED  SACRAMENT 

THOU  dear  and  mystic  semblance, 

Before  whose  form  I  kneel, 
I  tremble  as  I  think  upon 

The  glory  thou  dost  veil, 
And  ask  myself,  can  he  who  late 

The  ways  of  darkness  trod, 
Meet  face  to  face,  and  heart  to  heart, 

Ilis  sin-avenging  God  1 

My  Judge  and  my  Creator, 

If  I  presume  to  stand 
Amid  thy  pure  and  holy  ones, 

It  is  at  thy  command, 
To  lay  before  thy  mercy's  seat 

My  sorrows  and  my  fears, 
To  vvail  my  life  and  kiss  thy  feet 

In  silence  and  in  tears. 

0  God  !   that  dreadful  moment, 
In  sickness  and  in  strife, 

When  death  and  hell  seem'd  watching 
For  the  last  weak  pulse  of  life, 

When  on  the  waves  of  sin  and  pain 
My  drowning  soul  was  to.ss'd, 

Thy  hand  of  mercy  saved  me  then, 
When  hope  itself  was  lost. 

1  hear  thy  voice,  my  Saviour, 

It  speaks  within  my  breast, 
"  Oh,  come  to  me,  thou  weary  one, 
I'll  hush  thy  cares  to  rest ;" 


THE    POEMS   OF   J.  J.  CALLANAN. 


597 


Thi-n  from  the  parch'd  and  burning  waste 
Of  sin,  where  long  I  trod, 
I  come  to  thee,  thou  stream  of  life, 
My  Saviour  and  tuy  God  ! 

How  sad  were  the  glances 
At  parting  we  threw  ! 
No  word  was  there  spoken 
Bnt  the  stifled  adieu  ; 
My  lips  o'er  thy  cold  check- 
All  raptnrcless  pass'd  — 
'Twas  the  first  time  I  press'd  it 
It  must  be  the  last. 

But  why  should  I  dwell  thu» 
On  scenes  that  but  pain, 
Or  think  on  thee,  Mary, 
"When  thinking  is  vain? 
Thy  name  to  this  bosom 
Now  sounds  like  a  knell  : 
My  fond  one,  my  dev  OD« 
Forever   -f«row  si!  1 

THOUGH  DARK  FATE  HATH  REFT  ME. 

THOUGH  dark  Fate  hath  reft  me 
Of  all  that  was  sweet, 
And  widely  we  sever, 
Too  widely  to  meet  — 
Oh,  yet  while  one  life  pulse 
Remains  in  this  heart, 
Twill  remember  thec,  Mary 
Wherever  th«'i  art. 

POEMS  OF  WILLIAM  ALLINGHAM. 


THE  WINDING  BANKS  OF  ERNE: 

OB,  THE  EMIGRANT'S  ADIEU  TO  BALLYSIIANNON. 
(A  LOCAL  BALLAD.) 

ADIEU  to  Ballyshannon  !  where  I  was  bred 

and  born  ; 
Go  where  I  may,  I'll  think  of  you,  as  sure  as 

nigtit  and  morn, 
The  kindly  spot,  the  friendly  town,  where 

every  one  is  known, 
And  not  a  face  in  all  the  place  but  partly 

seems  my  own : 
There's  not  a  house  or  window,  there's  not  a 

field  or  hill, 

But,  east  or  west,  in  foreign  lands,  I'll  recol- 
lect them  still. 
I  leave  my  warm  heart  with  you,  though  my 

back  I'm  forced  to  turn — 
So  adieu  to  Ballyshannon,  and  the  winding 

banks  of  Erne ! 

No  more  on  pleasant  evenings  we'll  saunter 
down  the  Mall, 

When  the  trout  is  rising  to  the  fly,  the  sal- 
mon to  the  fall. 

The  boat  comes  straining  on  her  net,  and 
heavily  she  creeps : 

Cast  off,  cast  off ! — she  feels  the  oars,  and  to 
her  berth  she  sweeps  ; 

Now  fore  and  aft  keep  hauling,  and  gather- 
ing up  the  clue, 

Till  a  silver  wave  of  salmon  rolls  in  among 
the  crew. 

Then  they  may  sit,  with  pipes  a-lit,  and  many 
a  joke  and  "  yarn  ;" — 

Adieu  to  Ballyshannon,  and  the  winding 
banks  of  Erne  ! 

The  music  of  the  waterfall,  the  mirror  of  the 
tide, 

When  all  the  green-hill'd  harbor  is  full  from 
tide  to  side — 


From  Portnasun  to  Bulliebawns,  and  round 
the  Abbey  Bay, 

From  rocky  Inis  Saimer  to  Coolnargit  sand- 
hills gray ; 

While  far  upon  the  southern  line,  to  guard 
it  like  a  wall, 

The  Leitrim  mountains,  clothed  in  blue, 
gaze  calmly  over  all, 

And  watch  the  ship  sail  up  or  down,  the  red 
flag  at  her  stern  ; — 

Adieu  to  these,  adieu  to  all  the  winding 
banks  of  Erne ! 

Farewell  to  you,  Kildoney  lads,  and  them 

that  pull  an  oar, 
A  lug-sail  set,  or  haul  a  net,  from  the  Point 

to  Mullaghmore ; 
From  Killybegs  to  bold  Slieve-League,  that 

ocean-mountain  steep, 
Six  hundred  yards  in  air  aloft,  six  hundred 

in  the  deep ; 
From  Dooran  to  the  Fairy  Bridge,  and  round 

by  Tullen  strand, 
Level  and  long,  and  white  with  waves,  where 

gull  and  curlew  stand  ; 
Head   out   to  sea    when   on    your  lee   the 

breakers  you  discern  ! — 
Adieu  to  all  the  billowy  coast,  and  winding 

banks  of  Erne ! 

Farewell   Coolmore, — Bundoran  !    and  your 

summer  crowds  that  run 
From   inland   homes   to   see  with  joy   the 

Atlantic-setting  sun  ; 
To  breathe  the  buoyant  salted  air,  and  sport 

among  the  waves ; 
To  gather  shells  on  sandy  beach,  and  tempt 

the  gloomy  caves ; 
To  watch  the  flowing,  ebbing  tide,  the  boats, 

the  crabs,  the  fish  ; 
Young  men  and  maids  to  meet  and  smile, 

and  form  a  tender  wish  ; 


POEMS  OF  WILLIAM  ALLINGHAM. 


.7.  t'.l 


The  sick  and  old  in  search  of  health,  for  all 

things  have  their  turn — 
And  I  must  quit  my  native  shore,  and  the 

winding  banks  of  Erne  ! 

Farewell  to  every  white  cascade   from  the 

Harbor  to  Belleek, 
And  every  pool  where  fins    may  rest,  and 

ivy-shaded  creek ; 
The  sloping  fields,  the    lofty   rocks,   where 

ash  and  holly  grow, 
The  one  split  yew-tree  gazing  on  the  curving 

flood  below  ; 
The  Lough,  that  winds  through  islands  under 

Turaw  mountain  green ; 
And   Castle   Caldwell's    stretching   woods, 

with  tranquil  bays  between  ; 
And  Breesie  Hill,  and  many  a  pond  among 

the  heath  and  fern, — 
For  I  must  say  adieu — adieu  to  the  winding 

banks  of  Erne  ! 

The  thrush  will  call  through  Camlin  groves 

the  livelong  summer  day  ; 
The  waters  run  by  mossy  cliff,  and   bank 

with  wild-flowers  gay ; 
The  girls  will  bring   their   work   and    sing 

beneath  a  twisted  thorn, 
Or   stray  with  sweethearts  down  the  path 

among  the  growing  corn ; 
Along  the  river  side  they  go,  where  I  have 

often  been, — 
Oh,  never  shall  I  see  again  the  days  that  I 

have  seen  ! 
A  thousand  chances  are  to  one  I  never  may 

return, — 
Adieu   to   Ballyshannon,   and    the  winding 

banks  of  Erne ! 

Adieu  to  evening  dances,  when  merry  neigh- 
bors meet, 

And  the  fiddle  says  to  boys  and  girls,  "  Get 
up  and  shake  your  feet !" 

To  "  shanachus"1  and  wise  old  talk  of  Erin's 
days  gone  by — 

Who  trench'd  the  rath  on  such  a  hill,  and 
where  the  bones  may  lie 

Of  saint,  or  king,  or  warrior  chief;  with 
tales  of  fairy  power, 


1  "  Siuu.achu8."  old  •torlea,— historic*. 


And  tender  ditties  sweetly  sung  to  pass  the 

twilight  hour. 
The  mournful  song  of  exile  is  now  for  me  to 

learn — 
Adieu,  my  dear  companions  on  the  winding 

banks  of  Erne ! 

Now  measure  from  the  Commons  down  to 

each  end  of  the  Purt, 
Round  the  Abbey,  Moy,  and   Knather, — 1 

wish  no  one  any  hurt ; 
The  Main  Street,  Back  Street,  College  Lane, 

the  Mall,  and  Portnasun, 
If  any  foe<*  of  mine  are  there,  I  pardon  every 

one. 
I  hope  that  man  and  womankind  will  do  the 

same  by  me ; 
For  my  heart  is  sore  and  heavy  at  voyaging 

the  sea. 
My   loving   friends   I'll  bear  in  mind,  and 

often  fondly  turn 
To  think  of  Ballyshannon,  and  the  winding 

banks  of  Erne. 

If  ever  I'm  a  money'd  man,  I  mean,  please 

God,  to  cast 

My  golden  anchor  in  the  place  where  youth- 
ful years  were  pass'd ; 
Though  heads  that  now  are  black  and  brown 

must  meanwhile  gather  gray, 
New  faces  rise  by  every   hearth,  and   old 

ones  drop  away — 
Yet  dearer  still  that  Irish  hill  than  all  the 

world  beside ; 
It's  home,   sweet   home,  where'er   I   roam, 

through  lands  and  waters  wide, 
And   if  the  Lord  allows  me,  1  surely   will 

return 
To  my  native  Ballyshannon,  and  the  winding 

banks  of  Erne. 


THE  ABBOT  OF  INNISFALLEN. 

(A  KILLARNEY  LEGEND.) 

THE  Abbot  of  Innisfallen 

Awoke  ere  dawn  of  day  ; 
Under  the  dewy  green  leaves 

Went  he  forth  to  pray. 


GOO 


POEMS  OF  WILLIAM  ALLINGIIAM. 


The  lake  around  his  island 

Lay  smooth  and  dark  and  deep ; 

And  wrapt  in  a  misty  stillness, 
The  mountains  were  all  asleep. 

Low  kneel'd  the  Abbot  Cormac, 
When  the  dawn  was  dim  and  gray  • 

The  prayers  of  his  holy  office 
He  faithfully  'gan  say. 

Low  kneel'd  the  Abbot  Cormac, 
When  the  dawn  was  waxing  red ; 

And  for  his  sins'  forgiveness 
A  solemn  prayer  he  said : 

Low  kneel'd  that  holy  Abbot, 

When  the  dawn  was  waxing  clear ; 

And  he  pray'd  with  loving-kindness 
For  his  convent-brethren  dear. 

Low  kneel'd  that  blessed  Abbot, 
When  the  dawn  was  waxing  bright ; 

He  pray'd  a  great  prayer  for  Ireland, 
He  pray'd  with  all  his  might. 

Low  kneel'd  that  good  old  Father, 
While  the  sun  began  to  dart ; 

He  pray'd  a  prayer  for  all  mankind, 
He  pray'd  it  from  his  heart. 

The  Abbot  of  Innisfallen 

Arose  upon  his  feet ; 
He  heard  a  small  bird  singing, 

And  oh  but  it  sung  sweet ! 

He  heard  a  white  bird  singing  well 

Within  a  holly-tree ; 
A  song  so  sweet  and  happy 

Never  before  heard  he. 

It  sung  upon  a  hazel, 

It  sung  upon  a  thorn  ; 
He  had  never  heard  such  music 

Since  the  hour  that  he  was  born. 

It  sung  upon  a  sycamore, 

It  sung  upon  a  brier ; 
To  follow  the  song  and  hearken 

This  Abbot  could  never  tire. 


Till  at  last  he  well  bethought  him 

He  might  no  longer  stay  ; 
So  he  bless'd  the  little  white  singing  bird, 

And  gladly  went  his  way. 

But,  when  he  came  to  his  Abbey -walls, 
He  found  a  wondrous  change  ; 

He  saw  no  friendly  faces  there, 
For  every  face  was  strange. 

The  strange  men  spoke  unto  him  ; 

And  he  heard  from  all  and  each 
The  foreign  tongue  of  the  Sassenach, 

Not  wholesome  Irish  speech. 

Then  the  oldest  monk  came  forward, 

In  Irish  tongue  spake  he  : 
"  Thou  wearest  the  holy  Augustine's  dress, 
And  who  hath  given  it  to  thee  ?" 

"  I  wear  the  holy  Augustine's  dress, 

And  Cormac  is  my  name, 
The  Abbot  of  this  good  Abbey 
By  grace  of  God  1  am. 

"  I  went  forth  to  pray,  at  break  of  day  ; 

And  when  my  prayers  were  said, 
I  hearken'd  awhile  to  a  little  bird, 
That  sung  above  my  head." 

The  monks  to  him  made  answer : 
"  Two  hundred  years  have  gone  o  er 

Since  our  Abbot  Cormac  went  through  the 

gate, 
And  never  was  heard  of  more. 

"  Matthias  now  is  our  Abbot, 

And  twenty  have  pass'd  away. 
The  stranger  is  lord  of  Ireland  ; 
We  live  in  an  evil  day." 

"  Now  give  me  absolution  ; 

For  my  time  is  come,"  said  he. 
And  they  gave  him  absolution, 
As  speedily  as  might  be. 

Then,  close  outside  the  window, 
The  sweetest  song  they  heard 

That  ever  yet  since  the  world  began 
Was  utter'd  by  any  bird. 


POEMS  OF  WILLIAM  ALLIN(iII  A.M. 


601 


The  monks  look'd  out  ami  saw  the  bird, 
Its  feathers  all  white  and  clean  ; 

And  there  in  a  moment,  bc-side  it, 
Another  white  bird  was  seen. 

Those  two  they  oang  together, 

Waved  their  white  wings,  and  fled; 

Flew  aloft,  and  vanished ; — 

But  the  good  old  man  was  dead. 

They  buried  his  blessed  body 

Where  lake  and  greensward  meet ; 

A  carven  cross  above  his  head, 
A  holly-bush  at  his  feet; 

Where  spreads  the  beautiful  water 

To  gay  or  cloudy  skies, 
And  the  purple  peaks  of  Killarney 

From  ancient  woods  arise. 


ABBEY  ASAROE. 

QEAT,  gray  is  Abbey  Asaroe,  by  Bally  shan- 
non town, 
It  has  neither  door  nor  window,  the  walls 

are  broken  down  ; 
The  carven  stones  lie  scatter'd  in  brirr  and 

nettle-bed ; 
The  only  feet  are  those  that  come  at  burial 

of  the  dead. 
A  little  rocky  rivulet  runs  murmuring  to  the 

tide, 
Singing  a  song  of  ancient  days,  in  sorrow, 

not  in  pride  ; 
The  bore-tree1  and  the  lightsome  ash  across 

the  portal  grow, 
And   heaven  itself  is  now  the  roof  of  Abbey 

Asaroe. 

It  looks  beyond  the  harbor-stream  to  Bulban 

mountain  blue ; 
It  hoars  the  voice  of  Erna's  fall, — Atlantic 

breakers  too  ; 


1  "  Bore  tree."  a  rame  for  the  elder-tree  (lantbucu*  niyra). 


High   ships   ur"   sailing  past  it ;    the   sturd) 

clank  of  oars 
Brings  in  the-  salmon-boat  to  haul  a  net  upon 

the  Chores  ; 
And  this  way  to  his  home-creek,  when  the 

summer  day  is  done, 
The  weary  nVher  sculls  his  punt  across  tlu 

setting  sun  ; 
While  green  with   corn  is  Sheegus  Hill,  hir 

cottage  white  below; 
But  gray  at  every  season  is  Abbey  Asaroe. 

There  stood  one  day  a  poor  old  man  above 

its  broken  bridge ; 
He   heard   no   running  rivulet,  he   saw  nc 

mountain-ridge  ; 
He  turn'd  his  back  on  Sheegus   Hill,  and 

view'd  with  misty  sight 
The    Abbey-walls,  the   burial-ground   with 

crosses  ghostly  white ; 
Under  a  weary  weight  of  years  he  bow'd 

upon  his  staff, 
Perusing  in  the  present  time  the  former's 

epitaph ; 
For,  gray  and  wasted  like  the  walls,  a  figure 

full  of  woe, 
This  man  was  of  the  blood   of  them   wha 

founded  Asaroe. 

From  Derry  Gates  to  Drowas  Tower,  Tir- 

connell  broad  wars  theirs ; 
Spearmen  and  plunder,  bards  and  wine,  and 

holy  abbot's  prayers ; 
With  chanting  always  in  the  house  which 

they  had  builded  high 
To   God   and   to   Saint   Bernard, — whereto 

they  came  to  die. 
At  worst,  no  workhouse  grave  for  him !  the 

ruins  of  his  race 
Shall  rest  among  the  ruin'd  stones  of  this 

their  saintly  place. 

The  fond  old  man  was  weeping ;  and  tremu- 
lous and  slow 
Along  the  rough  and  crooked  lane  he  crept 

from  Asaroe.1 


1  Asaroe,  Kcu-Aedhorftuaidh,  Cataract  of  Red 
famou*  waterfall  on  the  river  Erne,  where  King  Hnjrh  i*  »ald 
to  have  been  drowned  about  2900  yean  ago,  pave  name  to  'i» 
DeiKhlx>rlng  Abbey,  founded  in  tbc  twelfth  century. 


602 


POEMS  OF  WILLIAM  ALLINGHAM. 


THE  WONDKOUS  WELL. 

CAME  north  and  south  and  east  and  west, 
Four  Pilgrims  to  a  mountain  crest, 
Each  vow'd  to  search  the  wide  world  round, 
Until  the  Wondrous  Well  be  found; 
For  even  here,  as  old  songs  tell, 
Shine  sun  and  moon  upon  that  Well; 
And  now,  the  lonely  crag  their  seat, 
The  water  rises  at  their  feet. 

Said  One,  "  This  Well  is  small  and  mean, 
Too  petty  for  a  village -green." 
Another  said,  "  So  smooth  and  dumb — 
From  earth's  deep  centre  can  it  come  ?  " 
The  Third,  "  This  water's  nothing  rare, 
Hueless  and  savourless  as  air." 
The  Fourth,  "  A  Fane  I  look'd  to  see: 
Where  the  true  Well  is,  that  must  be." 

They  rose  and  left  the  lofty  crest, 

One  north,  one  south,  one  east,  one  west; 

Through  many  seas  and  deserts  wide 

They  wander'd,  thirsting,  till  they  died; 

Because  no  other  water  can 

Assuage  the  deepest  thirst  of  man. 

— Shepherds  who  by  the  mountain  dwell, 

Dip  their  pitchers  in  that  Well. 


THE  TOUCHSTONE. 

A  MAN  there  came,  whence  none  can  tell, 
Bearing  a  Touchstone  in  his  hand; 
And  tested  all  things  in  the  land 

By  its  unerring  spell. 

Quick  birth  of  transmutation  smote 
The  fair  to  foul,  the  foul  to  fair; 
Purple  nor  ermine  did  he  spare, 

Nor  scorn  the  dusty  coat. 

Of  heirloom  jewels,  prized  so  much, 

Were  many  changed  to  chips  and  clods, 
And  even  statues  of  the  gods 

Crumbled  beneath  its  touch. 


Then  angrily  the  people  cried, 

"  The 'loss  outweighs  the  profit  far; 
Our  goods  suffice  us  as  they  are; 

We  will  not  have  them  tried." 

And  since  they  could  not  so  prevail 
To  check  his  unrelenting  quest, 
They  seized  him,  saying — "  Let  him  test 

How  real  it  is,  our  jail ! " 

But,  though  they  slew  him  with  the  sword, 
And  in  a  fire  his  Touchstone  burn'd, 
Its  doings  could  not  be  o'erturn'd, 

Its  undoings  restored. 

And  when,  to  stop  all  future  harm, 

They  strew'd  its  ashes  on  the  breeze ; 
They  little  guess'd  each  grain  of  these 

Convey'd  the  perfect  charm. 

North,  south,  in  rings  and  amulets, 

Throughout    the    crowded    world    'tis 

borne ; 
Which,  as  a  fashion  long  outworn, 

Its  ancient  mind  forgets. 


AMONG  THE    HEATHER 

AN  IRISH    SONG. 

ONE  evening  walking  out,  I  o'ertook  a  mod- 
est colleen, 

When  the  wind  was  blowing  cool,  and  the 
harvest  leaves  were  falling. 

"  Is  our  road,  by  chance,  the  same  ?  Might 
we  travel  on  together  ?  " 

"  0, 1  keep  the  mountain  side,"  (she  replied.) 
*"'  among  the  heather." 

"  Your  mountain  air  is  sweet  when  the  days 

are  long  and  sunny, 
When  the  grass  grows  round  the  rocks,  and 

the  whinbloom  smells  like  honey; 
But  the  winter's  coming  fast,  with  its  foggy, 

snowy  weather, 
And  you'll  find  it  bleak  and  chill  on  your 

hill,  among  the  heather." 


I 'OK  MS   OF   WILLIAM   ALLINGHAM. 


603 


She  praised  her  mountain  home  and  I'll 
praise  it  too,  with  reason, 

For  .where  Molly  is  there's  sunshine,  and 
flow'rs  at  every  season. 

Be  the  moorland  black  or  white,  does  it  sig- 
nify a  feather, 

Now  I  know  the  way  by  heart,  every  part, 
among  the  heather  ? 

The  sun  goes  down  in  haste,  and  the  night 

falls  thick  and  stormy; 
Yet  I'd  travel  twenty  miles  to  the  welcome 

that's  before  me 
Singing  hie  for  Eskydun,  in  the  teeth  of 

wind  and  weather! 
Love'll  warm  me  as  1  go  through  the  snow, 

among  the  heather. 


THE  STATUETTE. 

I  DREAM'D  that  I,  being  dead  a  hundred 

years, 
(In  dream-world,  death  is  free  from  waking 

fears) 

Stood  in  a  City,  in  the  market-place, 
And  saw  a  snowy  marble  Statuette, 
Little,  but  delicately  carven,  set 
Within  a  corner-niche.     The  populace 
Look'd  at  it  now  and  then  in  passing-by, 
And  some  with  praise.     "  Who  sculptured 

it? "said  I, 

And  then  my  own  name  sounded  in  my  ears; 
And,  gently  waking,  in  my  bed  I  lay, 
With  mind  contented,  in  the  newborn  day. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  SQUIRE  CURTIS. 

A  VENERABLE  whitc-hair'd  Man, 

A  trusty  man  and  true, 
Told  me  this  tale,  as  word  for  word 

I  tell  this  title  to  you. 


Squire  Curtis  had  a  cruel  mouth, 
Though  honey  was  on  his  tongue; 

Squire  Curtis  woo'd  and  wedded  a  wife, 
And  she  was  fair  and  young. 

But  he  said,  "  She  cannot  love  me; 

She  watches  me  early  and  late; 
She  is  mild  and  good  and  cold  of  mood  ; " — 

And  his  liking  turn'd  to  hate. 

One  autumn  evening  they  rode  through  the 
woods, 

Far  and  far  away: 
"  The  dusk  is  drawing  round,"  she  said, 

"  I  fear  we  have  gone  astray." 

He  spake  no  word,  but  lighted  down, 

And  tied  his  horse  to  a  tree; 
Out  of  the  pillion  he  lifted  her; 

"  Tis  a  lonely  place,"  said  she. 

Down  a  forest-alley  he  walk'd, 

And  she  walk'd  by  his  side; 
"  Would  Heaven  we  were  at  home!"  she  said, 

"  These  woods  are  dark  and  wide!" 

He  spake  no  word,  but  still  walk'd  on; 

The  branches  shut  out  the  sky; 
In  the  darkest  place  he  turn'd  him  round — 

"  Tis  here  that  you  must  die." 

Once  she  shriek'd  and  never  again: 
He  stabbed  her  with  his  knife; 

Once,  twice,  thrice,  and  every  blow 
Enough  to  take  a  life. 

A  grave  was  ready;  he  laid  her  in; 

II<-  lill'd  it  up  with  care; 
Under  the  brambles  and  fallen  leaves 

Small  sign  of  a  grave  was  there. 

He  rode  an  hour  at  a  steady  pace, 

Till  unto  his  house  came  Ins 
On  face  or  clothing,  on  foot  or  hand, 

No  stain  that  eye  could  see. 

lie  liolilly  call'd  to  his  serving-man, 

As  In-  lighted  at  the  door; 
"  Your  Mistress  is  gone  on  a  sudden  jour- 
ney— 

.May  stay  for  a  month  or  more. 


604 


POEMS  OF  SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 


''  In  two  days  I  shall  follow  her; 

Let  her  waiting- woman  know." 
"  Sir,"  said  the  serving- man,  "My  lady 

Came  in  an  hour  ago." 

Squire  Curtis  sat  him  down  in  a  chair, 
And  moved  neither  hand  nor  head. 

In  there  came  the  waiting-woman, 
"Alas  the  day  ! "  she  said. 

"Alas!  good  Sir,"  says  the  waiting- woman, 
"What  aileth  my  Mistress  dear, 

That  she  sits  alone  without  sign  or  word  ? 
There  is  something  wrong,  I  fear  ! 

"  Her  face  was  white  as  any  corpse 

As  up  the  stair  she  pass'd; 
She  never  turn'd,  she  never  spoke; 

And  the  chamber-door  is  fast. 


"  She's  waiting  for  you."  "A  lie!"  he  shouts, 

And  up  to  his  feet  doth  start; 
"  My  wiife  is  buried  in  Brimley  Holt,  . 

With  three  wounds  in  her  heart." 

They  search'd  the  forest  by  lantern  light, 

They  search'd  by  dawn  of  day; 
At  noon  they  found  the  bramble-brake 

And  the  pit  where  her  body  lay. 

They  carried  the  murder'd  woman  home, 

Slow  walking  side  by  side. 
Squire  Curtis  he  swung  upon  gallows-tree, 

But  confess'd  before  he  died. 


The  venerable  trusty  Man 
With  hair  like  drifted  snow, 

Told  me  this  tale,  as  from  his  wife 
He  learn'd  it  long  ago. 


THE   TAIN-QUEST. 

THE  Tain,  in  Irish  bardic  phrase,  was  an  heroic  poem  commemorative  of  a  foray  or 
plundering  expedition  on  a  grander  scale.  It  was  the  duty  of  the  bard  to  be  prepared,  at 
call,  with  all  the  principal  Tains,  among  which  the  Tain-Bo-Cuailgne,  or  Cattle-Spoil 
of  Quelny,  occupied  the  first  place;  as  in  it  were  recorded  the  exploits  of  all  the  personages 
most  famous  in  the  earlier  heroic  cycle  of  Irish  story — Conor  Mac  Nessa,  Maev,  Fergus 
Mac  Roy,  Conall  Carnach,  and  Cuchullin  (pronounced  Ku-kullin}.  Conor,  King  of  Ulster, 
contemporary  and  rival  of  Maev,  Queen  of  Connaught,  reigned  at  Emania  (now  the  Navan,) 
near  Armagh,  about  the  commencement  of  the  Christian  era.  He  owed  his  first  accession 
to  the  monarchy  to  the  arts  of  his  mother,  Nessa,  on  whom  Fergus,  his  predecessor  in  the 
kingly  office  and  step-father,  doated  so  fondly  that  she  had  been  enabled  to  stipulate,  as  a 
condition  of  bestowing  her  hand,  that  Fergus  should  abdicate  for  a  year  in  favor  of  her 
youthful  son.  The  year  had  been  indefinitely  prolonged  by  the  fascinations  of  Nessa, 
aided  by  the  ability  of  Conor,  who,  although  he  concealed  a  treacherous  and  cruel  disposi- 
tion under  attractive  graces  of  manners  and  person,  ultimately  became  too  popular  to  be 
displaced;  and  Fergus,  whose  nature  disinclined  him  to  the  labors  of  government,  had 
acquiesced  in  accepting  as  an  equivalent  the  excitements  of  war  and  the  chase,  and  the 
unrestricted  pleasures  of  the  revel.  Associating  with  Cuchullin,  Conall  Carnach,  Neesa, 
son  of  Usnach,  and  the  other  companions  of  the  military  order  of  the  Red  Branch,  he  long 
remained  a  faithful  supporter  of  the  throne  of  his  step-son,  eminent  for  his  valor,  gener- 
osity, and  fidelity,  as  well  as  for  his  accomplishments  as  a  hunter  and  a  poet. 

At  length  occurred  the  tragedy  which  broke  up  these  genial  associations,  and  drove 
Fergus  into  the  exile  in  which  he  died.  Deirdra,  a  beautiful  virgin,  educated  by  Conor 
for  his  own  companionship,  saw  and  loved  Neesa,  who  eloped  with  her,  and  dreading  the 
wrath  of  the  king,  fled  to  Scotland,  accompanied  bv  his  brothers  and  clansmen.  Conor, 


1'OF.MS  OF  SAMUEL  FKUdt'SO.X.  605 

contemplating  the  treachery  he  afterwards  practised,  acquiesced  in  the  entreaty  of  his 
counsellors  that  the  sons  of  Usnacli  should  be  pardoned  and  restored  to  the  service  of  their 
country;  and  to  Fergus  was  confided  the  task  of  discovering  their  retreat  and  escorting 
them  to  Emania,  under  security  of  safe-conduct.  The  hunting-cry  of  Fergus  was  IK-HP  1 
and  recognized  by  the  exiles  where  they  lay  in  green  booths  in  the  solitude  of  Glen  Etive. 
On  their  return  to  Ireland,  a  temptation  prepared  for  the  simple-minded  convivial  Fergus 
detached  him  from  his  wards;  and  Deirdra  and  the  Clan  Usnach  proceeded,  under  the 
guardianship  of  his  sons,  Buino  and  Ulan,  to  Emania.  Here  they  were  lodged  in  the  house 
of  the  Ked  Branch,  where,  although  it  soon  became  apparent  that  Conor  intended  their 
destruction,  they  repressed  all  appearance  of  distrust  in  their  protectors,  and  calmly  con- 
tinued playing  chess,  until,  Buino  having  been  bought  over  and  Ulan  slain  in  their  de- 
fence, they  were  at  length  compelled  to  sally  from  the  burning  edifice,  and  were  put  to 
the  sword;  Deirdra  being  seized  again  into  the  king's  possession.  On  this  atrocious  outrage 
Fergus  took  up  arms,  as  well  to  regain  his  crown  as  to  avenge  the  abuse  of  his  safe- 
conduct;  but  Cuchullin  and  the  principal  chiefs  remaining  faithful  to  Conor,  the  much 
injured  ex-king  betook  himself,  with  others  of  the  disgusted  Ultonian  nobles,  to  the 
protection  of  Maev  and  Ailill,  the  Queen  and  King  Consort  of  Connaught.  Thus  strength- 
ened, the  warriors  of  Maev  made  frequent  incursions  into  the  territories  of  Conor,  in  which 
Keth  and  Beiilcu  on  the  one  hand,  and  Cucullin  and  Conall  Carnach  on  the  other,  were 
the  most  renowned  actors.  After  many  years  of  desultory  warfare,  a  pretext  for  the  in- 
vasion of  the  rich  plain  of  Louth  arose,  in  consequence  of  a  chief  of  the  territorv  of 
Cuailgne  having  ill-treated  the  messengers  of  Maev,  sent  by  her  to  negotiate  the  purchase 
of  a  notable  dun  bull,  and  the  great  expedition  was  thereupon  organized  which  forms  the 
subject  of  the  Tain- Bo- Cuailgne.  The  guidance  of  the  invading  host,  which  traversed 
the  counties  of  Roscommon,  Longford,  and  Westmeath,  was  at  first  confided  to  Fergus; 
and  much  of  the  interest  of  the  story  turns  on  the  conflict  in  his  breast  between  his  duty 
towards  his  adopted  sovereign,  and  his  attachment  to  his  old  companions  in  arms  and 
former  subjects.  On  the  borders  of  Cuailgne,  the  invaders  were  encountered  by  Cuchullin, 
who  alone  detained  them  by  successive  challenges  to  single  combat,  until  Conor  and  the 
Ultonian  chiefs  were  enabled  to  assemble  their  forces.  In  these  encounters,  Cuchullin 
also  had  the  pain  of  combating  former  companions  and  fellow-pupils  in  arms;  among 
others,  Ferdia,  who  had  received  his  military  education  at  the  same  school  and  under  the 
same  amazonian  instructress  at  Dun  Sciah,  in  view  of  the  Cuchullin  hills,  in  Skye.  In  the 
respite  of  their  combat,  the  heroes  kiss,  in  memory  of  their  early  affection.  The  name  of 
the  ford  in  which  they  fought  (Ath-Firdiadhf  now  Ardee,  in  the  county  of  Louth)  per- 
petuates the  memory  of  the  fallen  champion,  and  helps  to  fix  the  locality  of  these  heroic 
pa.-sa-.res.  Maev,  though  ultimately  overthrown  at  the  great  battle  of  Slewin  in  West- 
meat  h,  succeeded  in  carrying  off  the  spoils  of  Louth,  including  the  dun  hull  of  Cuailgne; 
and  with  Fergus,  under  the  shelter  .of  whose  shield  she  effected  her  retreat  through  many 
Bufferings  and  dang'-rs,  returned  to  Croghan,  the  Connacian  roval  residence,  near  Klphin, 
in  Roscommon.  Here  she  bore  to  the  now  aged  hero  (at  a  birth,  says  the  story)  three 
sons,  from  whom  three  of  the  great  native  families  still  trace  their  descent,  and  from  the 
eldest,  of  whom  the  county  of  Kerry  derives  its  name.  A  servant  of  Ailill,  at  the  com- 
mand of  the  king,  avenged  the  injury  done  his  master's  bed  by  piercing  Fergus  with  a 
spear,  while  the  atnlete  poet  swam,  defenceless,  bathing  in  Loch  Kin.  The  earliest  copies 
of  the  Tniit-/!t>-('i»'i/!/>i<'  are  prefaced  by  the  wild  legend  of  its  loss  and  recovery  in  the 
time  of  Guary.  King  of  Connaught,  in  the  sixth  century,  by  Murgen,  son  of  the  chief  poet 
Sanchan,  under  circumstances  which  have  suggested  the  following  poem.  The  Ogham 
characters,  referred  to  in  the  piece,  were  formed  by  lines  cut  tally-wise  on  the  corners  of 
stone  pillars,  and  somewhat  resembled  Scandinavian  '.Junes,  examples  of  which,  carved  on 
squared  staves,  may  still  he  seen  in  several  museums.  The  readers  of  the  Tuin-Iin- 
fiini/i/iti'.  as  it  now  exists,  have  to  regret  the  overlaying  of  much  of  its  heroic  and  pathetic 
material  by  turgid  extravagances  and  exaggerations,  the  additions  apparently  of  later 
copyists. 


606 


POEMS   OF  SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 


THE  TAIN-QUEST. 

"  BKAR  the  cup  to  Sanchan  Torpest;  yield  the 

bard  his  poet's  meed ; 
What  we've    heard   was   but  a  foretaste ;    lays 

more  lofty  now  succeed. 
Though   my  stores   be  emptied   well-nigh,  twin 

bright  cups  there  yet  remain, — 
Wia  them  with  the  Raid  of  Cuailgne;  chant  us, 

Bard,  the  famous  Tain  /" 

Thus,  in  hall  of  Gort,  spake  Guary  ;  for  the  king, 

let  truth  be  told, 
Bounteous  though  he  was,   was   weary  giving 

goblets,  giving  gold, 
Giving  aught  the  bard  demanded  ;'    but,  when 

for  the  Tain  he  call'd, 
Sanchan  from   his   seat  descended;  shame  and 

anger  fired  the  Scald. 

"  Well,"    he   said,   "  'tis    known    through    Erin, 

known  through  Alba,  main  and  coast, 
Since  the  Staft-Book's  disappearing  over  sea,  the 

Tain  is  lost : 
For  the  lay  was  cut  in  tallies  on  the  corners  of 

the  staves 
Patrick  in  his  pilgrim  galleys  carried  o'er  the 

Ictian  waves. 

44  Well  'tis  known  that  Erin's  Ollavcs,  met  in  Tara 

Luachra's  hall,'2 
Fail'd  to  find  the  certain  knowledge  of  the  Tain 

amongst  them  all, 
Though  there  there  sat  sages  hoary,  men  who  in 

their  day  had  known 
All  the  foremost  kings  of  story ;  but  the  lay  was 

lost  and  gone. 

**  Wherefore  from  that  fruitless  session  went  I 

forth  myself  in  quest 
Of  the  Tain  ;  nor  intermission,  even  for  hours 

of  needful  rest, 


>  The  exactions  of  the  bards  were  so  Intolerable,  that  the  early 
Irish  more  than  Oice  endeavored  to  rid  themselves  of  the  order, 
i«t  without  success.  The  Aeir  or  satire  of  the  bard  was  deemed 
t.i  instrument  of  physical  mischief,  capable  of  destroying  the  life 
anil  property,  as  well  as  the  peace  of  inind,  of  the  person  against 
whom  it  was  directed  Rather  than  incur  its  terrors,  the  early 
Irish  submitted  to  bardic  exactions  which  would  appear  incredible, 
if  we  did  not  know  that  even  within  the  present  generation  the 
same  belief  in  the  power  of  the  Bhut  (vittes)  existed  in  the  East 

a  The  seat  of  the  early  kings  of  West  Mnnster,  in  the  moun- 
tainous region  of  Desmond,  site  unknown :  the  scene  of  a  session 
of  the  bards  in  the  Sixth,  and  of  an  exploit  similar  to  the  burning 
of  Persepolis  (magna  componere  parvia),  by  Cuchullin  and  the 
Companions  of  the  Eed  Branch,  in  a  fit  of  intoxication,  in  the 
First  Century. 


Gave  I  to  my  sleepless  searches,  till  I  Erin,  hill 

and  plain, 
Courts  and  castles,  cells   and   churches,  roam'd 

and  ransack'd,  but  in  vain. 

"  Dreading  shame  on  hardship  branded,  should 
I  e'er  be  put  to  own 

Any  lay  of  right  demanded  of  me  was  not  right- 
ly known, 

Over  sea  to  Alba  sped  I,  where,  amid  the  hither 
Gael,3 

Dalriad  bards  had  fill'd  already  all  Cantyre  with 
song  and  tale. 

"  Who  the  friths  and  fords  shall  reckon  ;  who 
the  steeps  I  cross'd  shall  count, 

From  the  cauldron-pool  of  Brecan  eastward  o'er 
the  Alban  mount  ;4 

From  the  stone  fort  of  Dun  Britan,  set  o'er  cir- 
cling Clyde  on  high,5 

Northward  to  the  thunder-smitten,  jagg'd  Cu- 
chullin peaks  of  Skye  ? 

44  Great  Cuchullin's  name  and  glory  fill'd  the  land 
from  north  to  south  ; 

Deirdra's  and  Clan  Usnach's  story  rife  I  found 
in  every  mouth ; 

Yea,  and  where  the  whitening  surges  spread  be- 
low the  Herdsman  Hill,6 

Echoes  of  the  shout  of  Fergus  haunted  all  Glen 
Etive  still. 


•  lar-Gael— Argyle. 

•  Corrievreakan,  the  maelstrom  of  the  Orcades.    Like  other 
famous  whirlpools,  it  no  longer  answers  to  the  ancient  account  of 
its  terrors.    The  picturesque  force  of  the  description  in  Cormac's 
Glossary  is  enhanced  by  our  inability  to  translate  the  whole  of 
some  of  the  similes. 

"  Coire-Brecain,  i.  e.,  a  great  vortex  between  Ere  and  Alba  to 
the  north,  i.  e.,  the  conflux  of  the  different  seas,  viz.,  the  sea  which 
encompasses  Ere  at  the  northwest,  the  sea  which  encompasses 
Alba  at  the  northwest,  and  the  sea  to  the  south,  between  Ere  and 
Alba.  They  rush  at  each  other  after  the  likeness  of  a  luaithrinde, 
and  each  is-  buried  into  the  other  like  the  oireel  tairechta,  and 
they  are  sucked  down  into  the  gulf  so  as  to  form  a  gaping  caul- 
dron, which  would  receive  all  Ere  into  its  wide  mouth.  The 
waters  are  again  thrown  up,  so  that  their  belching,  roaring,  and 
thundering  are  heard  amid  the  clouds,  and  they  boil  like  a  cauldron 
upon  a  fire." 

•  Dunbarton,  formerly  A  iL  Clyde,  the  stone  fort  of  the  Clyde. 

•  A  feeble  effort  to  convey  something  of  the  solitary  grandeui 
of  the  valley  around  Loch  Etive.     Had  M'Culloch  known  the  de- 
tails of  the  noble  romance,  the  traces  of  which  he  still  found  sur 
viving  in  this  retreat  of  the  sons  of  Usnach,  it  might  have  added 
something  to  his  own  enjoyment  of  tlie  scene,  but  it  could  not 
have  increased  the  impress! veness  of  his  description.    "There  is 
a  gigantic  simplicity  about  the  whole  scene,  which  would  render 
the  presence  of  these  objects,  and  of  that  variety  which  constitute 
picturesque  beauty,  intrusive  and  impertinent    I  know  not  il 
Loch  Etive  could  bear  an  ornament  without  an  infringement  on 
that  aspect  of  solitary  vastness  which  it  presents  throughout;  nor 
is  there  ona    The  rocks  and  bays  on  the  shore,  which  might  else- 
where attract  attention,  are  here  swallowed  up  in  the  enorraoui 


POEMS   OF  SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 


607 


"  Echoes  of  the  shout  of  warning  heard  by  Us- 
nach's  exiled  youths, 

When,  between  the  night  and  morning,  sleeping 
in  their  hunting-booths, 

Deirdra  dreamt  the  death-bird  hooted  ;  Neesa, 
waking  wild  with  joy, 

Cried,  '  A  man  of  Erin  shouted  !  welcome  Fer- 
gus, son  of  Roy  !' 

"  Wondrous  shout,  from  whence  repeated,  even 

as  up  the  answering  hills 
Echo's    widening  wave   proceeded,  spreads  the 

sound  of  song  that  fills 
All  the  echoing  waste  of  ages,  tale  and  lay  and 

choral  strain, 
But  the  chief  delight  of  sages  and  of  kings  was 

still  the  Tain, 

u  Made  when  mighty  Maev  invaded  Cuailgnia 

for  her  brown-bright  bull ; 
Fergus  was  the  man  that  made  it,  for  he  saw  the 

war  in  full, 
And  in  Maev's  own  chariot  mounted,  sang  what 

pass'd  before  his  eyes, 
As  you'd   hear  it  now  recounted,  knew   I  but 

where  Fergus  lies. 


dimensions  of  tbe  snrroundinp  mountains,  and  the  wide  and  sim- 
ple expanse  of  tbe  lake.  Here  also,  as  at  Loch  Corn  is  K  and  Olon 
Sanirks.  we  experience  tbe  effect  arising  from  (simplicity  of  form. 
At  the  first  view,  the  whole  expanse  appears  comprised  within  a 
mile  or  two;  nor  is  it  until  we  find  the  extremity  still  remote  and 
misty  as  we  advance,  and  the  aspect  of  every  thins;  remaining  un- 
changed, that  we  begin  to  feel  and  comprehend  tbe  vast  and  over- 
whelming magnitude  of  all  around.  It  Is  hence  also,  perhaps,  as 
In  that  singular  valley  (Glen  Sanicks).  that  there  is  here  that  sense 
of  eternal  silence  and  repose,  as  if  in  this  spot  creation  had  forever 
tlept,  Tbe  billows  that  are  seen  wlii tenlnc  the  shore  are  inaudible, 
the  cascade  pours  down  the  dcHivity  unheard,  and  tbe  clouds  are 
hurried  along  tbe  tops  of  the  mountains  before  the  blast,  hut  no 
sound  of  the  storm  reaches  the  ear.  There  is  something  In  the 
coloring  of  Ibis  spot  which  is  equally  singular,  and  which  adds 
much  to  the  general  sublime  simplicity  of  the  whole.  Rocks  of 
gray  granite,  mixed  with  portions  of  a  subdued  brown,  rise  all 
round  from  the  water's  edge  to  the  summits  of  CrtiHclian  and 
Buaclinlll  Ktive  (i.  «.,  the  Herdsman  of  Etive),  whlcli  last,  liktt  a 
vu~t  pyramid,  crowns  the  whole.  The  unapprehended  distance 
lends  to  these  solar  tints  an  atmospheric  hue  which  seems  as  if  it 
wore  tbe  local  coloring  of  tbe  scenery,  and  this  brings  the  entire 
landscape  to  one  tone  of  sobriety  and  broad  repose.  As  no  form 
protrudes,  HO  no  color  Intrudes  itself  to  break  in  upon  the  consis- 
tency of  the  character;  even  tbe  local  colors  at  our  feet  partake  of 
the  general  tranquillity ;  and  all  around,  water,  rock,  and  bill,  and 
iky,  is  one  broadness  of  peace  and  silence,  a  silence  that  speaks  to 
•.tie  eye  and  to  tbe  mind.  Tbe  sun  shone  bright,  yet  even  tho  snn 
seemed  not  to  shine:  It  was  a.»  if  It  had  never  penetrated  to  thii 
spot  since  the  beginning  of  time;  and.  If  its  beams  glittered  on 
some  gray  rock  or  silvered  the  ripple  of  tbe  shore,  or  tbe  wild- 
flowers  that  peeped  from  beneath  their  mossy  stones,  tbe  effect 
was  lost  amid  tbe  universal  line,  as  of  a  northern  endless  twilight 
that  reigned  around."—  Tour  in  the  Wetttrn  Highland*,  vol  IL 


"  Bear  me  witness,  Giant  Bouchaill,  herdsman  of 

the  mountain  drove, 
How  with  spell  and  spirit-struggle  many  a  mid- 

night hour  I  strove 
Back  to  life  to  call  the  author!  for  before  I'd 

bear  it  said, 
4  Neither  Sanchan  knew  it,'  rather  would  I  learn 

it  from  the  dead  ; 

"Ay,  and  pay  the  dead  their  teaching  with  the 

one  price  spirits  crave, 
When  the  hand  of  magic,  reaching  p;ist  the  bar- 

riers of  the  grave, 
Drags  the  struggling  phantom   lifeward  :  —  but 

the  Ogham  on  his  stone 
Still  must  mock  us  undecipher'd  ;  grave  and  lay 

alike  unknown. 

"  So  that  put  to  shame  the  direst,  here  I  stand 

and  own,  0  King, 
Thou   a  lawful   lay   rcquirest   Sanchan   Torpest 

cannot  sing. 
Take  again  the  gawds  you  gave  me,  —  cup  nor 

crown  no  more  will  I  ;  — 
Son,  from  further  insult  save  me  :  lead  me  hence, 

and  let  me  die." 

Leaning  on  young  Murgen's  shoulder  —  Murgen 

was  his  youngest  son  — 
Jeer'd  of  many  a  lewd  beholder,  Sanchan  from 

the  hall  has  gone  : 
But,  when  now  beyond  Loch  Lurgan,  three  days 

thence  he  reach'd  his  home,1 
"Give    thy    blessing,    Sire,"     said    Murgen.  — 

"  Whither  wouldst  thou,  son  ?"  —  "  To  Rome  ; 

"  Rome,  or,  haply,  Tours  of  Martin  ;  wheresoever 

over  ground 
Hope  can  deem  that  tidings  certain  of  the  lay 

may  yet  be  found." 
Answer'd  Eimena  his  brother,  "Not  alone  thou 

Icav'st  the  west, 
Though  thou  ne'er  shouldst  find  another,  I'll  be 

comrade  of  the  quest." 

Eastward,  breadthwise,  over  Erin   straightway 

travell'd  forth  the  twain, 
Till  with  many  days'  wayfaring  Murgen  fainted 

by  Loch  Ein  : 


>  I.orh  Lnrgan,  tbe  present  Bay  of  Qalway.    Tb«  redden-*  nf 

Bancban  was  In  Bllgo. 


€08 


POEMS   OF  SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 


'  Dear  my  brother,  thou  art  weary  :  I  for  present 

aid  am  flown ; 
Thou  for  my  returning  tarry  here  beside  this 

Standing  Stone." 

Shone  the  sunset,  red  and  solemn  :  Murgen,  where 

he  leant,  observed 
Down  the  corners  of  the  column  letter-strokes 

of  Ogham  carved. 
"  'Tis,  belike,  a  burial  pillar,"  said  he,  "  and  these 

shallow  lines 
Hold    some    warrior's    name  of   valor,   could   I 

rightly  spell  the  signs." 

Letter  then  by  letter  tracing,  soft  he  breathed  the 

sound  of  each  ; 
Sound  and  sound  then   interlacing,  lo,  the  signs 

took  form  of  speech  ; 
Aud  with  joy  and  wonder  mainly  thrilling,  part 

a-thnll  with  fear, 
Murgen  read  the  legend  plainly,  "FERGUS,  SON 

OF  ROY,  is  HEKK." 

*'  Lo,"  said  he,  "  my  quest  is  ended,  knew  I  but 

the  spell  to  say  ; 
Underneath  my  feet  extended,  lies  the  man  that 

made  the  lay : 
Yet,  though  spell   nor  incantation  know  I,  were 

the  words  but  said 
That  could  speak  my  soul's  elation,  I,  mcthinks, 

could  raise  the  dead. 

*•  Be  an  arch-bard's  name  my  warrant.     Murgen, 

son  of  Sanchan,  here, 
Vow'd  upon  a  venturous  errand  to  the  door-sills 

of  Saint  Pierre, 
Where,  beyond    Slieve    Alpa's  barrier,  sits  the 

Coiirb  of  the  keys,1 
I  conjure  thee,  buried  warrior,  rise  and  give  my 

wanderings  ease. 

"'Tis  not  death  whose  forms  appalling  strew  the 

steep  with  pilgrims'  graves, 
Ti*  nut  fear  of  snow-slips  falling,  nor  of  ice-clefts' 

azure  caves 
Daunts  me;  but  I  dread  if  Rorneward  I  must 

travel  till  the  Tain 
Crowns  my  quest,  these  footsteps  homeward  I 

shall  never  turn  a<rain. 


1  Th«  successor  in  an  episcopal  seat  is  designated  Coarb,  as  the 
Coiirb  of  Patrick.  Coarb  of  CoJuiub  Kill.  io. 


"  I   at   parting  left  behind  me  aged  sire  and 

mother  dear ; 
Who  a  parent's  love  shall  find  me  ere  again  I 

ask  it  here  ? 
Dearer  too  than  sire  or  mother,  ah,  how  deal 

these  tears  may  tell, 
I,  at  parting,  left  another  ;  left  a  maid  who  lovei 

me  well. 

"  Ruthful  clay,  thy  rigors  soften  !     Fergus,  hear, 

thy  deaf  heaps  through, 
Thou,  thyself  a  lover  often,  aid  a  lover  young 

and  true  ; 
Thou,  the  favorite  of  maidens,  for  a  fair  young 

maiden's  sake, 
I  conjure  thee  by  the  radiance  of  thy   Nessa'* 

eyes,  awake ! 

"  Needs  there  adjuration  stronger  ?  Fergus,  thou 
hadst  once  a  son  : 

Even  than  I  was  Illan  younger  whpn  the  glori- 
ous feat  was  done, — 

When  in  hall  of  Red  Branch  bid'ng  Deirdra  and 
Clan  Usnach  sate. 

In  thy  guarantee  confiding,  though  the  foe  was 
at  their  gate. 

"Though  their  guards  were  bribed   and   flying, 

and  their  door-posts  wrapp'd  in  flame, 
Calmly  on  thy  word  relying  bent  they  o'er  the 

chessman  game, 
Till  with  keen  words  sharp  and  grievous  Deirdra 

cried  through  smoke  and  fire, 
'  See  the  sons  of  Fergus  leave  us :  traitor  sons 

of  traitor  sire  !' 

"  Mild  the  eyes  that  did  upbraid  her,  when  young 

Illan  rose  and  spake — 
'  If  my  father  be  a  traitor  ;  if  my  brother  for  the 


Of  a  bribe  bewray  his  virtue,  yet  while  lives  the 

sword  I  hold, 
Illau  Finn  will  not  desert  you,  not  for  fire  and 

not  for  gold  !' 

"  And  as  hawk  that  strikes  on  pigeons,  sped  on 

wrath's  unswerving  wing 
Through  the  tyrant's  leaguering  legions,  smiting 

chief  and  smiting  king, 
Smote  he  full  on  Conor's  gorget,  till  ihe  waves 

of  welded  steel 
Round  the  monarch's  magic  target  rang  their 

loudest  'larum  peal. 


POEMS   OF  SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 


G09 


"Rang  the  disc  where  wizard  hammers,  miugling 

iu  the  wavy  field, 
Tempest-wail  aud  breaker-clamors,  forged    the 

wondrous  Ocean  shield, 
Answering  to  whose  stormy  noises,  oft  as  clang'd 

by  deadly  blows, 
All  the  echoing  kindred  voices  of  the  seas  of  Erin 

rose. 


a  Moan'd   each    sea-chafed  promontory ;    soar'd 

and  wail'd  white  Cleena's  wave ;' 
Rose  the  Tonn  of  Inver  Rory,  and  through  col- 

umn'd  chasm  and  cave 
Reaching  deep  with  roll  of  anger,  till  Dunsever- 

ick's  dungeons  reel'd, 
Roai'd  responsive  to  the  clangor  struck  from 

Conor's  magic  shield. 

*'  Ye,  remember,  red  wine  quaffing  in  Dunsever- 

ick's  halls  of  glee, 
Heard  the  moaning,  heard  the  chafing,  heard  the 

thundering  from  the  sea  ; 
Knew  that  peril  compass'd  Conor,  came,  and  on 

Emania's  plain 
Found  his  fraud  and  thy  dishonor;  Deirdra  rav- 

ish'd,  Ulan  slain. 


"  Now,  by  love  of  son  for  father, — son,  who  ere 

he'd  hear  it  said — 
1  Neither  Sanchan  knew  it,'  rather  seeks  to  learn 

it  from  the  dead  ; 
Rise,  and  give  me  back  the  story  that  the  twin 

gold  cups  shall  win  ; 
Rise,  recount  the  great  Cow-Foray  !  rise  for  love 

of  Ulan  Finn  ! 


>  In  the  Irish  triads — compositions  In  the  Welsh  taste— the  three 
waves  (tonnu)  of  Erin  are,  "the  wave  of  Tuath,  and  the  wave  of 
Cleena.  and  the  fishy-streaming  wave  of  Inver-Eory."  The  site 
of  the  first  Is  supposed  to  be  the  great  strand  of  the  bay  of  Dun- 
dalle  ;  that  of  the  wave  of  Cleena  (cliod/ina)  is  Glandore  Harbor, 
In  the  County  of  Cork.  "  It  emanates  from  the  eastern  side  of  the 
barlxir'h  en  trance,  where  the  cliffs  facing  the  south  and  southwest 
are  hollowed  into  caverns,  of  which  Dean  Swift  has  given  In  his 
poem,  Carberia  Rupes,  an  accurate,  though  general,  description. 
When  the  wind  is  northeast,  off  shore,  the  waves  resounding  In 
these  caverns  send  forth  a  deep,  loud,  hollow,  monotonous  roar, 
which  in  a  calm  night  is  peculiarly  Impressive  on  the  imagination, 
producing  sensations  either  of  melancholy  or  fear." — O'Donovan, 
Annal*  of  the  Four  McuUrt,  A.  D.  1657.  The  wave  of  Inver-Kory 
is  now  represented  by  the  "Toons,"  which  send  forth  their  warn- 
ing voices  in  almost  all  weathers,  from  the  strand  of  Magilligan, 
nenr  the  mouth  of  the  river  Bann.  The  sympathy  between  the 
royal  shield  and  the  surrounding  seas  of  the  kingdom  Is  one  of 
those  original  fancies  only  to  be  found  amongst  a  primitive  and 
bljbJy  poetic  people. 


"  Still   he  stirs  not.     Love   of  woman  thou   re- 

gard'st  not,  Fergus,  now  : 
Love  of  children,  instincts  human,  care  for  these 

no  more  hast  thou  : 
Wider  comprehensions,   deeper  insights  to  the 

dead  belong : — 
Since  for   Love   thou  wakest  not,  sleeper,  yet 

awake  for  sake  of  Song ! 

"  Thou,  the  first  in  rhythmic  cadence  dressing 

life's  discordant  tale, 
Wars  of  chiefs  and  loves  of  maidens,  gavest  the 

Poem  to  the  Gael ; 
Now  they've  lost  their  noblest  measure,  and  in 

dark  days  hard  at  hand, 
Song  shall  be  the  only  treasure  left  them  in  their 

native  land. 

"  Not  for  selfish  gawds  or  baubles  dares  my  soul 

disturb  the  graves  : 
Love  consoles,  but  song  ennobles  ;  songless  men 

are  meet  for  slaves  : 
Fergus,  for  the  Gael's  sake,  waken  !     never  let 

the  scornful  Gauls 
'Mongst  our  land's  reproaches  reckon  lack  of  Song 

within  our  halls  !" 

Fergus  rose.  A  mist  ascended  with  him,  and  a 
flash  was  seen 

As  of  brazen  sandals  blended  with  a  mantle'* 
wafture  green  ; 

But  so  thick  the  cloud  closed  o'er  him,  Eimena, 
return'd  at  last, 

Found  not  on  the  field  before  him  but  a  mist- 
heap  gray  and  vast. 

Thrice  to  pierce  the  hoar  recesses  faithful  Eimena 

essay'd ; 
Thrice  through  foggy  wildernesses  back  to  open 

air  he  stray'd  ; 
Till  a  deep  voice  through  the  vapors  fill'd  the 

twilight  far  and  near, 
And  the  Night  her  starry  tapers  kindling,  stoop'd 

from  heaven  to  hear. 

Seem'd  as  though  the  skicy  Shepherd  back  to 

earth  had  cast  the  fleece 
Envying  gods  of  old  caught  upward  from   the 

darkening  shrines  of  Greece; 
So  the  white  mists  curl'd  and  glisten'd,  so  from 

heaven's  expanses  bare, 
Stars  enlarging  lean'd   and   listen'd   down    tL« 

emptied  depths  of  air. 


610 


POEMS   OF   SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 


All  night  long  by  mists  surrounded  Murgen  lay 

in  vapory  bars ; 
All  night  long  the  deep  voice  sounded  'neath  the 

keen,  enlarging  stars  : 
But  when,  on  the  orient  verges,  stars  grew  dim 

and  mists  retired, 
Rising  by  the  stone  of  Fergus,  Murgen  stood,  a 

man  inspired. 

"  Back  to   Sanchan  ! — Father,  hasten,  ere  the 

hour  of  power  be  past ; 
Ask  not  how  obtain'd,  but  listen  to  the  lost  lay 

found  at  last !" 
u  Yea,  these  words  have  tramp  of  heroes  in  them  ; 

and  the  marching  rhyme 
Rolls  the  voices  of  the  Eras  down  the  echoing 

steeps  of  Time." 

Not  till  all  was  thrice  related,  thrice  recital  full 

essay 'd, 
Sad  and  shame-faced,  worn  and  faded,  Murgen 

sought  the  faithful  maid. 
"  Ah,  so  haggard  ;  ah,  so  altered ;  thou  in  life 

and  love  so  strong  !" 
"  Dearly  purchased,"  Murgen  falter'd,  "  life  and 

love  I've  sold  for  song  !" 

"  Woe  is  me,  the  losing  bargain  !  what  can  song 

the  dead  avail  ?" 
"  Fame  immortal,"  murmur'd  Murgen,  "  long  as 

lay  delights  the  Gael." 
"  Fame,  alas  !  the  price  thou  chargest  not  repays 

one  virgin  tear." 
"Yet  the  proud  revenge  I've  purchased  for  my 

sire  I  deem  not  dear." 

So,  again  to  Gort  the  splendid,  when  the  drink- 
ing boards  were  spread, 

Sanchan,  as  of  old  attended,  came  and  sat  at 
table-head. 

"  Bear  the  cup  to  Sanchan  Torpest :  twin  gold 
goblets,  Bard,  are  thiue, 

If  with  voice  and  string  thou  harpest,  Tain-Bo- 
Cuailgne,  line  for  line." 

"  Yea,  with  voice  and  string  I'll  chant  it."  Mur- 
gen to  his  father's  knee 

Set  the  harp  :  no  prelude  wanted,  Sanchan  struck 
the  master  key, 

And,  as  bursts  the  brimful  river  all  at  once  from 
caves  of  Cong, 

Forth  at  once,  and  once  forever,  leap'd  the  tor- 
rent of  the  song, 


Floating  on  a  brimful  torrent,  men  g.o  down  and 

banks  go  by : 
Caught  adown  the  lyric  current,  Guary,  captured,. 

ear  and  eye, 
Heard   no  more  the  courtiers   jeering,  saw  nu 

more  the  walls  of  Gort, 
Creeve  Roe's  meads  instead  appearing,  and  Ema- 

nia's  royal  fort. 

Vision  chasing  spiendid   vision,   Sanchan   roll'd 

the  rhythmic  scene; 
They  that  mock'd  in  lewd  derision,  now,  at  gaze, 

with  wondering  mien, 
Sate,   and,  as   the   glorying  master   sway'd   the 

tightening  reins  of  song, 
Felt  emotion's  pulses  faster — fancies  faster  bound 

along. 

Pity  dawn'd  on  savage  faces,  when  for  love  of 

captive  Crunn, 
Macha,  in  the  ransom-races,  girt  her  gravid  loins, 

to  run1 


1  No  more  striking  Instance  of  the  cruelty  of  savage  manners 
can  be  conceived  than  this  story  of  Macha,  which  is  told  with 
much  pathetic  force  and  simplicity  in  a  poem  in  the  Dinnsenc/uit, 
one  of  the  tracts  preserved  in  the  Book  of  Lecan,  in  the  B^rgi 
Irish  Academy.  The  Dinnsenchas  itself  is  alleged  to  be,  iu  j'.»rt 
at  least,  a  compilation  ~i  the  Sixth  Century. 

One  day  thei  >^ame  with  glowing  soul, 

To  the  assembl)  of  Conchobar, 

The  gifted  man  horn  the  eastern  wave, 

Crunn  of  the  flocks,  son  of  Adnoman. 
It  was  then  were  brousht 

Two  steeds  to  which  I  see  no  equals, 

Into  the  race-course,  without  concealment 

At  which  the  King  of  Uladh  then  presided. 
Although  there  were  not  the  peers  of  these 

Upon  the  plain,  of  a  yoke  of  steeds, 

Crunn,  the  rash  hairy  man.  said 

That  his  wife  was  tleeter,  though  then  pregnant 
Detain  ye  the  truthful  man. 

Said  Conor,  the  chief  of  battles, 

Until  bis  famous  wife  comes  here, 

To  nobly  run  with  my  great  steeds. 
Let  one  man  go  forth  to  bring  her, 

Said  the  king  of  levelled  stout  spears, 

Till  she  comes  from  the  wavy  sea, 

To  save  the  wise-spoken  Crunn. 
The  woman  reached,  without  delay, 

The  assembly  of  the  greatly  wounding  chief*. 

Her  two  names  in  Mm  west,  without  question. 

Were  Bright  Grian  and  Pure  Macha. 
Her  father  was  not  weak  in  his  house, 

Midir  of  Bri  Leith,  son  of  Celtchar  ; 

In  his  mansion  in  the  west, 

She  was  the  sun  of  women-assemblies 
When  she  had  come — in  sobbing  words, 

She  begged  immediately  for  respite, 

From  the  host  of  assembled  clans, 

Until  the  time  of  her  delivery  was  past. 
The  Ultonians  gave  their  plighted  w..rd. 

Should  she  not  run — no  idle  boast — 

That  he  should  not  have  a  prosperous  relpv 

From  tt  e  hosts  of  swords  and  spears. 


POEMS  OF  SAMUEL   FERGUSON. 


(511 


'Gainst   the  fleet  Ultonian   horses ;  and,   when 

Deirdra  on  the  road 
Headlong  dash'd  her  'mid  the  corses,  brimming 

eyelids  overflow'd. 

Light  of  manhood's  generous  ardor,  under  brows 

relaxing  shone ; 
When,  mid-ford,  on  Uladh's   border,  young  Cu- 

ehullin  stood  alone, 
Macv  and  all  her  hosts  withstanding: — "Now, 

for  love  of  knightly  play, 
Yield  the  youth  his  soul's  demanding ;  let  the 

hosts  their  marchiugs  stay, 

44  Till  the  death  he  craves  be  given ;  and,  upon 

his  burial-stone 
Champion-praises  duly  graven,  make  his  name 

and  glory  known  ; 
For,  in  speech-containing  token,  age  to  ages  never 

gave 
Salutation  better  spoken,  than,  'Behold  a  hero's 

grave.  " 

What,  another  and  another,  and  he  still  for  com- 
bat calls  ? 

Ah,  the  lot  on  thee,  his  brother  sworn  in  arms, 
Ferdia,  falls; 

And  the  hall  with  wild  applauses  sobb'd  like 
women  ere  they  wist, 

When  the  champions  in  the  pauses  of  the  deadly 
combat  kiss'd. 

Now,  for  love  of  land  and  cattle,  while  Cuchullin 

in  the  fords 
Stays  the  march  of  Connauglit's  battle,  ride  and 

rouse  the  Northern  Lords  ; 


Then  strict  the  fleet  and  silent  dame, 
A  ml  mM  IUIIM  her  bair  around  her  howl, 
An. I  utarleil,  without  terror  or  fail, 
To  join  la  tlie  race,  but  not  its  pleasure. 

The  needs  were  brought  to  her  eastern  side, 
To  urge  them  past  her  In  mini  HIT  liko; 
To  the  Ultonlsns  of  accustomed  victory, 
The  gnllant  riders  were  men  of  kin. 

Although  the  monarch's  bleed*  were  swifter 
At  nil  times  In  the  unlive  race. 
The  woman  was  fleeter,  with  no  great  effort. 
The  monarch's  steeds  were  then  the  slower. 

As  she  reached  the  linul  iriml. 
Ami  nobly  won  the  ample  pledge, 
Sim  brought  forth  twin*  without  delay, 
Itofore  tin-  bust*  of  the  Ucd  Branch  fort, 

A  son  and  a  daughter  together. 


She  left*  long-abiding  curse 
On  the  chiefs  uf  the  Ked  Brtnch 


«'  >iurche»  qf  Armagh,  App.,  p.  42. 


Swift  as  angry  eagles  wing  them  toward  the  plun- 

der'd  eyrie's  call, 
Thronging  from   Dun  Dealga1  bring  them,  bring 

them  from  the  Red  Branch  hall  ! 

Heard    ye   not  the  tramp  of  armies?     Ilark! 

amid  the  sudden  gloom, 
'Twas  the  stroke  of  ConalPs  war-mace  sounded 

through  the  startled  room  ; 
And,  while  still  the  hall  grew  darker,  king  and 

courtier,  chill'd  with  dread, 
Heard  the  rattling  of  the  war-car  of  Cuchullin 

overhead. 

Half  in  wonder,  half  in  terror,  loth  to  suiy  and 
loth  to  fly, 

Seem'd  to  each  beglamor'd  hearer  shades  of  kings 
went  thronging  by  : 

But  the  troubled  joy  of  wonder  merged  at  last 
in  mastering  fear, 

As  they  heard,  through  pealing  thunder,  "Fer- 
gus, son  of  Roy,  is  here  !" 

Brazen-sandall'd,  vapor-shrouded,  moving  in  an 

icy  blast, 
Through   the   doorway  terror-crowded,  up  the 

tables  Fergus  pass'd  : — 
"  Stay  thy  hand,  0  harper,  pardon !  cease  the 

•wild  unearthly  lay ! 
Mnrgen,  bear  thy  sire  his  guerdon."     Murgcn 

sat,  a  shape  of  clay. 

"Bear  him  on  his  bier  beside  me  :  never  more  5ft 

halls  of  Gort 
Shall  a  niggard  king  deride  me ;  slaves,  of  Sau- 

chan  make  their  sport ! 
But  because  the  maiden's  yearnings  needs  must 

also  be  condoled, 
Hers  shall  be  the  dear-bought  earnings,  hers  th* 

twin-bright  cups  of  gold." 

"  Cups,"  she  cried,  "  of  bitter  drinking,  fling  them 

far  as  arm  can  throw  ! 
Let  them,  in  the  ocean  sinking,  out  of  sight  and 

memory  go ! 


,  giving  name  to  Dandalk.  the  resident*  of  Co- 
rhullin.  There  are  few  better  Hvertulned  .»itc«  in  lrlr>h  li.poirraphy 
than  that  of  the  actual  plbc«  of  abode  of  this  II.T...  Ill*  the  great 
earthen  mound,  now  calle<l  the  t  ••town,  which  MM* 

imi'ly  over  the  woods  of  Lord   l;."l<-:i>  <!rtiie«n«  un  to* 
left  of  the  tr  •.  _-  I  nitiilaik  f»r  Uie  north. 


612 


POEMS   OF  SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 


Let  the  joinings  of  the  rhythm,  let  the  links  of 

sense  and  sound 
Of  the  Tain-Bo  perish  with  them,  lost  as  though 

they'd  ne'er  been  found  !" 

So  it  comes,  the  lay,  recover'd  once  at  such  a 
deadly  cost, 

Ere  one  full  recital  suffer'd,  once  again  is  all  but 
lost : 

For,  the  maiden's  malediction  still  with  many  a 
blemish-stain 

•Clings  in  coarser  garb  of  fiction  round  the  frag- 
ments that  remain. 


THE  ABDICATION    OF   FERGUS 
MAC  ROY. 

ONCE,  ere  God  was  crucified, 
I  was  King  o'er  Uladh  wide  : 
King,  by  law  of  choice  and  birth, 
O'er  the  fairest  realm  of  Earth. 

i  was  head  of  Rury's  race  ; 
Emain  was  my  dwelling-place  ;' 
Right  and  Might  were  mine ;  nor  less 
Stature,  strength,  and  comeliness. 

Neither  lack'd  I  love's  delight, 
Nor  the  glorious  meeds  of  fight. 
All  on  earth  was  mine  could  bring 
Life's  enjoyment  to  a  king. 


1  The  petty  kings  of  Uladb  (Ulster),  who  reigned  at  Emania, 
claimed  to  derive  their  pedigree  through  Rory  More,  of  the  line 
of  Ir,  one  of  the  fabled  sons  of  Milesius,  as  other  provincial  Reguli 
traced  theirs  to  Eber  and  Heremon.  A  list,  of  thirty-one  of  these 
occupants  of  Emania  before  its  destruction,  in  A..  D.  332,  compiled 
from  the  oldest  of  tlie  Irish  annals,  has  been  published  by  O'Conor 
(Rer.  Hib.  SS.,  vol.  ii.,  p.  66),  in  which  Fergus,  son  of  Leide,  the 
fourteenth  in  succession  from  Cimbaeth,  the  founder,  has  twelve 
years  assigned  to  him.  ending  in  the  year  B.  o.  31 ;  after  whom 
appears  Conor,  son  of  Nessa,  having  a  reign  of  sixty  years. 

Dr.  Beeves,  in  his  learned  tract,  "  The  Ancient  Churches  of  Ar- 
magh," has  collected  the  native  evidences  of  the  early  existence  of 
Emania,  and  of  the  transition  of  its  original  name  Emain  (ap- 
pearing as  ffewynna  in  1374,  as  JSawayn  in  1524,  and  Jf-awan  in 
1683)  into  its  present  corrupt  form  of  "  the  Navan."  The  remains, 
situata  in  the  townland  of  Navan,  and  parish  of  Eglish,  about  two 
miles  west  from  Armagh,  are  now  becoming  rapidly  obliterated. 
A  few  years  ago.  the  external  circumvallation,  enclosing  a  space 
of  about  twelve  acres,  was  complete.  Now,  through  one-third  of 
the  circuit,  the  rampart  has  been  levelled  into  the  ditch,  and  tlie 
surface  submitted  to  the  plough.  Application  was  made  in  vain 
to  those  who  might  have  stayed  the  destruction  :  they  could  not 
be  induced  to  believe  that  any  historic  monument  worth  preserv- 
ing existed  in  Ireland.  Yet  a  place  with  a  definite  history  of  six 
hundred  years  ending  in  the  Fourth  Century  of  the  Christian  era, 
I*  not  easily  fcraid  elsewhere  on  this  side  of  the  Alps. 


Much  I  loved  the  jocund  chase, 
Much  the  horse  and  chariot  race  : 
Much  I  loved  the  deep  carouse, 
Quaffing  in  the  Red  Branch  House.' 

But,  in  Council  call'd  to  meet, 
Loved  I  not  the  judgment-seat ; 
And  the  suitors'  questions  hard 
Won  but  scantly  my  regard. 

Rather  would  I,  all  alone, 
Care  and  state  behind  me  thrown, 
Walk  the  dew  through  showery  gleam* 
O'er  the  meads,  or  by  the  streams, 

Chanting,  as  the  thoughts  might  rise, 
Unimagined  melodies ; 
While  with  sweetly-pungent  smart 
Secret  happy  tears  would  start. 

Such  was  I,  when,  in  the  dance, 
Nessa  did  bestow  a  glance, 
Ami  my  soul  that  moment  took 
Captive  in  a  single  look. 

I  am  but  an  empty  shade, 
Far  from  life  and  passion  laid  ; 
Yet  does  sweet  remembrance  thrill 
All  my  shadowy  being  still. 

Nessa  had  been  Fathna's  spouse, 
Fathna  of  the  Royal  house, 
And  a  beauteous  boy  had  borne  him 
Fourteen  summers  did  adorn  him  : 

Yea  ;  thou  deem'st  it  marvellous, 
That  a  widow's  glance  should  thus 
Turn  from  lure  of  maidens'  eyes 
All  a  young  king's  fantasies. 

Yet  if  thou  hadst  known  but  half 
Of  the  joyance  of  her  laugh, 
Of  the  measures  of  her  walk, 
Of  the  music  of  her  talk, 

Of  the  witch'ry  of  her  wit, 
Even  when  smarting  under  it, — 
Half  the  sense,  the  charm,  the  grace, 
Thou  hadst  worshipp'd  in  my  place. 


a  This  appears  to  have  been  a  detached  fortress,  in  the  nature  at 
a  military  barrack  and  hospital,  depending  on  the  principal  fort 
The  townland  of  Creeve  Roe,  i.  «.,  "  Ked  Branch,"  adjoining  tb« 
Navan  on  the  west,  still  preserves  the  name. 


POEMS   OF  SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 


613 


And,  besides,  the  thoughts  I  wove 
Into  songs  of  war  and  love, 
She  alone  of  all  the  rest 
Felt  them  with  a  perfect  z«st. 

"  Lady,  in  thy  smiles  to  live 
Tell  me  but  the  boon  to  give, 
Yea,  I  lay  in  gift  complete 
Crown  and  sceptre  at  thy  feet" 

"  Not  so  great  the  boon  I  crave  : 
Hear  the  wish  my  soul  would  have ;" 
And  she  glanced  a  loving  eye 
On  the  stripling  standing  by  : — 

"  Conor  is  of  age  to  learn  ; 
Wisdom  is  a  king's  concern  ; 
Conor  is  of  royal  race, 
Yet  may*sit  in  Fathna's  place. 

"  Therefore,  king,  if  thou  wouldst  prove 
That  I  have  indeed  thy  love, 
On  the  judgment-seat  permit 
Conor  by  thy  side  to  sft, 

"That  by  use  the  youth  may  draw 
Needful  knowledge  of  the  Law." 
I  with  answer  was  not  slow, 
"  Be  thou  mine,  and  be  it  so." 

I  am  but  a  shape  of  air, 
Far  removed  from  love's  repair; 
Yet,  were  mine  a  living  frame 
Once  again,  I'd  say  the  same. 

Thus,  a  prosperous  wooing"  sped, 
Took  I  Nessa  to  my  bed, 
While  in  council  and  debate 
Conor  daily  by  me  sate. 

Modest  was  his  mien  in  sooth, 
Beautiful  the  studious  youth, 
Questioning  with  earnest  gaze 
All  the  reasons  and  the  ways 

In  the  which,  and  why  because, 
Kings  administer  the  Laws. 
Silent  so  with  looks  intent 
Sat  he  till  the  year  was  spent. 

But  the  strifes  the  suitors  raised 
Bred  me  daily  more  distaste, 
Every  faculty  and  passion 
Sunk  in  sweet  intoxication. 


Till  upon  a  day  in  court 
Rose  a  plea  of  weightier  sort : 
Tangled  as  a  briery  thicket 
Were  the  rights  and  wrongs  intricate 

Which  the  litigants  disputed, 
Challenged,  mooted,  and  confuted  ; 
Till,  when  all  the  plea  was  ended, 
Naught  at  all  I  comprehended. 

Scorning  an  affected  show 
Of  the  thing  I  did  not  know, 
Yet  my  own  defect  to  hide, 
I  said,  "  Boy-judge,  thou  decide." 
/ 

Conor,  with  unalter'd  mien, 
In  a  clear  sweet  voice  serene, 
Took  in  hand  the  tangled  skein 
And  began  to  make  it  plain. 

As  a  sheep-dog  sorts  his  cattle, 
As  a  king  arrays  his  battle, 
So,  the  facts  on  either  side 
He  did  marshal  and  divide. 

Every  branching  side-dispute 
Traced  he  downward  to  the  root 
Of  the  strife's  main  stem,  and  there 
Laid  the  ground  of  difference  bare. 

Then  to  scope  of  either  cause 
Set  the  compass  of  the  laws, 
This  adopting,  that  rejecting, — 
Reasons  to  a  head  collecting, — 

O* 

As  a  charging  cohort  <;oes 
Through  and  over  scatter'cl  foes, 
So,  from  point  to  point,  he  brought 
Onward  still  the  weight  of  thought 

Through  all  error  and  confusion, 
Till  he  set  the  clear  conclusion 
Standing  like  a  king  alone, 
All  things  adverse  overthrown, 

And  gave  judgment  clear  and  sound  :— 
Praises  fill'd  the  hall  around  ; 
Yea,  the  man  that  lost  the  cause 
Ilardly  could  withhold  applause. 

By  the  wondering  crowd  surrounded, 
1  >:it  shamefaced  and  confounded. 
Euvious  ire  awhile  oppress'd  me 
Till  the  nobler  thought  possess' u  me ; 


614 


POEMS  OF  SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 


And  I  ros-?,  and  on  my  feet 
Standing  by  the  judgment- seat, 
Took  the  circlet  from  my  head, 
Laid  it  on  the  bench,  and  said — 

"Men  of  Uladh,  I  resign 

That  which  is  not  rightly  mine, 

That  a  worthier  than  I 

May  your  judge's  place  supply. 

"  Lo,  it  is  no  easy  thing 
For  a  man  to  be  a  king 
Judging  well,  as  should  behoove 
One  who  claims  a  people's  love. 

u  Uladh's  judgmeiU-seat  to  fill 
I  have  neither  wit  nor  will. 
One  is  here  may  justly  claim 
Both  the  function  and  the  name. 

"  Conor  is  of  royal  blood  ; 
Fair  he  is ;  I  trust  him  good  ; 
Wise  he  is  we  all  may  say 
Who  have  heard  his  words  to-d;iy. 

"  Take  him  therefore  in  my  room, 
Letting  me  the  place  assume — 
Office  but  with  life  to  end — 
Of  his  councillor  and  friend." 

So  young  Conor  gain'd  the  crown  ; 
So  I  laid  the  kingship  down  ; 
Laying  with  it,  as  it  went, 
All  I  knew  of  discontent. 


TB  E  HEALING  OF  CON  ALL  CARNACH. 

Conor  is  said  to  have  heard  of  the  Passion  of  our  Lord  from  > 
Kotnan  captain  sent  to  demand  tribute  at  Emania.  He  died  of  a 
wound  inflicted  by  Keth,  son  of  Mazach,  and  nephew  of  Maev, 
•with  a  ball  from  a  sling;  having  been  inveigled  within  reach  of 
the  missile  by  certain  Connatight  ladies.  His  son,  Forbaid,  char- 
acteristically avenged  his  death  by  the  assassination  of  Maev,  -whom 
he  slew,  also  with  a  sling,  across  the  Shannon,  while  she  was  in 
the  act  of  bathing.  Notwithstanding  the  repulsive  character  of 
many  of  the  acts  ascribed  to  Conor,  such  as  the  cruel  enforcement 
of  the  foot-race  upon  Macba  (O  Mcentiamfuroris,  ceyrae  reipub- 
UT.<JB  gemitu  prosequendam  /)'  and  the  betrayal  of  the  sons  of 
Usnach,  and  abduction  of  Deirdra,  the  best  part  of  Irish  heroic 
tradition  connects  itself  with  his  reign  and  period,  preceding  by 
nearly  three  centuries  the  epoch  of  Cormac  Mac  Art,  and  tho 
Fenian  or  Irish  Ossianic  romances.  The  survivor  of  the  men  of 
renown  of  Conor's  era  was  Conall  Carnach,  the  hero  of  many  pic- 
turesque legends,  one  of  the  most  remarkable  of  which  affords  the 
groundwork  for  tho  following  verses. 


1  Val.  Max.,  lib.  is.,  De  Improb.  diet,  etfaat. 


O'ER  Slieve  Few,4  with  noiseless  tramping  through 

the  heavy-drifted  snow, 
Bealcu,"  Connacia's  champion,    in    his   chario* 

tracks  the  foe  ; 
And  anon  far  off  discerneth,  in  the  mountain- 

hollow  white, 
Slinger  Keth  and  Conall  Carnach  mingling,  hand 

to  hand,  in  fight. 

Swift  the  charioteer  his  coursers  urged  across  the 

wintry  glade  : 
Hoarse  the  cry  of  Keth  and  hoarser  seem'd  tc 

come  demanding  aid ; 
But  through  wreath  and  swollen  runnel  ere  the 

car  could  reach  anigh, 
Keth  lay  dead,  and  mighty  Conall  bleeding  lay 

at  point  to  die. 

• 

Whom  beholding  spent  and  pallid,  Bealcu  exult- 
ing cried, 

"Oh,thou  ravening  wolf  of  Uladh,  where  is  now 
thy  northern  pride  ? 

What  can  now  that  crest  audacious,  what  that 
pale,  defiant  brow, 

Once  the  bale-star  of  Connacia's  ravaged  fields, 

O 

avail  thee  now  ?" 

"Taunts  are  for  reviling  women,"  faintly  Conall 

made  reply  : 
"  Wouldst  thou  play  the   manlier   foeman,  end 

my  pain  and  let  me  die. 
Neither  deem  thy  blade   dishonor'd   that   with 

Keth's  a  deed  it  share, 
For  the  foremost  two  of  Connaught  feat  enough 

and  fame  to  spare." 

u  No,  I  will  not !  bard  shall  never  in  Dunseverick 

hall  make  boast 
That  to  quell  one  northern  riever  needed  two  o( 

Croghan's  host.4 
But  because  that  word  thou'st  spoken,  if  but  life 

enough  remains, 
Thou  shalt  hear  the  wives  of  Croghan  clap  their 

hands  above  thv  chains. 


*  A  mountainous  district,  the  name  of  which  is  preserved  in  the 
baronies  of  Upper  and  Lower  Fews,  on  the  borders  of  the  connt'ea 
of  Louth  and  Armagh,  the  scene  of  many  of  the  northern  bardic 
romances. 

*  Pronounced  Baynl-ku. 

4  Rath  Croghan.  the  residence  of  the  Regull  of  Connaught, 
erected  by  Eochaid,  father  of  Maev.  Its  remains,  including  ston«t 
inscribed  in  the  Ogham  character,  and  apparently  of  coeval  data, 
exist  two  miles  northwest  of  Tulsk,  in  the  county  Roscommou. 


POEMS   OF   SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 


615 


44  Yea,  if  life  enough  but  linger,  that  the  leech 

may  make  thee  whole, 
Meet  to  satiate  the  anger  that  beseems  a  warrior's 

soul, 
Best  of  leech-craft  I'll  purvey  thee;  make  thee 

whole  as  healing  can  ; 
And  in  single  combat  slay  thee,  Connaught  man 

to  Ulster  man." 

Binding  him  in  five-fold  fetter,1  wrists  and  ankles, 

wrists  and  neck, 
To  bis  car's  uneasy  litter  Bealcu  upheaved  the 

wreck 
Of  the  broken  man  and  harness  ;  but  he  started 

with  amaze 
When  he  felt  the  northern  war-mace,  what  a 

weight  is  was  to  raise. 

Westward  then  through  Breiffny's  borders,  with 

his  captive  and  his  dead, 
Track'd  by  bands  of  fierce  applauders,  wives  and 

shrieking  widows,  sped ; 
And  the  chain'd  heroic  carcass  on  the  fair-green 

of  Moy  SI  aught* 
Casting  down,  proclaim'd  his  purpose,  and  bade 

Lee  the  leech  be  brought. 


1  This,  in  the  expressive  form  of  the  Irish  idiom,  is  termed  "the 
fettering  of  the  five  smalls."  The  quaint  translator  of  Keating 
(MS.  Lib.  R.  I.  A.I  thus  describes  the  performance  of  a  similar 
operation  on  Cuchnllin  by  the  hero  Curoi,  from  whom  he  bad 
carried  off  the  beautiful  Blanaid :  "  dairy  forthwith  pursued  him 
Into  Mounster,  and  overtaking  them  both  at  Sallchoyde,  the  two 
matchless  (but  of  themselves)  champions  edged  of  either  syde  by 
the  stinze  of  love  towards  Blanait,  and  impatient,  each,  of  the 
competition  of  a  corrival  about  her,  fell  to  a  single  combat  in  her 
presence,  which  soe  succeeded  (as  the  victory  in  duells  tryed  out 
to  a  pointe  usually  fallcth  out  of  one  Me)  that  Chury,  favoured  by 
fortune,  and  not  inferior  for  valour  to  any  that  till  that  time  ever 
U|xm  equal!  tearmes  inett  him,  gaining  the  upperhnnd  of  Cuchul- 
luynn,  he  bound  him  upp  hand  andfootew\th  such  npfrliyation 
that,  tryiiiinlng  of  bis  tresses  with  his  launce.  (a*  a  marko  of  his 
further  disgrace  and  discomfiture),  he  took  Blannait  from  thence 
quietly  into  West  Mounster."  Elsewhere  be  uses  the  forcible  ex- 
pression in  reference  to  the  same  proceeding — "leaving  him  so 
)ug<im«nted,  he  went,"  Ac.  Of  all  the  translations  of  Keating, 
this  has  most  of  the  characteristic  simplicity  and  quaintness  of  the 
Irish  Herodotus. 

a  A  very  ancient  place  of  assembly  among  the  Pagan  Irish,  and 
scene  of  the  worship  of  their  reputed  principal  idol,  called  Crom 
Cruach.  From  the  story  of  Crom's  overthrow  by  Saint  Patrick, 
found  In  what  is  called  the  tripartite  life  of  the  saint,  It  would  ap- 
pear that  the  stones  which  represented  Croin  and  his  twelve  In- 
ferior demons  were  still  in  aitu  at  the  time  of  the  composition  of 
that  work,  which  Is  said  to  be  of  the  Sixth  Century.  "When 
Patrick  saw  the  idol  from  the  water,  which  Is  called  Guttiard,  and 
irhen  he  approached  near  the  Idol,  he  raised  his  arm  to  lay  the 
«taff  of  Jesus  on  him,  and  It  did  not  reach  him,  he  (I.  e.,  Crom) 
bent  back  from  the  attempt  upon  his  right  side;  for  It  was  to  the 
south  bis  face  was:  and  the  mark  of  the  staff  lives  (exists)  on  bis 
left  side  still,  although  the  staff  did  not  leave  Patrick's  hand  ;  and 
the  earth  swallowed  the  other  twelve  Idols  to  their  heads;  and 
•i«v  ar«  in  that  condition  In  commemoration  of  the  miracle:"  a 


Lee,  the  gentle-faced  physician  fr.m  his  henU- 

plot  came,  and  said — 
"Healing  is  with  God's  permission  :  health  for 

life's  enjoyment  made  : 
And  though  I  mine  aid  refuse  not,  yet,  to  speak 

my  purpose  plain, 
1  the  healing  art  abuse  not,  making  life  enure  to 

pain. 

"  But  assure  me,  with  the  sanction  of  the  might- 
iest oath  ye  know, 

That  in  case,  in  this  contention,  Conall  overcome 
his  foe, 

Straight  departing  from  the  tournay  by  what 
path  the  chief  shall  choose, 

He  is  free  to  take  his  journey  unmolested  to  the 
Fews. 

"  Swear  me  further,  while  at  healing  in  my  charge 

the  hero  lies, 
None  shall,  through  my  fences  stealing,  work  him 

mischief  or  surprise; 
So,  if  God  the  undertaking  but  approve,  in  six 

months'  span 
Once  again  my  art  shall  make  him  meet  to  stand 

before  a  man  r 


Crom  their  God  they  then  attested,  Sun    and 

Wind  for  guarantees, 
Conall   Carnach   unmolested,  by  what  exit   he 

might  please, 
If   the  victor,  should  have   freedom   to  depart 

Connacia's  bounds ; 
Meantime,  no  man  should  intrude  him,  entering 

on  the  hospice  grounds. 

Then  his  burden  huge  receiving  in  the  hospice- 
portal,  Lee, 

Stiffeu'd  limb  by  limb  relieving  with  the  iron- 
fetter  key, 

As  a  crumpled  scroll  unroll'd  him,  groaning  deep, 
till  laid  at  length, 

Wondering  gazers  might  behold  him,  what  a 
tower  he  was  of  strength. 


pregnant  piece  of  evidence  to  show  that  even  at  this  early  time 
the  stone  cromleac,  or  monumental  stone  circle,  had  been  disused 
as  a  mode  of  sepulture:  for  It  Is  plainly  to  a  monument  of  tba? 
kind  the  writer  of  the  tripartite  life  alludes  in  t-his  passage.  Dr 
(.('Donovan  has  Identified  the  plain  of  Moy  Slaught  with  the  Jl» 
trlct  around  the  little  modern  vilUge  of  Ballymacguuran.  In  ta« 
parish  of  Ternpleport,  and  county  of  Oavao 


616 


POEMS  OF  SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 


Spake  the  sons  to  one  another,  day  by  day,  of 

Bealcu — 
u  Get  thee  up  and  spy,  my  brother,  what  the 

leech  and  northman  do." 
u  Lee,  at  mixing  of  a  potion :  Conall,  yet  in  no 

wise  dead, 
As  on  reef  of  rock  the  ocean,  tosses  wildly  on 

his  bed." 

"Spy  again  with  cautious  peeping:  what  of  Lee 

and  Conall  now  ?" 
u Conall  lies  profoundly  sleeping:  Lee  beside, 

with  placid  brow." 
"And  to-day?"  "To-day  he's  risen;  pallid  as 

his  swathing-sheet, 
He  has  left  his  chamber's  prison,  and  is  walking 

on  his  feet." 

"  And  to-day  ?"  "  A  ghastly  figure,  on  his  jave- 
lin propp'd  lie  goes." 

"And  to-day  ?"  "  A  languid  vigor  through  his 
larger  gesture  shows." 

"  And  to-day  ?"  "  The  blood  renewing  mantles 
all  his  clear  cheek  through." 

"  Would  thy  vow  had  room  for  rueing,  rashly- 
valiant  Bealcu !" 

So  with  herb  and  healing  balsam,  ere  the  second 

month  w-as  past, 
Life's  additions  smooth  and  wholesome  circling 

O 

through  his  members  vast, 

As  you've  seen  a  sere  oak  burgeon  under  sum- 
mer showers  and  dew, 

Conall,  under  his  chirurgeon,  fill'd  and  flourish'd, 
spread  and  grew. 

u  I  can  bear  the  sight  no  longer  :  I  have  watch'd 
him  moon  by  moon  : 

Day  by  day  the  chief  grows  stronger :  giant- 
strong  he  will  be  soon. 

Oh,  my  sire,  rash-valiant  warrior  !  but  that  oaths 
have  built  the  wall, 

Soon  these  feet  should  leap  the  barrier  :  soon  this 
band  thy  fate  forestall." 

"Brother,  have  the  wish  thou'st  utter'd  :  we  have 

sworn,  so  let  it  be ; 
But  although  our  feet  be  fetter'd,  all  the  air  is 

left  us  free. 
Dying  Keth  with  vengeful  presage  did  bequeath 

thee  sling  and  ball, 
4nd  the  sling  may  send  its  message  where  thy 

ragrant  glances  fall. 


"  Forbaid  was  a  master-slinger  :  Maev,  when  in 

her  bath  she  sank, 
Felt  the  presence  of  his  finger  from  the  further 

Shannon  bank ; 
For  he  threw  by  line  and  measure,  practising  a 

constant  cast 
Daily  in  secluded  leisure,  till  he   reach'd  the 

mark  at  last.1 

"  Keth  achieved  a  warrior's  honor,  though  'twas 

'mid  a  woman's  band, 
When  he  smote  the  amorous  Conor  bowing  from 

his  distant  stand.* 
Fit  occasion  will  not  fail  ye :  in  the  leech's  lawn 

below, 
Conall  at  the  fountain  daily  drinks  within  an  easy 

throw." 

"  Wherefore  cast  ye  at  the  apple,  sons  of  mine, 

with  measured  aim  ?" 
"  He  who  in  the  close  would  grapple,  first  the 

distant  foe  should  maim. 


1  "  Oillioll,  the  last  husband  that  Meauffo  had,  being  killed  by 
Conall  Carnath,  she  retyred  herself  to  Inish  Clothran.  an  island 
lying  within  Loch  Ryve,  and  afterward  used  dayly  to  bath  herself 
in  a  well  standing  neere  the  entry  of  the  same  lake,  and  that  timeli 
every  morning ;  and  though  shee  thought  her  like  washing  was 
eecrettly  carried  (on),  yet,  it  comeing  to  the  hearing  of  fforbuidhtt 
vie  Conchuvair,  he  privatly  came  to  the  well,  and  from  ye  brym 
thereof  taking  by  a  lynnen  thrid,  which  for  that  purpose  he  car- 
ryed  with  him,  the  right  measure  and  length  from  thence  to  the 
other  side  of  that  lake  adioneing  to  Ulster,  and  carrying  that  mea- 
sure with  him  into  Ulster,  and  by  the  same  setting  forth  justly  tu» 
like  distance  of  ground,  and  at  either  end  of  that  lyne  fixing  two 
wooden  stakes,  with  an  apple  at  the  top  of  one  of  them,  he  daily 
afterward  made  it  his  constant  exercise  with  his  hand-bowe  t« 
shoot  at  ye  apple,  till  bi  continuance  he  learned  his  lesson  so  per- 
fect, that  he  never  missed  his  ay  med  marke ;  and  shortly  afterward, 
BOMB  general!  meeting  being  appointed  betweene  them  cf  Ulster 
and  those  of  Connaught,  on  the  side  of  the  river  Shannon  at  Innish 
Clotbrain,  to  be  near  Meauffi  to  receive  her  resolutions  to  the 
propositions  moved  of  the  other  part  unto  them,  fforbuid  coming 
thither  with  the  Ulidians,  his  countrymen,  and  watching  his  op- 
portunity, of  a  certain  morning,  spyed  over  ye  lake  Meauffe  bath- 
ing of  herself,  as  she  formerly  accustomed  to  doo  in  the  same 
well,  and  thereupon  he,  to  be  spedd  of  his  long-expected  gaine, 
fitting  his  hand-bowo  with  a  stone,  he  therewith  so  assuredly 
pitched  at  his  mark,  that  he  hitt  her  right  in  the  forehead,  and  by 
that  devised  sleigbt  instantly  killed  her,  when  she  little  supposed 
or  feared  to  take  leave  with  the  world,  having  (as  formerly  Is  de- 
clared) had  the  power  and  command  of  all  Connaght  83  years  in 
her  owne  handes." — Keating,  O'Kearney^s  Version,  Lib.  R.  1.  A.. 

Inis  Clothrain,  the  scene  of  this  shocking  treachery,  is  now 
known  as  Quaker's  Island.  Tradition  preserves '  the  place  ot 
Maev's  assassination,  but  the  Well  has  disappeared.— See  CFDono- 
vari's  MS.  Collections  for  the  Ordnance  Survey  of  Ireland,  Lib. 
B.  I.  A.,  vol.  "  Roscommon." 

1  The  late  Professor  O'Curry  has  fixed  with  laudable  accuracy 
the  locality  of  this  act  of  savage  warfare  at  Ardnurchar.  i.  e.,  "  the 
height  of  the  cast,"  in  the  county  of  Westmeath.  The  whole 
story  of  the  sling-ball,  of  its  nature  and  materials,  of  the  chance 
by  which  it  came  into  Keth's  possession,  and  of  the  use  he  mad« 
of  it,  forms  a  remarkable  chapter  in  th»  history  of  barbar*»n  man- 
ners.—  Vide  O'Curry,  Lecture*  on  the  118.  Materials  of  Anoit-nt 
Irith  Hvttory,  p.  5»a 


POEMS   OF  SAMUEL   FERGUSON. 


And  since  Kcth,  his  death-balls  casting,  rides  no 

more  the  ridge  of  war, 
We  against  our  summer  hosting,  train  us  for  his 

vacant  car." 

"Wherefore  to  the  rock  repairing,  gaze  ye  forth, 

my  children,  tell." 
"'Tis  a  stag  we  watch  for  snaring,  that  frequents 

the  leech's  well." 
"I  will  see  this  stag — though,  truly,  small  may  be 

my  eyes'  delight." 
And  he  climb'd  the  rock  where  fully  lay  the  lawn 

exposed  to  sight. 

Conall  to  the  green  well-margin  came  at  dawn 

and  knelt  to  drink, 
Thinking  how   a  noble  virgin  by  a  like  green 

fountain's  brink 
Heard  his  own  pure  vows  one  morning,  far  away 

and  long  ago : 
All  his  heart  to  home  was  turning ;  and  his  tears 

began  to  flow. 

Clean  forgetful  of  his  prison,  steep  Dunseverick's 

windy  tower 
Seem'd  to  rise  in  present  vision,  and  his  own  dear 

lady's  bower. 
Round  the  sheltering  knees  they  gather,  little 

ones  of  tender  years, — 
Tell  us,  mother,  of  our  father ;  and  she  answers 

but  with  tears. 

Twice  the  big  drops  plash'd  the  fountain.  Then 
he  rose,  and,  turning  round, 

As  across  a  breast  of  mountain  sweeps  a  whirl- 
wind, o'er  the  ground 

Raced  in  athlete-feats  amazing,  swung  the  war- 
mace,  hurl'd  the  spear; 

Bealcu,  in  wonder  gazing,  felt  the  pangs  of  deadly 
fear. 

Had  it  been  a  fabled  griffin,  suppled  in  a  fasting 

den,' 
Flash'd  its  wheeling  coils  to  heaven  o'er  a  wreck 

of  beasts  and  men, 
Hardly  had  the  dreadful  prospect  bred  his  soul 

more  dire  alarms  ; 
Such  the  fire  of  Conall's  aspect,  such  the  stridor 

of  his  arms! 

"This  is  fear,"  he  said,  "that  never  shook  these 

limbs  of  mine  till  now. 
Now  I  see  the  mad  endeavor ;  now  I  mourn  the 

boastful  vow 


Yet  'twas  righteous  wrath  impell'd  me ;  and  a 

sense  of  manly  shame 
From  his  naked  throat  withheld  me  wheu  'twas 

offer'd  to  my  aim. 

"  Now  I  see  his  strength  excelling :  whence  he 
buys  it :  what  he  pays  : 

'Tis  a  God  who  has  his  dwelling  in  the  fount,  to- 
whom  he  prays. 

Thither  came  he  weeping,  drooping,  till  the  Well- 
God  heard  his  prayer : 

Now  behold  him,  soaring,  swooping,  as  an  eagle 
through  the  air. 

"0  thou  God,  by  whatsoever  sounds  of  awe  thy 

name  we  know, 
Grant  thy  servant  equal  favor  with  the  stranger 

and  the  foe ! 
Equal  grace,  'tis  all  I  covet ;  and  if  sacrificial 

blood 
Win  thy  favor,  thoa  shalt  have  it  on  thy  very 

well-brink,  God ! 

"  What  and  though  I've  given  pledges  not  to 

cross  the  leech's  court? 
Not  to  pass  his  sheltering  hedges,  meant  I  to  his 

patient's  hurt. 
Thy  dishonor  meant  I  never:  never  meant  I  to 

forswear 
Right  divine  of  prayer  wherever  Power  divine 

invites  to  prayer. 

"Sun  that  warm'st  me,  Wind  that  fann'st  me,  ye 
that  guarantee  the  oath, 

Make  no  sign  of  wrath  against  me:  tenderly  ye 
touch  me  both. 

Yea,  then,  through  his  fences  stealing  ere  to- 
morrow's sun  shall  rise, 

Well-God !  on  thy  margin  kneeling,  I  will  offer 
sacrifice." 

"  Brother,  rise,  the  skies  grow  ruddy  :  if  we  yet 

would  save  our  sire, 
Rests  a  deed  courageous,  bloody,  wondering  ages 

shall  admire : 
Hie  thee  to  the  spy-rock's  summit :  ready  there 

thou'lt  find  the  sling  ; 
Ready  there  the  leaden  plummet ;  and  at  dawn 

he  seeks  the  spring." 

Ruddy  dawn  had  changed  to  amber :  radiant  as 

the  yellow  day, 
Conall,  issuing  from  his  chamber,  to  the  fountain 

took  his  way  : 


POEMS  OF   SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 


There,  athwart  the  welling  water,  like  a  fallen 

pillar,  spread, 
Smitten  by  the  bolt  of  slaughter,  lay  Connacia's 

champion,  dead. 

Call  the  hosts!    convene  the  judges!    cite  the 

dead  man's  children  both  ! — 
Said  the  judges,  "  He  gave  pledges — Sun   and 

Wind — and  broke  the  oath, 
And  they  slew  him  :  so  we've  written :  let  his 

sons  attend  our  words." 
"  Both,  by  sudden  frenzy  smitten,  fell  at  sunrise 

on  their  swords." 

Then  the  judges,  "  Ye  who  punish  man's  pre- 
varicating vow, 

Needs  not  further  to  admonish  :  contrite  to  your 
will  we  bow, 

All  our  points  of  promise  keeping  :  safely  let  the 
chief  go  forth." 

Conall  to  his  chariot  leaping,  turn'd  his  coursers 
to  the  north  : 

In  the  Sun  that  swept  the  valleys,  in  the  Wind's 

encircling  flight, 
Recognizing  holy  ailies,  guardians  of  the  Truth 

and  Right ; 
While,  before  his  face,  resplendent  with  a  firm 

faith's  candic1  ''av, 
Dazzled  troops  of  foes  attendant,  bow'd  before 

him  on  his  way. 

But  the  calm  physician,  viewing  where  the  white 

neck  join'd  the  ear, 
Said,  "  It  is   a  slinger's  doing :  Sun  nor  Wind 

was  actor  here. 
Yet,  till  God  vouchsafe  more  certain  knowledge 

of  his  sovereign  will, 
Better   deem    the   mystic    curtain    hides    their 

wonted  demons  still. 

"  Better  so,  perchance,  than  living  in  a  clearer 

light,  like  me, 
But  believing  where  perceiving,  bound  in  what  I 

hear  and  see ; 
Force  and  change  in  constant  sequence,  changing 

atoms,  changeless  laws ; 
Only  in  submissive  patience  waiting  access  to  the 

Cause. 

"  And,  they  say,  Centurion  Altus,  when  he  to 

Emania  came, 
And   to   Rome's    subjection    call'd   us,    urging 

Caesar's  tribute  claim, 


Told  that  half  the  world  barbarian  thrills  already 

with  the  faith 
Taught  them  by  the  godlike  Syrian  Caesar  lately 

put  to  death. 

"And  the  Sun,  through  starry  stages  measuring 

from  the  Ram  and  Bull, 
Tells  us  of   renewing  Ages,  and   that  Nature's 

time  is  full : 
So,  perchance,  these  silly  breezes  even  now  may 

swell  the  sail, 
Brings  the  leavening  word  of  Jesus  westward 

also  to  the  Gael." 


THE  BURIAL  OF  KING  CORMAC. 

Cormac,  son  of  Art,  son  of  Con  Cead-Catha,1  enjoyed  the  sover- 
eignty of  Ireland  through  the  prolonged  period  of  forty  years, 
commencing  from  A.  D.  213.  During  the  latter  part  of  his  reisn, 
he  resided  at  Sletty.  on  the  Boyne,  being,  it  is  said,  disqualified 
for  the  occupation  of  Tara  by  the  personal  bleuiish  he  had  sus- 
tained in  the  loss  of  an  eye,  l>y  the  hand  of  Angus  "  Drertil-Speir." 
chief  of  the  Desi,  a  tribe  whose  original  seats  were  in  the  barony 
of  Deece,  in  the  county  of  Meath.  It."«»s  in  the  time  of  Cormao 
and  his  son  Carbre,  if  we  are  to  crs<nt  the  Irish  annuls,  that  Fin, 
son  of  Com hnl,  and  the  Fenian  heroes,  celebrated  by  Ossian,  flour- 
ished. Cormac  has  obtained  the  reputation  tf  wisdom  and  learn- 
ing, and  appears  justly  entitled  to  the  honor  of  having  provoked 
the  enmity  of  the  Pagan  priesthood,  by  declaring  his  faith  in  a 
God  not  made  by  bands  of  men. 

"  CROM  CRUACH  and  his  sub-gods  twelve," 
Said  Cormac,  "are  but  carven  treene ; 

The  axe  that  made  them,  haft  or  helve, 
Had  worthier  of  our  worship  been. 

"But  he  who  made  the  tree  to  grow, 
And  hid  in  earth  the  iron-stone, 

And  made  the  man  with  mind  to  know 
The  axe's  use,  is  God  alone." 

Anon  to  priests  of  Crom  was  brought — 
Where,  girded  in  their  service  dread, 

They  minister'd  on  red  Moy  Slaught-i- 
Word  of  the  words  King  Cormac  said. 

They  loosed  their  curse  against  the  king; 

They  cursed  him  in  his  flesh  and  bones  ; 
And  daily  in  their  mystic  ring 

They  turn'd  the  maledietive  stones/ 

1  /.  e..  Hundred- B»ttle. 

a  A  pagan  practice,  in  use  among  the  Lusttanian  as  well  as  the 
Insular  Celts,  and  of  which  Dr.  O'Donovan  records  a-n  instance, 
among  the  latter,  as  late  as  the  year  1830.  in  the  island  of  Inish- 
murray,  off  the  coast  of  Sligo.  Among  the  places  and  objects  of 
reverence  included  within  the  pre-Christian  stone  Cas/itl,  or  cyclo- 


POEMS  OF  SAMUEL   FERGUSON. 


G19 


Till,  where  at  meat  the  monarch  sate, 

Amid  the  revel  and  the  wiuc, 
He  choked  upon  the  food  he  ate, 

At  Sletty,  southward  of  the  Boyne. 

High  vaunted  then  the  priestly  throng;, 
And  far  and  wide  they  noised  abroad 

With  trump  and  loud  liturgic  song 
The  praise  of  their  avenging  God. 

But  ere  the  voice  was  wholly  spent 

That  priest  and  prince  should  still  obey, 

To  awed  attendants  o'er  him  bent 

Great  Cormac  gather  d  breath  to  say, — 

"Spread  not  the  beds  of  Brugh  for  me1 
When  restless  death-bed's  use  is  done  : 

I  hit  bury  me  at  Rossnaree 
And  face  me  to  the  rising  sun. 

•'  For  all  the  kings  who  lie  in  Brugh 
Put  trust  in  gods  of  wood  and  stone  ; 

And  'twas  at  Ross  that  first  I  knew 
One,  Unseen,  who  is  God  alone. 

44  His  glory  lightens  from  the  east; 

His  message  soon  shall  reach  our  shore  ; 
And  idol-god,  and  cursing  priest 

Shall  plague  us  from  Moy  Slaught  no  more." 

Dead  Cormac  on  his  bier  they  laid  : — 
"  He  reign'd  a  king  for  forty  years, 

And  shame  it  were,"  his  captains  said, 
"  He  lay  not  with  his  royal  peers. 

pean  rlta'lel  of  the  island,  he  mentions  the  cloch.ii  brfca,  I.  e.,  the 
tprckled  ttoiifx.  ''They  arc  rinirid  i-tones  of  vnrious  .sizes,  and 
arranged  In  Mich  order  as  that  they  cannot  he  easily  reckoned; 
and.  if  you  believe  the  natives,  they  cannot  he  reckoned  at  all. 
These  stones  are  turned,  and,  if  I  understand  them  rightly,  their 
order  changed  by  the  inhabitants  on  certain  occasions,  when  they 
visit  ibis  shrine  to  with,  good  or  evil  to  tlirlr  neighbors."—  J/S. 
CoUfctioimJbr  0>'dniinc«  Survey,  Lib.  K.  I.  A. 

1  The  principal  cemetery  of  the  pagan  Irish  kings  was  at  Brugh, 
whirb  seems  to  have  been  situated  on  the  northern  bank  »,f  th« 
Boyne.  A  series  of  tumuli  and  sepulchral  vttiiii*  extends  from 
the  neighborhood  of  Slane  towards  Droghcda.  beginning,  according 
to  the  ancient  tract  preserved  In  the  book  of  Kallyitmte  (Petrie,  K. 
T.  Trans.,  R.  I.  A.,  vol.  zx.,  p.  102),  with  the  imthie  in  Dagdn,  at 
"  Bed  of  the  Dsgda,"  a  king  of  tho  Tuath  de  Hanson,  supposed, 
with  apparently  good  reason,  to  be  the  well-known  tumulus  now 
called  New  Grange.  TL1s  and  tbe  neighboring  cairn  of  Dowth 
appear  to  be  the-itnly  Megalitblc  sepulchres  in  the  west  of  Europe 
distinctly  referable  to  persons  whose  names  are  historically  pre- 
served. The  car vi tup  wnlch  cover  the  stones  of  their  chambers 
and  galleries  correspond  very  closely  with  those  of  the  Gavrlnls 
»mb  near  Locmarlaker,  In  Brittany.  Tho  Breton  Megalltlilo 
monument*  appear  tn  belong  to  a  period  long  anterior  to  the  Ro- 
man Conquest ;  and  this  resemblance  between  one  of  the  latent 
of  that  group  and  these  t/tinni  pyramids  on  the  Boyne,  ascribed  by 
Irish  historic  tradition  to  an  early  ante-Christian  e|>i>-h,  goes  Car 
to  show  that  a  foundation  of  fact  underlies  tbe  earl;  history  of 
Ireland. 


"His  grandsire,  Hundred-Battle, 
Serene  in  Brugh  :  aud,  all  around, 

Dead  kings  in  stone  sepulchral  keeps 
Protect  the  sacred  burial-ground. 

O 

"  What  though  a  dying  man  should  rave 
Of  changes  o'er  the  eastern  sea  ? 

In  Brugh  of  Boywe  shall  be  his  grave, 
And  not  in  noteless  Rossnaree." 

Then  northward  forth  they  bore  the  bier, 
And  down  from  Sletty  side  they  drew, 

With  horseman  and  with  charioteer, 
To  cross  the  fords  of  Boyne  to  Brugh. 

There  came  a  breath  of  finer  air 

That  touch'd  the  Boyne  with  ruffling  wing*. 
It  stirr'd  him  in  his  sedgy  lair 

And  in  his  mossy  moorland  springs. 

And  as  the  burial  train  came  down 

With  dirge  and  savage  dolorous  shows, 

Across  their  pathway,  broad  and  brown 
The  deep,  full-hearted  river  rose  ; 

From  bank  to  bank  through  all  his  fords, 
'Neath    bhickening  squalls  he  swell'd    and 
boil'd ; 

And  thrice  the  wondering  gentile  lords 
Essay'd  to  cross,  and  thrice  recoil'd. 

Then  forth  stepp'd  gray-hair'd  warriors  four : 
They    said,  "Through  angrier  Hoods  than 
these, 

On  link'd  shields  once  our  king  we  bore 
From  Dread-Spear  and  the  hosts  of  Deece. 

"And  long  as  loyal  will  holds  good, 
And  limbs  respond  with  helpful  thews, 

Nor  flood,  nor  fiend  within  thu  Hood, 
Shall  bar  him  of  his  burial  dues.'' 

With  slanted  necks  they  stoopM  to  lift ; 

They  heaved  him  up  to  neck  and  cliJH  ; 
And,  pair  and  pair,  with  footsteps  swift. 

Lock'd  arm  and  shoulder,  U>re  him  in. 

Twas  brave  to  see  them  leave  thn  shore; 

To  mark  the  deep'ning  surges  rise, 
And  fall  subdued  in  foam  In-fore 

The  tension  of  their  striding  thighs. 

'Twas  brave,  when  now  a  spear-cast  oat, 
Breast-high  the  battling  surges  ran  ; 


620 


POEMS   OF  SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 


Fci  weight  was  great,  and  limbs  were  stout, 
And  loyal  man  put  trust  in  man. 

But  ere  they  reach'd  the  middle  deep, 
Nor  steadying  weight  of  clay  they  bore, 

Nor  strain  of  sinewy  limbs  could  keep 
Their  feet  beneath  the  swerving  four. 

And  now  they  slide  and  now  they  swim, 
And  now,  amid  the  blackening  squall, 

Gray  locks  afloat,  with  clutchings  grim, 
They  plunge  around  the  floating  pall. 

While,  as  a  youth  with  practised  spear 

Through  justling  crowds  bears  off  the  ring, 

Boyne  from  their  shoulders  caught  the  bier 
And  proudly  bore  away  the  king. 

At  morning,  on  the  grassy  marge 
Of  Rossnaree,  the  corpse  was  found, 

And  shepherds  at  their  early  charge 
Entomb'd  it  in  the  peaceful  ground. 

A  tranquil  spot :  a  hopeful  sound 

Comes  from  the  ever-youthful  stream, 

And  still  on  daisied  mead  and  mound 
The  dawn  delays  with  tenderer  beam. 

Round  Cormac  Spring  renews  her  buds : 

In  march  perpetual  by  his  side, 
Down  come  the  earth-fresh  April  Moods, 

And  up  the  sea-fresh  salmon  glide ; 

And  life  and  time  rejoicing  run 

From  age  to  age  their  wonted  way  j 

But  still  he  waits  the  risen  Sun, 
For  still  'tis  only  dawning  Day. 


AIDEEN'S  GRAVE. 

Aideen,  daughter  of  Angus  of  Ben-Edar  (now  the  Hill  of  Howth), 
died  of  grief  for  the  loss  of  her  husband,  Oscar,  son  of  Ossian, 
who  was  slain  at  the  battle  of  Gavra  (Gowrn,  near  Tara,  in  Meatb), 
A.  u.  284.  Oscar  was  entombed  in  the  rath  or  earthen  fortress  that 
occupied  part  of  the  field  of  battle,  the  rest  of  the  slain  being  cast 
in  a  pit  outside.  Aideen  is  said  to  have  been  buried  on  Howth, 
near  the  mansion  of  her  father,  and  poetical  tradition  represents 
the  Fenian  heroes  as  present  at  her  obsequies.  The  Cromlech  in 
Howth  Park  has  been  supposed  to  be  her  sepulchre.  It  stands 
under  the  summits  from  which  the  poet  Atharne  is  said  to  have 
launched  his  invectives  against  the  people  of  Leinster,  until,  by 
the  blighting  effect  of  his  satires,  they  were  compelled  to  make 
him  atonement  for  the  death  of  his  son. 

THEY  heaved  the  stone ;  they  heap'd  the  cairn : 
Said  O&sian,  "In  a  queenly  grave 


We  leave  her,  'mong  her  fields  of  fern, 
Between  the  cliff  and  wave. 

"  The  cliff  behind  stands  clear  and  bare, 
And  bare,  above,  the  heathery  steep 

Scales  the  clear  heaven's  expanse,  to  where 
The  Danaan  Druids  sleep.1 

"  And  all  the  sands  that,  left  and  right, 
The  grassy  isthmus-ridge  confine, 

In  yellow  bars  lie  bare  and  bright 
Among  the  sparkling  brine. 

"A  clear  pure  air  pervades  the  scene, 

In  loneliness  and  awe  secure ; 
Meet  spot  to  sepulchre  a  Queen 

Who  in  her  life  was  pure. 

"  Here,  far  from  camp  and  chase  removed. 

Apart  in  Nature's  quiet  room, 
The  music  that  alive  she  loved 

Shall  cheer  her  in  the  tomb. 

"The  humming  of  the  noontide  bees, 
The  lark's  loud  carol  all  day  long, 

And,  borne  on  evening's  salted  breeze, 
The  clanking  sea-bird's  song, 

"  Shall  round  her  airy  chamber  float, 

And  with  the  whispering  winds  and  stream* 

Attune  to  Nature's  tenderest  note 
The  tenor  of  her  dreams. 

"  And  oft,  at  tranquil  eve's  decline 

When  full  tides  lip  the  Old  Green  Plain,1 

The  lowing  of  Moynalty's  kine 
Shall  round  her  breathe  again, 

"In  sweet  remembrance  of  the  days 
When,  duteous,  in  the  lowly  vale, 


1  Irish  historic  tradition  abounds  with  allusions  to  the  Tuatha- 
de-Danaans,  i.  e.,  the  god-tribes  of  the  Danaans,  an  early  race  of 
conquerors  from  the  north  of  Europe,  versed  in  music  and  poetry, 
as  well  as  in  the  other  then  reputed  arts  of  civilized  life.  They 
are  said  to  have  reached  the  shores  of  the  Baltic  from  Greece  by 
the  same  route  supposed  by  the  pseudo  Orpheus  to  have  been 
taken  by  the  Argonauts,  and  by  which  Homer  also  seems  to  have 
conducted  Ulysses.  A  Greek  taste,  however  derived,  is  certainly 
discoverable  in  the  arms  and  monuments  ascribed  to  this  people. 
Popular  mythology  regards  the  race  of  fafries  and  demons  as  of 
Danaan  origin. 

*  The  plain  of  Moynalty,  Magh-riealta,  i.  e.,  the  plain  of  the 
(bird)  flocks,  is  said  to  have  been  open  and  cultivable  from  tlie 
beginning;  unlike  the  other  plains,  which  had  to  be  freed  from 
their  primaeval  forests  by  the  early  colonists.  Hence  its  appella- 
tion of  the  Old  Plain.  It  extends  over  the  northeastern  part  of 
the  county  of  Diiblia,  and  eastern  part  of  Meath. 


POEMS  OF  SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 


621 


"  But  when  the  wintry  frosts  begin, 
And  in  their  long-drawn,  lofty  flight, 

The  wild  geese  with  their  airy  J 
Distend  the  ear  of  night, 

"  And  when  the  fierce  De  Danaan  ghosts 
At  midnight  from  their  peak  come  down, 

When  all  around  the  enchanted  coasts 
Despairing  strangers  drown  ; 

M  When,  mingling  with  the  wreckful  wail, 
From  low  Clontarf's  wave-trampled  floor 

Comes  booming  up  the  burthen'd  gale 
The  angry  Sand-Bull's  roar,* 

w  Or,  angrier  than  the  sea,  the  shout 
Of  Erin's  hosts  in  wrath  combined, 

When  Terror  heads  Oppression's  rout, 
And  Freedom  cheers  behind  : — 

"Then  o'er  our  lady's  placid  dream, 

Where  safe  from  storms  she   sleeps,  may 
steal 

Such  joy  as  will  not  misbeseem 
A  Queen  of  men  to  feel : 

"Such  thrill  of  free  defiant  pride, 

As  rapt  her  in  her  battle  car 
At  Gavra,  when  by  Oscar's  side 

She  rode  the  ridge  of  war, 

specta  if  it  lay  In  her  power  to  perform,  and  that  her  performance* 
that  way  were  but  fry  day  reqnitalls  to  tbe  effectual  obligation  of 
lovo  and  beholdingnesse  wherein  cbe  was  inviolably  bound  untc 
him,  and  thereupon  tbe  king,  being  both  desirous  to  continue  hi* 
further  talking  with  her  (such  is  the  wonted  effect  produced  by 
love  and  liking,  when  they  take  any  flrme  footing),  and  wlthall 
willing  to  flnde  out  whom  Abe  sue  kindly  favoured,  asked  her  what 
his  name  was  that  she  soe  respected,  who  answeared  that  be  was 
Baicklodd  Brugh,  and  the  king  further  questioning  her  whether 
be  was  tbe  same  roan  of  that  name  that  In  Leinstor  was  famous 
for  his  wealth  and  oppen  hospitality,  and  she  telling  him  that  be 
was  tbe  very  same  man,  then,  replyed  the  king,  you  are  Eithne, 
bis  adopted  daughter.  I  Am,  sir,  said  shoe.  In  a  good  hour, 
sayed  the  king,  for  you  shall  bo  my  maryed  wife.  Nay,  unveil 
Eithne,  my  disposal!  lyetb  not  In  mine  owne  band,  but  in  my 
ffoaterfather's  power  and  cornaund,  anto  whom  they  both  forth- 
with repayring,  tbe  king  expressed  his  said  Intention  to  liairkuxl 
and  obtaining  bis  good  allowance,  marryed  Eithne,  and  gratified 
her  ffosterfatlier  with  a  territory  of  .'and  lying  near«  Tharitich 
(Tarn),  called  Tunith  OViraim.  which  be  held  during  his  life,  and 
that  marryage  with  all  requisite  soletnnityes  being  celebrated, 
Eithne  afterward  bore  unto  Cormocke  a  ton  called  Cain-dry 
Lloffachair,  who  grow  to  be  worthily  famous  and  Illustrious  In  bis 
tyme."— MS.  Lib.  R.  J.  A. 

The  townland  of  Dunboyke,  near  Bletslngton,  in  the  county  of 
Wicklow,  still  retnint  the  name  of  the  hospitable  Franklin. 

'  Tbe  sandbaiika  on  either  side  of  ije  estuary  of  the  Llffey  have 
obtained  the  nan.es  of  tbe  North  and  South  Bulls,  from  the  hol- 
low bellowing  sound  there  made  by  the  breakers,  in  easterly  and 
southerly  winds.  Tbe  North  Bull  gives  name  to  the  ac^olnlnf 
district  of  Clonuu-r— Ctoritn  Tarbli,  I  «..  Bull's  Meadow— cele- 
brated for  tbe  overthrow  of  the  Dane*,  A.  D.  1014,  by  b«  Dfr*.!r« 
Irish  under  King  BrUn  Boru. 


Unconscious  of  my  Oscar's  gaze, 
She  fill'd  the  fragrant  pail, 

"  And,  duteous,  from  the  running  brook 
Drew  water  for  the  bath  ;  nor  decm'd 

A  king  did  on  her  labor  look, 
And  she  a  fairy  seem'd.1 


1  A  liberty  has  here  been  taken  with  tbe  traditionary  rights  of 
King  Cormac  and  his  wife  Eithne,  with  whose  memories  the  pic- 
turesque idyll  preserved  by  Keating  ought  properly  to  be  asso- 
ciated. Th«  garrulous  simplicity  of  the  original  Is  well  reflected 
In  the  quaint  version  of  O'Kearny. 

-Kithiu-  Ollaffdha,  tbe  daughter  of  Duynluing  Vic  Enna  Niad 
was  tbe  mother  of  Cairebry  Leoffiochair,  she  being  the  adopted 
daughter  of  Buickiodd,  a  remarkable  and  much  spoken  off  ffearmor 
(for  bis  great  wealth,  ability,  and  bountiful!  disposition  of  enter- 
taining all  sortee  of  people  comeing  to  his  house),  who  lyved  in 
those  dayes  in  Leinster,  and  was  soe  addicted  to  oppen  hospitality 
that  he  constantly  kept  a  cauldron  in  his  house  still  on  the  fire 
boyling  of  ineate,  both  night  and  day,  indifferently  for  all  them 
that  came  to  his  bouse,  which  doubtlesse  by  an  invitation  of  that 
kind  procured  to  bee  many. 

"Thin  Buickiodd,  together  with  his  other  wealth  and  substance, 
bail  seven  dayryes  of  one  hundred  and  forty  cowes  a  peece,  wi.h 
an  answerable  proportion  of  horssrs.  mares,  gearrans,  and  other 
cattle  thereunto;  and  at  length  this  hospitable  and  free  man  was 
soe  played  upon  in  abuseing  his  plainene.sse  and  liberality  by  the 
chleftaines  and  nobles  of  Leinster%that  they  frequenting  with  their 
adherents  his  bouse,  some  would 'take  away  with  them  a  drove  of 
bis  kyne,  others  a  great  number  of  his  stood  mares  and  gearrans, 
and  others  a  great  many  of  his  horses,  that,  in  requital  of  his  free 
heart,  they  soe  fleeced  bare  the  good  mini,  that  they  left  him  only 
jeuvi-ii  cowes  and  a  bull  of  all  the  goods  that  he  ever  possessed ; 
and  finding  himselfe  soe  ympoverisbed,  lie,  by  a  night  stealth,  re- 
•oved  from  Dun  Boickyodd,  where  in  his  prosperity  he  resided, 
to  a  certain  wood  lying  neere  Eeananas  in  Meatb,  accompanyed 
only  with  his  wife  and  his  said  adopted  daughter  Kithnc,  and 
carryed  thither  his  feew  heades  of  cattle.  Connock  tbe  king  lyv- 
Ing  coinonly  at  Keauana*  in  those  days,  this  honest  Baickiod  for 
to  shelter  himself  under  his  wynges  and  protection,  erected  a  poor 
cabyn  or  booty  cott  for  himself  his  wife  and  daughter  in  that  wood, 
where  lyvirige  a  good  while  in  a  contented  course  of  life,  Eithne 
did  as  humbly  and  diligently  serve  him  and  bis  wife  as  if  she  bad 
been  tb«ir  slave  or  vassal!,  their  service  and  attendance  could  not 
be  with  better  care  performed,  and  contynuing  in  that  state,  on  a 
day  thai  Cormock  (the  king)  did  ryde  abroad  alone  by  himselfe  to 
take  /e  e'.re,  and  the  proapect  of  the  adjacent  landes  and  valleyes 
tfl  bis  Mid  mannor  (as  be  was  accustomed  for  his  pleasure  often  to 
do),  Dy  chance  he  saw  that  beautiful!  and  lovely  damsel!  Eithne 
milking  of  her  said  ffosterfather's  few  cowes,  which  she  performed 
after  this  manner.  She  had  two  vessells,  and  with  one  of  them 
ahe  went  over  the  seven  cowes,  and  filling  the  same  with  the  first 
parte  of  their  inilck  (as  tbe  cboysest  parte  thereof),  she  again  went 
over  them  with  th«  second  vessel),  and  milked  therein  their  second 
inilck,  till  by  tLat  allternate  course  she  drew  from  them  all  the 
niilck  that  tb<-y  could  yield,  the  K.  all  the  whyle  being  ravished 
witb  his  good  liking  of  her  care  and  excellent  beauty  and  per- 
fections, beholding  of  her  witb  admiration  and  astonishment,  and 
she  not  neglecting  her  service  for  his  presence,  bringing  the  milk 
into  the  cabyn  where  Baicklodd  and  bis  wife  layd,  returns  forth 
from  thence  again  with  two  other  cleane  vessells  and  a  boule  In 
her  hand,  and  repayring  to  the  water  next  adloining  to  the  bouse, 
•be  filled  one  of  those  vessel  Is  with  ye  water  running  next  to  the 
kancke  of  ye  ryver,  and  the  other  with  the  water  running  in  the 
Widdest  of  that  streame  or  watercourse,  and  brought  them  both 
•oo  filled  Into  the  cabyn,  and  coming  forth  the  third  tyme  with  a 
book  In  her  band,  she  began  therewith  to  cutt  ruisbes,  parting 
(them)  still  as  they  fell  in  her  way  into  several!  bundells,  the  long 
and  short  rushes  asunder,  and  Cormock  all  Ibe  while  beholding 
Ler  (is  one  taken  with  the  comaundlng  power  and  captivity  of 
love),  at  length  a«ked  of  her  for  whom  shee  made  that  selection 
both  of  mllck,  water,  and  rushes;  whercunto  she  answered  that 
•It  wu  done  for  one  that  sbee  wa>  bound  to  tender  with  better  re- 


din 


622 


POEMS   OF  SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 


"Exulting,  down  the  shouting  troops, 

And  through  the  thick  confronting  kings, 

With  hands  on  all  their  javelin  loops 
And  shafts  on  all  their  strings ; 

"E'er  closed  the  inseparable  crowds, 
No  more  to  part  for  me,  and  show, 

As  bursts  the  sun  through  scattering  clouds, 
My  Oscar  issuing  so. 

"No  more,  dispelling  battle's  gloom 
Shall  son  for  me  from  fight  return  ; 

The  great  green  rath's  ten-acred  tomb 
Lies  heavy  on  his  urn.1 

"  A  cup  of  bodkin-pencill'd  clay 

Holds  Oscar ;  mighty  heart  and  limb 

7  O  «/ 

One  handful  now  of  ashes  gray  : 
And  she  has  died  for  him. 

"And  here,  hard  by  her  natal  bower 
On  lone  Ben  Edar's  side,  we  strive 

With  lifted  rock  and  sign  of  power 
To  keep  her  name  alive. 

"  That  while  from  circling  year  to  year, 
Her  Ogham-letter'd  stone  is  seen, 

The  Gael  sha?ll  say,  '  Our  Fenians  here 
Entomb'd  their  loved  Aideen.' 

"  The  Ogham  from  her  pillar  stone 
In  tract  of  time  will  wear  away ; 

Her  name  at  last  be  only  known 
In  Ossian's  echo'd  lay. 

"The  long- forgotten  lay  I  sing 
May  only  ages  hence  revive 


1  At  this  day  there  Is  a  difficulty  in  distinguishing  the  remains 
of  the  Rath  of  Gavra.  It  appears  to  have  stood  on  the  slope  be- 
tween the  hill  of  Tara  and  the  river  Boyne  on  the  west  Several 
heroes  of  the  name  of  Oscar  perished  in  the  battle  of  Gavra.  The 
Ossianic  poem  which  celebrates  the  battle,  whatever  be  its  age, 
assigns  the  rath  or  earthen  fortress  as  the  grave  of  Oscar,  the  son 
of  the  bard. 

We  buried  Oscar  of  the  red  arms 

On  the  north  side  of  the  great  Gavra : 

Tocether  with  Oscur  son  ot  Garraidh  of  the  achievements. 

And  Oscar  son  of  the  king  of  Lochlann. 

And  him  who  was  not  nkirardly  of  gold, 
The  son  of  Lughaide  UK;  tall  warrior: 
We  dug  the  cave  of  his  sepulchre 
Very  wide,  as  became  a  king. 

The  <rraves  of  the  Oscars,  narrow  dwellings  of  clay, 
The  graves  of  the  sons  of  Garraidh  and  Oisin  ; 
Ami  the  whole  extent  of  the  groat  rath 
Was  the  grave  of  the  mighty  O>car  of  Baoisgne. 

Transactions  Os*.  Sun.,  vol.  i.,  p.  135. 


(As  eagle  with  a  wounded  wing 
To  soar  again  might  strive), 

"  Imperfect,  in  an  alien  speech, 

When,  wandering  here,  some  child  of  chance 
Through  pangs  of  keen  delight  shall  icach 

The  gift  of  utterance, — 

"  To  speak  the  air,  the  sky  to  speak, 

The  freshness  of  the  hill  to  tell, 
Who,  roaming  bare  Ben  Edar's  peak 

And  Aideen's  briery  dell, 

"  And  gazing  on  the  Cromlech  vast, 
And  on  the  mountain  and  the  sea, 

Shall  catch  communion  with  the  past 
And  mix  himself  with  me. 

"  Child  of  the  Future's  doubtful  night, 

Whate'er  your  speech,  whoe'er  your  tires,. 

Sing  while  you  may  with  frank  delight 
The  song  your  hour  inspires. 

"  Sing  while  you  mav,  nor  grieve  to  know 
The  song  you  sing  shall  also  die  ; 

Atharna's  lay  has  perish'd  so, 
Though  once  it  thrill'd  this  sky 

"  Above  us,  from  his  rocky  chair, 

There,  where  Ben  Edar's  landward  crest 

O'er  eastern  Bregia  bends,  to  where 
Dun  Almon  crowns  the  west: 

"And  all  that  felt  the  fretted  air 

Throughout  the  song-distemper'd  clime, 

Did  droop,  till  suppliant  Leinster's  prayer 
Appeased  the  vengeful  rhyme.3 


s  The  story  of  Atharnn  is  found  in  the  traditionary  collection*^ 
under  the  title  Ath-cliath,  i.  e.,  Hurdle-ford.  It  was  by  him,  and 
for  the  use  of  his  flocks,  that  the  ford  or  weir  of  wicker-work  wa» 
constructed  across  the  Liffey.  which  anciently  gave  nume  to  Dub- 
lin. The  Leinster  people,  who  Inhabited  the  right  bank  of  the 
Liffey,  resented  the  invasion  of  their  pastures,  and  great  strifes 
ensued  between  their  king,  Mesgedra,  and  Conor  Mac  Nessa,  king 
of  Ulster,  who  espoused  the  cause  of  Atharna.  Mesgedra  was 
ultimately  slain  by  Coriall  Carnacb,  who  was  sent  into  Leinster  in 
aid  of  the  bardic  trespasser ;  but  Atharna's  own  poetical  denun- 
ciations were  eveo  more  terrible  to  the  Lcinstermen  than  the 
swords  of  the  lied  Branch  champions.  "He  continued."  says  th» 
tract  in  the  Book  of  Ballymote,  "for  a  full  year  to  satirize  the 
Leinstermen  mid  bring  fatalities  upon  them  ;  so  that  neither  corn, 
grass,  nor  foliasre  grew  for  them  that  year."  The  miraculous  pre- 
tensions of  the  class  were  continued  down  to  the  Fifteenth  Cen- 
tury, when  Sir  John  Stanley,  Lord  Lieutenant  of  Ireland,  was 
popularly  believed  to  have  been  despatched  within  a  space  of  no 
more  than  five  weeks  by  an  Aeir  composed  against  him  \>y  Niall 
"Rimer"  O'Higgin,  head  of  a  bardic  family  in  Westmeath,  wlmso 
cattle  had  been  driven  by  the  En-gHsh  of  Dublin.  See  Annals  of 
the  Four  Mutter;?,  ad  an.  1414,  and  If  ardiman's  Stat.  of  X ilk.,  5ft.  11 


POEMS  OF  SAMUEL   FERGUSON. 


G23 


"  Ah  me,  or  e'er  the  hour  arrive 
Shall  bid  my  long-forgotten  tones, 

Unknown  One,  on  your  lips  revive, 
Here  by  these  moss-grown  stones, 

"  What  change  shall  o'er  the  scene  havecross'd  ; 

What  conquering  lords  anew  have  come  ; 
What  lore-arm'd,  mightier  Druid  host 

From  Gaul  or  distant  Rome  ! 

M  What  arts  of  death,  what  ways  of  life, 
What  creeds  unknown  to  bard  or  seer, 

Shall  round  your  careless  steps  be  rife, 
Who  pause  and  ponder  here  ; 

"And,  haply,  where  yon  curlew  calls 

Athwart  the  marsh,  'mid  groves  and  bowers 

See  rise  some  mighty  chieftain's  halls 
Witli  unimagined  towers  : 

•'And  baying  hounds,  ai>d  coursers  bright, 
And  burnish'd  cars  of  dazzling  sheen, 

With  courtly  train  of  dame  and  knight, 
Where  now  the  fern  is  green. 

44  Or,  by  yon  prostrate  altar-stone 

May  kneel,  perchance,  and,  free  from  blame, 
Hear  holy  men  with  rites  unknown 

New  names  of  God  proclaim. 

"  Let  change  as  may  the  Name  of  Awe, 

Let  rite  surcease  and  altar  fall, 
The  same  One  God  remains,  a  law 

Forever  and  for  all. 

4  Let  change  as  may  the  face  of  earth, 

Let  alter  all  the  social  frame, 

For  mortal  men  the  ways  of  birth 

And  death  are  still  the  same. 

•4  And  still,  as  life  and  time  wear  on, 
The  children  of  the  waning  days 

(Though  strength  be  from  their  shoulders  gone 
To  lift  the  loads  we  raise), 


"Shall  weep  to  do  the  burial 

Of  lost  ones  loved;  and  fondly  found, 


"Pi-  |>l»ln  of  Bn-cia  comprised  the  flat  district  of  Meatb.  Dub- 
lin. Kililare.  Mini  Wlrklmv.  In  It*  modern  form,  Brny,  the  name 
la  i  IT-  i-onrlm-d  to  the  well-known  watering-place  and  its  fltie  pro- 
montory of  Bray  Head  f)un  A/man  »'n»,  it  IH  uld,  the  residence 
of  Finn,  non  of  Comlial,  tin-  Fin  Mae  (%>ol  of  Irish.  and  Klngal  of 
hnitti-li  tradition.  It*  name  is  still  pr.-s.Tved  in  the  hill  nf  A  'I.  n, 
and  bardic  tradition  affects  to  itivr  tin-  name  of  lb<-  -t.iiildrr  l.y 
mbom  It  was  constructed.— O'Curry,  A  pp.  578. 


In  shadow  of  the  gathering  nights, 
The  monumental  mound. 

"  Farewell !  the  strength  of  men  is  worn  : 
The  night  approaches  dark  and  chill : 

Sleep,  till  perchance  an  endless  morn 
Descend  the  glittering  hill." 

Of  Oscar  and  Aideen  bereft, 

So  Ossian  sang.     The  Fenians  sped 

Three  mighty  shouts  to  heaven;  and  left. 
Ben  Edar  to  the  dead. 


THE  WELSHMEN  OF  TIKAWLEY. 

Several  Welsh  families,  associates  in  the  invasion  ofStrongbow, 
settled  In  the  west  of  Ireland.  Of  these,  the  principal  wlios« 
names  have  been  preserved  by  the  Iri>b  antiquarians,  were  the 
Walshes,  Joyces,  lleils  (a  quifnis  Mac  Halo),  Lawless*-*.  TVm- 
lyns,  Lynotts,  and  Barretts,  which  last  draw  their  podigrri-  iroin 
Walynes,  son  of  Guyiidally,  the  Ard  JJaar,  or  High  Steward  ol 
the  Lordship  of  I'amelot,  and  had  their  chief  seats  in  the  territory 
of  the  two  Bacs,  in  the  barony  of  Tirawley,  and  county  of  M:ivi 
Clochan-n<i-n'till,  i.  e.,  "the  Blind  Men's  Stepping-stones."  nrr 
Bliil  pointed  out  on  the  Duvowen  river,  about  four  miles  in>rth  tX 
Crossmolina.  in  the  townland  of  Garranard  ;  and  Tul'l-f-mi- 
Scorney,  or  ''Scrag's  Well,"  in  the  opposite  townland  of  Carns, 
in  the  same  barony.  For  a  curious  terrirr  or  applotment  of  the 
Mac  William's  revenue,  as  acquired  under  the  cirouuiMHnces 
stated  In  the  legend  preserved  by  Mao  Firbis,  see  Dr.  O'Donovan's 
highly-learned  and  interesting  •'  Genealogies,  .fee.,  of  Hy  Fiitch- 
rach,"  in  the  publications  of  the  7rwA  Arch(H>l<>vic«l  &>c.irty—t 
great  monument  of  antiquarian  and  topographical  erudition. 

SCORNA  BOY,  the  Barretts'  bailiff,  lewd  and  lame, 
To  lift  the  Lynotts'  taxes  when  he  can  if, 
Rudely  drew  a  young  maid  to  him  ; 
Then  the  Lynotts  rose  and  slew  him, 
And  in  Tubber-na-Scorney  threw  him  — 

Small  your  blame, 

Sons  of  Lynott! 
Sing  the  vengeance  of  the  Welshmen  of  Tirawley. 

Then   the  Barretts  to  the   Lynotts   pro]>...si-<l   a 

choirr, 
Saying,  ''  Hear,  yc  murderous  brood,  mc-n  and 


For  this  dci'd  to-day  yc  lo<,- 
Sioflit  or  manhood  :   say  and  choose 
Which  ye  ki'Cp  and  which  ivtusc  ; 
And  ivjohv 
That  our  mercy 
you  living  for  a  warning  to  Tirawlex." 


624 


POEMS  OF  SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 


Then  the  little  boys  of  the  LynoUs,  weeping, 

said, 

'*  Only  leave  us  our  eyesight  in  our  head." 
But  the  bearded  Lynotts  then 
Made  answer  back  again — 
*  Take  our  eyes,  but  leave  us  men, 

Alive  or  dead, 

Sons  of  Wattin  !" 
Sing  the  vengeance  of  the  Welshmen  of  Tirawley. 

So  the  Barretts,  with  sewing-needles  sharp  and 

smooth, 

Let  the  light  out  of  the  eyes  of  every  youth, 
And  of  every  bearded  man 
Of  the  broken  Lynott  clan  ; 
Then  their  darken'd  faces  wan 
Turning  south 
To  the  river — 
Sing  the  vengeance  of  the  Welshmen  of  Tirawley. 

O'er  the  slippery  stepping-stones  of  Clocban-na- 

n'all 

They  drove  them,  laughing  loud  at  every  fall, 
As  their  wandering  footsteps  dark 
Fail'd  to  reach  the  slippery  mark, 
And  the  swift  stream  swallow'd,  stark, 

One  and  all, 

As  they  stumbled — 
From  the  vengeance  of  the  Welshmen  of  Tirawley. 

Of  all  the  blinded  Lynotts  one  alone 
Walk'd  erect  from  stepping-stone  to  stone  : 
So  back  again  they  brought  you, 
And  a  second  time  they  wrought  you 
With  their  needles  ;  but  never  got  you 

Once  to  groan, 

Emon  Lynott, 
For  the  vengeance  of  the  Welshmen  of  Tirawley. 

But  with  prompt-projected  footsteps  sure  as  ever, 
Emon  Lynott  again  cross'd  the  river, 
Though  Duvowen  was  rising  fast, 
And  the  shaking  stones  o'ercast 
By  cold  floods  boiling  past ; 

Yet  you  never, 

Emon  Lynott, 
Falter'd  once  before  your  foemen  of  Tirawley  ! 

But,  turning  on  Ballintubber  bank,  you  stood, 
And  the  Barretts  thus  bespoke  o'er  the  flood — 
"  Oh,  ye  foolish  sons  of  Wattin, 
Small  atsends  are  these  you've  gotten, 
For,  while  Scorna  Boy  lies  rotten, 


I  am  good 
For  vengeance !" 
Sing  the  vengeance  of  the  Welshmen  of  Tirawley. 

For  'tis  neither  in  eye  nor  eyesight  that  a  man 

Bears  the  fortunes  of  himself  and  his  clan, 

But  in  the  manly  mind, 

These  darken'd  orbs  behind, 

That  your  needles  could  never  find, 
Though  they  ran 
Through  rny  heart-strings !" 

Sing  the  vengeance  of  the  Welshmen  of  Tirawley 

"But,  little  your  women's  needles  do  I  reck  : 
For  the  night  from  heaven  never  fell  so  black, 
But  Tirawley,  and  abroad 
From  the  Moy  to  Cuan-an-fod,1 
I  could  walk  it,  every  sod, 

Path  and  track, 

Ford  and  togher, 
Seeking  vengeance  on  you,  Barretts  of  Tirawley. 

"  The  night  when  Dathy  O'Dowda  broke  your 

camp, 

What  Barrett  among  you  was  it  held  the  lamp — 
Show'd  the  way  to  those  two  feet, 
When,  through  wintry  wind  and  sleet, 
I  guided  your  blind  retreat, 

In  the  swamp 

Of  Beal-an-asa  ? 
0  ye  vengeance-destined  ingrates  of  Tirawley  !*' 

So,  leaving  loud-shriek-echoing  Garranard 
The  Lynott,  like  a  red  dog  hunted  hard, 
With  his  wife  and  children  seven, 
'Mong  the  beasts  and  fowls  of  heaven, 
In  the  hollows  of  Glen  Nephin, 

Light-debarr'd, 

Made  his  dwelling, 
Planning  vengeance  on  the  Barretts  of  Tirawley. 

And  ere  the  bright-orb'd  year  its  course  had  run, 
On  his  brown  round-knotted  knee  he  nursed  a  son, 
A  child  of  light,  with  eyes 
As  clear  as  are  the  skies 
In  summer,  when  sunrise 


1  That  is,  from  the  river  Moy  to  Blacksod  Haven,  in  Irish,  Cuan- 
an-foid-duibh.  The  names  of  the  baronies  in  this  part  of  Mayo 
and  Sligo  are  taken  from  the  son  and  grandson  of  Dathi,  the  pro- 
penitor  of  the  families  of  O'Dowda.  Tir  Kera,  in  Bligo,  Is  so 
called  by  a  softened  pronunciation  from  FiSchra.  son  of  .Dathi 
and  Tir-Awley,  in  like  manner,  from  Amhalgaid,  son  of  Filehra. 


POEMS   OF  SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 


625 


Has  begun ; 
So  the  Lynott 
Nursed  his  vengeance  on  the  Barretts  of  Tirawley. 

And,  as  ever  the  bright  boy  grew  in  strength 

and  size, 

Made  him  perfect  in  each  manly  exercise, 
The  salmon  in  the  flood, 
The  dun  deer  in  the  wood, 
The  eagle  in  the  cloud 

To  surprise, 
On  Ben  Nephin, 
Far  above  the  foggy  fields  of  Tirawley. 

With  the  yellow-knotted  spear-shaft,  with  the 
bow, 

With  the  steel,  prompt  to  deal  shot  and  blow, 

He  taught  him  from  year  to  year, 

And  train'd  him,  without  a  peer, 

For  a  perfect  cavalier, 

Hoping  so — 

Far  his  forethought — 

For  vengeance  on  the  Barretts  of  Tirawley. 

And,   when   mounted   on   his    proud-bounding 

steed, 

Emon  Oge  sat  a  cavalier  indeed  ; 
Like  the  ear  upon  the  wheat, 
When  winds  in  autumn  beat 
On  the  bending  stems,  his  seat ; 

And  the  speed 

Of  his  courser 
Was  the  wind  from  Barna-na-gee1  o'er  Tirawley  ! 

Now  when  fifteen   sunny  summers   thus   were 
spent 

(He  perfected  in  all  accomplishment), 

The  Lynott  said  :  "  My  child, 

We  are  over-long  exiled 

From  mankind  in  this  wild — 
Time  we  went 
Through  the  mountain 

To  the  countries  lying  over-against  Tirawley." 

So,  out  over  mountain-moors,  and  mosses  brown, 
And   green  stream-gathering  vales,   they  jour- 

ney'd  down  ; 
Till,  shining  like  a  star, 
Through  the  dusky  gleams  afar, 
The  bailey  of  Castlebar 


1  Barnt-ns-gee.  I.  e.,  the  cap  of  tho  winds,  la  a  pass  on  the  south- 
*rn  aid*  of  Nepbln  mountain,  nn  the  road  to  Castlebar. 


And  the  town 
Of  Mac  William 
Rose  bright  j»Ix\>  the  wanderers  of  Tirawley. 

"  Look  southward,  my  boy,  and  tell  me,  as  we  go, 

What  seest  thou  by  the  loch-head  below." 

"  Oh,  a  stone-house,  strong  and  great, 

And  a  horse-host  at  the  gate, 

And  their  captain  in  armor  of  plate — 

Grand  the  show  1 

Great  the  glancing ! 
High  the  heroes  of  this  land  below  Tirawley  ! 

"  And  a  beautiful  Woman-chief  by  his  side, 
Yellow  gold  on  all  her  gown-sleeves  wide ; 
And  in  her  hand  a  pearl 
Of  a  young,  little,  fair-hair'd  girl." — 
Said  the  Lynott,  "  It  is  the  Earl ! 

Let  us  ride 

To  his  presence !" 
And  before  him  came  the  exiles  of  Tirawley 

"  God  save  thee,  Mac  William.'-'  the  Lynott  thui 

began ; 

"  God  save  all  here  besides  of  this  clan ; 
For  gossips  dear  to  me 
Are  all  in  company — 
For  in  these  four  bones  ye  see 

A  kindly  man 

Of  the  Britons — 
Emon  Lynott  of  Garranard  of  Tirawley. 

"  And  hither,  as  kindly  gossip-law  allows, 

I  come  to  claim  a  scion  of  thy  house 

To  foster  ;  for  thy  race 

Since  William  Conquer's*  days, 

Have  ever  been  wont  to  place, 

With  some  spouse 

Of  a  Briton, 
A  Mac  William  Oge,  to  foster  in  Tirawley. 

"  And  to  show  thee  in  what  sort  our  youth  are 

taught, 

I  have  hither  to  thy  home  of  valor  brought 
This  one  son  of  my  age, 
For  a  sample  and  a  pledge 
For  the  equal  tutelage, 

In  right  thought, 

Word,  and  action, 
Of  whatever  son  ye  give  into  Tirawley." 


»"  William  Conquer,"  I.  e.,  William  Fits  AJ«lm  de 
conqueror  nf  Connanght. 


626 


POEMS   OF   SAMUEL  FERGUSON 


When  Mac  William  beheld  the  brave  boy  ride 

and  run, 
Saw   the   spear-shaft    from    his   white   shoulder 

spun — 

With  a  sigh,  and  with  a  smile, 
He  said  :  "  I  would  give  the  spoil 
Of  a  county,  that  Tibbot1  Moyle, 
My  own  son, 
Were  accomplished 
Like  this  branch  of  the  kindly  Britons  of  Tiraw- 

ley." 

When  the  Lady  Mac  William  she  heard  him 

speak, 

And  saw  the  ruddy  roses  on  his  cheek, 
She  said  :  u  I  would  give  a  purse 
Of  red  gold  to  the  nurse 
That  would  rear  my  Tibbot  no  worse  ; 

But  I  seek 

Hitherto  vainly — 

Heaven  grant  that  I  now  have  found  her  in  Ti- 
lawley  !" 

So  they  said  to  the  Lynott :  "  Here,  take  onr  bird  ! 
And  as  pledge  for  the  keeping  of  thy  word, 
Let  this  scion  here  remain 
Till  thou  comest  back  again  : 
Meanwhile  the  fitting  train 

Of  a  lord 

Shall  attend  thee 

With  the  lordly  heir  of  Connaught  into  Tiraw- 
ley." 

So  back  to  strong-throng-gathering  Garranard, 
Like  a  lord  of  the  country  with  his  guard, 
Came  the  Lynott,  before  them  all. 
Once  again  over  Clochan-na-n'all, 
Steady-striding,  erect,  and  tall, 

And  his  ward 

On  his  shoulders; 
To  the  wonder  of  the  Welshmen  of  Tirawley. 

Then  a  diligent  foster-father  you  would  deem 
The  Lynott,  teaching  Tibbot,  by  mead  and  stream, 
To  cast  the  spear,  to  ride, 
To  stem  the  rushing  tide, 
With  what  feats  of  body  beside 

Might  beseem 

A  Mac  William, 
Foster'd  free  among  the  Welshmen  of  Tirawlev. 

1  Tibbot,  th»t  is,  Theobald. 


But  the  lesson  of  hell  he  taught  him  in  heart 

and  mind ; 

For  to  what  desire  soever  he  inclined, 
Of  anger,  lust,  or  pride, 
He  had  it  gratified, 
Till  he  ranged  the  circle  wide 

Of  a  blind 

Self-indulgence, 
Ere  he  came  to  youthful  manhood  in  Tirawley, 

Then,  even  as  when  a  hunter  slips  a  hound, 
Lynott  loosed  him — God's  leashes  all  unbound — 
In  the  pride  of  power  and  station, 
And  the  strength  of  youthful  passion, 
On  the  daughters  of  thy  nation, 

Ail  around, 

Wattin  Barrett ! 
Oh,  the  vengeance  of  the  Welshmen  of  Tirawley  ! 

Bitter  grief  and  burning  anger,  rage  and  shame, 
Fill'd  the  houses  of  the   Barretts   where'er  he 

came; 

Till  the  young  men  of  the  Bac 
Drew  by  night  upon  Ins  track, 
And  slww  him  at  Cornassack — * 
Small  your  blame. 
Sons  of  Wattin  ! 
Sing  the  vengeance  of  the  Welshmen  of  Tirawley. 

Said  the  Lynott :  "  The  day  of  my  vengeance  is 

drawing  near, 
The  day  for  which,  through  many  a  long  dark 

year, 

I  have  toil'd  through  grief  and  sin — 
Call  ye  now  the  Brehons  in, 
And  let  the  plea  begin 

Over  the  bier 
Of  Mac  William, 
For  an  eric  upon  the  Barretts  of  Tirawley.8 


1  "This  is  still  vividly  remembered  in  the  country,  and  the  spot 
i*  pointed  out  where  Teaboid  Maol  Burke  was  killed  by  the  Bar- 
retts. The  recollection  of  it  has  been  kept  alive  in  certain  verses, 
which  were  composed  on  the  occasion,  of  which  the  following 
quatrain  is  often  repeated  in  the  barony  of  Tirawley : 

Tangadar  Baireadiiigh,  &c. 

"  The  Barretts  of  the  country  came; 
They  perpetrated  a  deed  which  was  not  just; 
They  s^hc-d  blood  which  was  uoliler  than  wine, 
At  the  narrow  brook  of  Corna*ack." 

O'Donovan,  Tr.  and  Oust.  ffy.  Fiach.,  83S  n 

The  territory  of  the  Bac  lies  over  ngainst  Nephin  mountain 
along  the  eastern  shore  of  Loch  Con,  between  it  and  the  rivet 
Moy. 

*  The  eric  was  the  fine  for  maimings  and  homicides.  When 
the  first  sheriff  was  sent  into  Tyrone,  O'Neill  demanded  to  kr>..\» 


POEMS  OF  SAMUEL   FERGUSON. 


627 


Then  the  Brehons  to  Mac  William  Burke  decreed 
An  eric  upon  Clan  Barrett  for  the  deed  ; 
And  the  Lynott's  share  of  the  tine, 
As  foster-father,  was  nine 
Ploughlands  and  nine  score  kine  ; 

But  no  need 

Had  the  Lynott, 
Neither  care,  for  land  or  cattle  in  Tirawley. 

But  rising,  while  all  sat  silent  on  the  spot, 

He  said  :  "The  law  says  —  doth  it  not  ?  — 

If  the  foster-sire  elect 

His  portion  to  reject, 

He  may  then  the  right  exact 

To  applot 

The  short  eric." 
u'Tis  the  law,"  replied  the  Brehons  of  Tirawley. 

Said  the  Lynott  :  "  I  once  before  had  a  choice 
Proposed  me,  wherein  law  had  little  voice  ; 
But  now  I  choose,  and  say, 
As  lawfully  I  may, 
f  applot  the  mulct  to-day  ; 
So  rejoice 

In  your  ploughlands 

And  your  cattle  which  I  renounce  throughout 
Tirawley. 

*'  And  thus  I  applot  the  mulct  :  I  divide 

The  land  throughout  Clan  Barrett  on  every  side 

Equally,  that  no  place 

May  be  without  the  face 

Of  a  foe  of  Wattin's  race  — 

That  the  pride 

Of  the  Barretts 

May  be  humbled  hence  forever  throughout  Ti- 
rawley. 

44  1  adjudge  a  seat  in  every  Barrett's  hall 
To  Mac  William  :  in  every  stable  I  give  a  stall 
To  Mac  William  :  and,  beside, 
Whenever  a  Burke  shall  ride 
Through  Tirawley,  I  provide 
At  his  call 


groomng, 
Without  charge  from  any  hostler  of  Tirawley. 


lilt  *r%c  beforehand,  in  the  event,  reasonably  anticipated,  of  \><t- 
tonal  injury  befalling  him.  Singular,  that  while  modern  Under- 
nev  <>f  human  life  would  abolish  the  punishment  of  death  In  cases 
of  hnmlrlde.  It  Ignores  the  barbarian  wisdom  which  pave  com- 
pilation to  the  family  of  the  victim. 


"Thus  lawfully  I  avenge  me  for  the  throe* 
Ye  lawlessly  caused  me  and  caused  tho<*e 
Unhappy  shamefaced  ones, 
Who,  their  mothers  expected  once, 
Would  have  been  the  sires  of  sons — 

O'er  whose  woes 

Often  weeping, 
I  have  groan'd  in  my  exile  from  Tirawley. 

"  I  demand  not  of  you  your  manhood ;  bat  I 

take — 
For  the  Burkes  will  take  it — your  Freedom  I  for 

the  sake 

Of  which  all  manhood's  given, 
And  all  good  under  heaven, 
And,  without  which,  better  even 
Ye  should  make 
Yourselves  barren, 
Than  see  your  children  slaves  throughout  Tiraw 

ley  ! 

"  Neither  take  I  your  eyesight  from  you  ;  as  yon 

took 

Mine  and  ours :  I  would  have  you  daily  look 
On  one  another's  eyes, 
When  the  strangers  tyrannize 
By  your  hearths,  and  blushes  arise, 

That  ye  brook, 

Without  vengeance, 

The  insults  of  troops  of  Tibbots  throughout  Ti 
rawley ! 

"  The  vengeance  I  design 'd,  now  is  done, 
And  the  days  of  me  and  mine  nearly  run — 
For,  for  this,  I  have  broken  faith, 
Teaching  him  who  lies  beneath 
This  pall,  to  merit  death  ; 

And  my  son 

To  his  father 
Stan.ls  pledged  for  other  teaching  in  Tirawley/ 

Said  Mac  William,  "  Father  and  son,  hang  thec. 

high !" 

And  the  Lynott  they  hang'd  speedily ; 
But  across  the  salt  sea  water, 
To  Scotland,  with  the  daughter 
Of  Mac  William — well  you  got  her ! — 

Did  you  fly, 

Edmund  Lindsay, 
The  gentlest  of  all  the  Welshmen  of  TirawlejJ 


€28 


POEMS   OF  SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 


Tis  thus  the  ancient  Ollaves  of  Erin  tell1 
How,  through  lewdness  and  revenge,  it  befell 
That  the  sons  of  William  Conquer 
Came  over  the  sons  of  Wattin, 
Throughout  all  the  bounds  and  borders 

o 

Of  the  land  of  Auley  Mac  Fiachra;9 
Till  the  Saxon  Oliver  Cromwell, 
And  his  valiant,  Bible-guided, 
Exee  heretics  of  Clan  London 
Coining  in,  in  their  succession, 
Rooted  out  both  Burke  and  Barrett, 
And  in  their  empty  places 
New  stems  of  freedom  planted, 
With  many  a  goodly  sapling 
Of  manliness  and  virtue  ; 
Which  while  their  children  cherish, 
Kindly  Irish  of  the  Irish, 
Neither  Saxons  nor  Italians, 
May  the  mighty  God  of  Freedom 

Speed  them  well, 

Never  taking 
Further  vengeance  on  his  people  of  Tirawley. 


OWEN  BAWN. 

"William  de  Burgho,  third  Earl  of  Ulster,  pursued  the  Angli- 
can policy  of  his  day  with  so  much  severity,  that  the  native  Irish 
generally  withdrew  from  the  counties  of  Down  and  Antrim,  and 
established  themselves  in  Tyrone,  with  Hugh  Boy  O'Neill.  Wil- 
liam's rigid  prohibition  of  intermarriages  with  the  natives  led  to 
his  assassination  by  his  own  relatives,  the  Mandevillcs,  at  the  Ford 
of  Belfast,  A.  D.  1333.  The  Irish  then  returned  from  beyond  the 
river  Bann,  and  expelled  the  English  from  all  Ulster,  except  Car- 
rickfergus  and  the  barony  of  Ards  in  Down  :  and  so  continued 
until  their  subjugation  by  Sir  Henry  Sidney  and  Sir  Arthur  Chi- 
chester,  in  the  reign  of  Queen  Elizabeth. 

Simultaneously  with  the  return  of  tire  Clan  Hugh-Boy  in  the 
north,  the  great  Anglo-Norman  families  of  Connaught  adopted 
Irish  names  and  manners,  the  De  Burghos  assuming  the  name  of 
Mac  William,  and  all  accommodating  themselves  to  the  Irish  sys- 
tem of  life  and  government,  in  which,  with  few  exceptions,  they 
continued  until  their  subjugation  by  Sir  Richard  Bingham,  in  the 
reign  of  King  Henry  the  Eighth. 


1  The  writer  has  hardly  caught  the  full  pathos  of  that  remark- 
able passage  translated  below,  with  which  Duald  Mac  Firbis,  the 
chronicler  of  Lecan,  winds  up  his  account  of  the  retribution  thus 
singularly  brought  on  the  descendants  of  Wattin  Barrett.  u  It 
was  in  eric  for  hiai  (Teaboid  Maol  Burke)  that  the  Barretts  gave 
up  to  the  Burkes  eighteen  quitters  of  land  :  and  the  share  which 
Lynott,  the  adopted  father  of  Teaboid,  asked  of  this  eric,  was  the 
distribution  of  the  mulct;  and  the  distribution  he  made  of  it  was, 
that  it  should  be  divided  throughout  all  Tir-Amhalgaidh,  in  order 
that  the  Burkes  might  be  stationed  in  every  part  of  it  as  plagues 
to  the  Barretts,  and  to  draw  the  country  from  them.  And  thus 
the  Burkes  came  over  the  Barretts  in  Tir-Amhalgaidh,  and  took 
nearly  the  whole  of  their  lands  from  them  ;  but  at  length  the 
£txon  heretics  of  Oliver  Cromwell  took  it  from  them  all  in  the 
year  of  our  Lord  1652;  so  that  now  there  is  neither  Barrett  nor 
Burke,  not  to  mention  the  Clan  Fiachrach,  in  possession  of  any 
lands  there."— O'Donovan,  Tr.  and  Oust.  Hy.  fiach.,  p.  339. 

1  Pronounced,  Mac  Eeara. 


MY  Owen  Bawn's  hair  is  of  thread  of  gold  spun  ; 
Of  gold  in  the  shadow,  of  light  in  the  sun  ; 
All  curl'd  in  a  coolun  the  bright  tresses  are — 
They  make  his  head  radiant  with  beams  like  a 
star ! 

My  Owen  Bawn's  mantle  is  long  and  is  wide, 
To  wrap  me  up  safe  from  the  storm  by  his  side ; 
And  I'd  rather  face  snow-drift  and  winter-wind 

there, 
Than  lie  among  daisies  and  sunshine  elsewhere. 

My  Owen  Bawn  Quin  is  a  hunter  of  deer, 

He  tracts  the  dun  quarry  with  arrow  and  spear — 

Where  wild  woods  are  waving,  and  deep  waters 

flow, 
Ah,  there  goes  my  love  with  the  dun-dappled  roe. 

My  Owen  Bawn  Quin  is  a  bold  fisherman, 

He  spears  the  strong  salmon  in  midst  of   the 

Bann  ; 
And  rock'd   in   the  tempest  on  stormy  Lough 

Neagh, 
Draws  up  the  red  trout  through  the  bursting  of 

spray. 

My  Owen  Bawn  Quin  is  a  bard  of  the  best, 

He  wakes  me  with  singing,  he  sings  me  to  rest; 

And  the  cruit  'neath  his  fingers  rings  up  with  a 
sound, 

As  though  angels  harp'd  o'er  us,  and  fays  under- 
ground. 

They  tell  me  the  stranger  has  given  command 
That  crommeal  and  coolun  shall  cease   in   the 

land, 

That  all  our  youths'  tresses  of  yellow  be  shorn, 
And  bonnets,  instead,  of  a  new  fashion,  worn ; 

That  mantles  like  Owen  Bawn's  shield  us  no 

more, 

That  hunting  and  fishing  henceforth  we  give  o'er, 
That  the  net  and  the  arrow  aside  must  be  laid, 
For  hammer  and  trowel,  and  mattock  and  spade ; 

That  the  echoes  of  music  must  sleep  in  their 

caves, 
That  the  slave  must  forget  his  own  tongue  for  a 

slave's, 
That  the  sounds  of  our  lips  must  be  strange  in 

our  ears, 
And  our  bleeding  hands  toil  in  the  dew  of  our 

tears. 


POEMS  OF   SAMUEL   FERGUSON. 


0  sweetheart  and   comfort!  with  thee  by  iny 

side, 

1  could  love  and  live  happy,  whatever  betide  ; 
But  thou,  in  such  bondage,  wouldst  die  ere  a 

day — 
Away  to  Tir-oCn,  then,  Owen,  away  ! 

There  are  wild  woods  and  mountains,  and  streams 

deep  and  clear, 

There  are  loughs  in  Tir-oe'n  as  lovely  as  here; 
There  are  silver  harps  ringing  in  Yellow  Hugh's 

hall, 
And  a  bower  by  the  forest  side,  sweetest  of  all ! 

We  will  dwell  by  the  sunshiny  skirts  of  the  brake, 
Where  the  sycamore  shadows  glow  deep  in  the 

lake  ; 
And  the  snowy  swan,  stirring  the  green  shadows 

there, 
Afloat  on  the  water,  seems  floating  in  air. 

Away  to  Tir-oe'n,  then,  Owen,  away  ! 

We  will  leave  them  the  dust  from  our  feet  for  a 

prey, 

And  our  dwelling  in  ashes  and  flames  for  a  spoil — 
Twill  be  long  ere  they  quench  them  with  streams 

of  the  Foyle  ! 


GRACE  O'MALY. 

The  return  to  English  rule  and  habits  of  the  Anglo-Norman 
families*  of  Connaught  who  had  Hibernicised  after  the  murder  of 
William  de  Burgho,  was  not  effected  without  a  long  alienation  of 
the  popular  affections,  which  bad  been  bestowed  upon  them  as 
freely  as  on  native  rulers:  "  for,"  to  tige  the  words  of  a  contempo- 
rary Irish  chronicler,  "the  old  chit-ruins  of  Erin  prospered 
under  these  princely  English  lords  who  were  our  chief  rulers,  and 
who  had  given  up  their  forelgnness  for  a  pure  mind,  and  their 
surliness  for  good  manners,  and  their  stubbornness  fur  sweet  mild- 
ness, and  who  bad  given  up  their  pervcrseness  for  hospitality."1 
During  this  troubled  period  of  transition,  Omce  O'Maly,  lady  of 
Sir  Kickard  Burke,  styled  Mac  William  Eigliter,  distinguished 
herself  by  a  life  of  wayward  adventure,  which  hit*  made  her  name, 
in  its  Gaelic  form,  Grana  UaiU  (I.  t.,  Orana  I'n  JJhailt)  a  per- 
sonification, among  the  Irish  peasuntry,  of  that  social  state  which 
they  still  consider  preferable  to  the  results  of  a  more  advanced 
civilization.  The  real  acts  and  character  of  the  heroine  are  hardly 
Men  through  the  veil  of  imagination  under  which  the  personifled 
(de*  exists  in  the  popular  mind,  and  Is  here  presented. 

SHE  left  the  close-air'd  land  of  trees 
And  proud  Mac  William's  palace, 

For  clear,  bare  Clare's  health-salted  breeze, 
Her  oarsmen  and  her  galleys : 


1  O'Donovan,  Tr.  and  Cutt.  of  Uy.  Many,  p.  136. 


And  where,  beside  the  bending  stratxi, 

The  rock  and  billow  wrestle, 
Between  the  deep  sea  and  the  land, 

She  built  her  Island  Castle. 

The  Spanish  captains,  sailing  by 

For  Newport,  with  amazement 
Beheld  the  cannon'd  longship  lie 

Moor'cl  to  the  lady's  casement  ; 
And,  covering  coin  and  cup  of  gold 

In  haste  their  hatches  under, 
They  whisper'd,  "Tis  a  pirate's  hold  ; 

She  sails  the  seas  for  plunder  !" 

But  no  :  'twas  not  for  sordid  spoil 

Of  bark  or  seaboard  borough 
She  plough'd,  with  uri  fatiguing  toil, 

The  fluent-rolling  furrow  ; 
Delighting,  on  the  broad-back'd  deep, 

To  feel  the  quivering  galley 
Strain  up  the  opposing  hill,  and  sweep 

Down  the  withdrawing  valley  : 

Or,  sped  before  a  driving  blast, 

By  following  seas  uplifted, 
Catch,  from  the  huge  heaps  heaving  past, 

And  from  the  spray  they  drifted, 
And  from  the  winds  that  toss'd  the  crest 

Of  each  wide-shouldering  giant, 
The  smack  of  freedom  and  the  zest 

Of  rapturous  life  defiant. 

For,  oh  !  the  mainland  time  was  pent 

In  close  constraint  and  striving  :  — 
So  many  aims  together  bent 

On  winning  and  on  thriving; 
There  was  no  room  for  generous  ease, 

No  sympathy  for  candor  ; 
And  so  she  left  Burke's  buzzing  trees, 

And  all  his  stony  splendor. 


For  Erin  yet  bad  fields  to  spare, 

Where  Clew  her  cincture  gathers 
Isle-gemm'd  ;  and  kindly  clans  were 

The  fosterers  of  her  fathers  : 
Room  there  for  careless  feet  to  roam 

Secure  from  minions'  peeping, 
For  fearless  mirth  to  find  a  home 

And  sympathetic  weeping; 

And  generous  ire  and  frank  disdain 
To  speak  the  mind,  nor  ponder 


630 


POEMS  OF  SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 


How  this  in  England,  that  in  Spain, 
Might  suit  to  tell ;  as  yonder, 

Where  daily  on  the  slippery  dais, 
By  thwarting  interests  chequer'd, 

State  gamesters  play  the  social  chess 
Of  politic  Clanrickard. 


Nor  wanting  quite  the  lonely  isle 

In  civic  life's  adornings : 
The  Brehon's  Court  might  well  beguile 

A  learned  lady's  mornings. 
Quaint  though  the  clamorous  claim,  and  rude 

The  pleading  that  convey'd  it, 
Right  conscience  made  the  judgment  good, 

And  loyal  love  obey'd  it. 


And  music  sure  was  sweeter  far 

For  ears  of  native  nurture, 
Than  virginals  at  Castlebar 

To  tinkling  touch  of  courtier, 
When  harpers  good  in  hall  struck  up 

The  plauxty's  gay  commotion, 
Or  pipers  scream'd  from  pennon'd  poop 

Their  piobroch  over  ocean. 


And  sweet  to  see,  their  ruddy  bloom 

Whom  ocean's  friendly  distance 
Preserved  still  unenslaved  ;  for  whom 

No  tasking  of  existence 
Made  this  one  rich,  and  that  one  poor, 

In  gold's  illusive  treasure, 
But  all,  of  easy  life  secure, 

Were  rich  in  wealth  of  leisure. 


Rich  in  the  Muse's  pensive  hour, 

In  genial  hour  for  neighbor, 
Rich  in  young  mankind's  happy  power 

To  live  with  little  labor ; 
The  wise,  free  way  of  life,  indeed, 

That  still,  with  charm  adaptive, 
Reclaims  and  tames  the  alien  greed, 

And  takes  the  conqueror  captive. 


Nor  only  life's  unclouded  looks 
To  compensate  its  rudenwss ; 

Amends  there  were  in  holy  books, 
In  offices  of  goodness. 


In  cares  above  the  transient  scene 
Of  little  gains  and  honors, 

That  well  repaid  the  Island  Queen 
Her  loss  of  urban  manners. 


Sweet,  when  the  crimson  sunsets  glcw'd, 

As  earth  and  sky  grew  grander, 
Adown  the  grass'd,  unechoing  road 

Atlanticward  to  wander, 
Some  kinsman's  humbler  hearth  to  seek, 

Some  sick-bed  side,  it  may  be, 
Or,  onward  reach,  with  footsteps  meek, 

The  low,  gray,  lonely  abbey  : 


And,  where  the  storied  stone  beneath 

The  guise  of  plant  and  creature, 
Had  fused  the  harder  lines  of  faith 

In  easy  forms  of  nature  ; 
Such  forms  as  tell  the  master's  pains 

'Mong  Roslin's  carven  glories, 
Or  hint  the  faith  of  Pictish  Thanes 

On  standing  stones  of  Forres  ; 

The  Branch  ;  the  weird  cherubic  Beasts  ; 

The  Hart  by  hounds  o'ertaken  ; 
Or,  intimating  mystic  feasts, 

The  sclf-resorbent  Dragon  ; — 
Mute  symbols,  though  with  power  endow'd 

For  finer  dogmas'  teaching, 
Than  clerk  might  tell  to  carnal  crowd 

In  homily,  or  preaching  ; — 

Sit ;  and  while  heaven's  refulgent  show 

Grew  airier  and  more  tender, 
And  ocean's  gleaming1  floor  below 

Reflected  loftier  splendor, 
Suffused  with  light  of  lingering  faith 

And  ritual  light's  reflection, 
Discourse  of  birth,  and  life,  and  death, 

And  of  the  resurrection. 


But  chiefly  sweet  from  morn  to  eve, 

From  eve  to  clear-eyed  morning, 
The  presence  of  the  felt  reprieve 

From  strangers'  note  and  scorning  , 
No  prying,  proud,  intrusive  foes 

To  pity  and  offend  her  : 
Such  was  the  life  the  lady  chose ; 

Such  choosing,  we  commend  her. 


POEMS   OF  SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 


G31 


gallabs 


0ems. 


THE  FAIRY  THORN. 

AN    ULSTER    BALLAD. 

**  GXT  up,  our  Anna  dear,  from  the  weary  spin- 
ning-wheel ; 
For  your  Other's  on  the  hill,  and  your  mother 

is  asleep  : 

Come  up  above  the  crags,  and  we'll  dance  a  high- 
land reel 
Around  the  fairy  thorn  on  the  steep." 

At  Anna  Grace's  door  'twas  thus  the  maidens 

cried, 
Three   merry  maidens  fair  in  kirtles  of  the 

green ; 
And  Anna  laid  the  rock  and  the  weary  wheel 

aside, 
The  fairest  of  the  four,  I  ween. 

They're  glancing  through  the  glimmer  of  the 

quiet  eve, 
Away  in  milky  wavings  of  neck  and  ankle 

bare  ; 
The  heavy-sliding  stream  in  its  sleepy  song  they 

leave, 
And  the  crags  in  the  ghostly  air  : 

And  linking  hand  and  hand,  and  singing  as  they 

g°. 
The  maids  along  the  hill-side  have  ta'en  their 

fearless  way, 
Till  they  come  to  where  the  rowan-trees  in  lonely 

beauty  grow 
Beside  the  Fairy  Hawthorn  gray. 

The  Hawthorn  stands  between  the  ashes  tall  and 

slim, 
Like  matron  with  her  twin  grand-daughters 

at  her  knee ; 
The  rowan-berries  cluster  o'er  her  low  head  gray 

and  dim, 
ID  ruddy  kisses  sweet  to  see. 


The  merry  maidens  four  have  ranged  them  in  a 

row, 
Between  each  lovely  couple  a  stately  rowan 

stem, 
And  away  in  mazes  wavy,  like  skimming  birds 

they  go : 
Oh,  never  caroll'd  bird  like  them ! 

But  solemn  is  the  silence  of  the  silvery  haze 
That  drinks  away  their  voices  in  echoless  re- 
pose, 
And  dreamily  the  evening  has  still'd  the  haunted 

braes, 
And  dreamier  the  gloaming  grows. 

And  sinking  one  by  one,  like  lark-notes  from  the 

sky 
When  the  falcon's  shadow  saileth  across  the 

open  shaw, 
Are  hush'd  the  maidens'  voices,  as  cowering  down 

they  lie 
In  the  flutter  of  their  sudden  awe. 

For,  from  the  air  above,  and  the  grassy  ground 

beneath, 
And  from    the  mountain-ashes  and   the   o.u 

White-thorn  between, 
A  Power  of  faint  enchantment  doth  through  tJ«r 

beings  breathe, 
And  they  siuk  down  together  on  the  greeu. 

They  sink  together  silent,  and  stealing  side  to 

side, 

They  fling  their  lovely  arms  o'er  their  droop- 
ing necks  so  fain, 
Then  vainly  strive   again  their  naked   arms  to 

hide, 
For  their  shrinking  necks  again  are  bare. 

Thus  claap'd  and  prostrate  all,  with  their  headf 

together  bow'd, 

Soft  o'er  their  bosom's  beating — the  only  hu 
man  sound — 


632 


POEMS   OF  SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 


They  hear  the  silky  footsteps  of  the  silent  fairy 

crowd, 
Like  a  river  in  the  air,  gliding  round. 

No  scream  can  any  raise,  nor  prayer  can  any 

s*y, 

But  wild,  wild,  the  terror  of  the  speechless 

three — 
For   they  feel  fair  Anna   Grace  drawn  silently 

away, 
By  whom  they  dare  not  look  to  see. 

They  feel  their  tresses  twine  with  her  parting 

locks  of  gold, 

And  the  curls  elastic  falling,  as  her  head  with- 
draws ; 
They  feel  her  sliding  arms  from  their  tranced 

arms  unfold, 
But  they  may  not  look  to  see  the  cause : 

For  heavy  on  their  senses  the  faint  enchantment 

lies 
Through  all  that  night  of  anguish  and  perilous 

amaze ; 

A.nd  neither  fear  nor  wonder  can  ope  their  quiv- 
ering, eyes, 
Or  their  limbs  from  the  cold  ground  raise, 

Till  out  of  night  the  earth  has  roll'd  her  dewy 

side, 
With  every  haunted   mountain  and  streamy 

vale  below ; 

When,  as  the  mist  dissolves  in  the  yellow  morn- 
ing tide, 
The  maidens'  trance  dissolveth  so. 

Then  fly  the  ghastly  three  as  swiftly  as  they  may, 
And  tell  their  tale  of  sorrow  to  anxious  friends 

in  vain — 
They  pined  away  and  died  within  the  year  and 

day, 
And  ne'er  was  Anna  Grace  seen  again. 


WILLY  GILLILAND. 

AN  ULSTER  BALLAD. 

UP  in  the  mountain  solitudes,  and  in  a  rebel 

ring, 
He  has  worshipp'd  God  upon  the  hill,  in  spite  of 

church  and  king ; 


And  seal'd  his  treason  with  his  blood  on  Both- 
well  bridge  he  hath  ; 

So  he  must  fly  his  father's  land,  or  he  must  die 
the  death ; 

For  comely  Claverhouse  has  come  along,  with 
grim  Dalzell, 

And  his  smoking  roof-tree  testifies  they've  done 
their  errand  well. 

In  vain  to  fly  his  enemies  he  fled  his  native  land  ; 
Hot  persecution  waited  him  upon  the  Carrick 

strand  ; 
His  name  was  on  the  Carrick  cross,  a  price  was 

on  his  head, 
A  fortune  to  the  man  that  brings  him  in  alive  or 

dead  ! 
And  so  on  moor  and  mountain,  from  the  Lagan 

to  the  Bann, 
From  house  to  house  and   liill  to  hill,  he  lurk'd 

an  outlaw'd  man. 

At  last,  when  in  false  company  he  might  no 
longer  bide, 

He  stay'd  his  houseless  wanderings  upon  the 
Collon  side, 

There,  in  a  cave  all  underground,  he  lair'd  his 
heathy  den  : 

Ah,  many  a  gentleman  was  fain  to  earth  like  hill- 
fox  then ! 

With  hound  and  fishing-rod  he  lived  on  hill  and 
stream  by  day  ; 

At  night,  betwixt  his  fleet  greyhound  and  hia 
bonny  mare  he  lay. 

It  was  a  summer  evening,  and,  mellowing  and 

still, 
Glenwhirry  to  the  setting  sun  lay  bare  from  hill 

to  hill ; 
For  all  that  valley  pastoral  held  neither  houso 

nor  tree, 
But  spread  abroad  and  open  all,  a  full  fair  sight 

to  see, 
From  Slemish  foot  to  Collon  top  lay  one  unbroken 

green, 
Save  where,  in  many  a   silver    coil,  the   river 

glanced  between. 

And  on  the  river's  grassy  bank,  even  from  the 

morning  gray, 
He  at  the  angler's  pleasant  sport  had  spent  the 

summer  day : 


POEMS  OF  SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 


033 


Ah  !  manv  a  time  and  oft  I've  spent  the  summer 
day  from  dawn, 

And  wonder'd,  whes  the  sunset  came,  where 
time  and  care  had  gone, 

Along  the  reaches  curling  fresh,  the  wimpling 
pools  and  streams, 

Where  he  that  day  his  cares  forgot  in  those  de- 
lightful dreams. 

His  blithe  work  done,  upon  a  bank  the  outlaw 

rested  now, 
And  laid  the  basket  from  his  back,  the  bonnet 

from  his  brow  ; 
And  there,  his  hand  upon  the  Book,  his  knee 

upon  the  sod, 
He  fill'd  the  lonely   valley  with  the  gladsome 

word  of  God  ; 
And  for  a  persecuted  kirk,  and  for  her  martyrs 

dear, 
And  against  a  godless  church  and  king  he  spoke 

up  loud  and  clear. 

And  now,  upon   his  homeward  way,  he  cross'd 

the  Collon  high, 
And  over  bush  and  bank  and  brae  he  sent  abroad 

his  eye ; 
But  all  was  darkening  peacefully  in  gray  and 

purple  haze, 
The  thrush  was  silent  in  the  banks,  the  lark  upon 

the  braes — 
When  suddenly  shot  up  a  blaze,  from  the  cave's 

mouth  it  came ; 
And    troopers'   steeds    and   troopers'   caps    are 

glancing  in  the  same! 

He  couch'd  among  the  heather,  and  he  saw  them, 

as  he  lay, 
With  three  long  yells  at  parting,  ride  lightly 

east  away  : 
Then  down  with  heavy  heart  he  came,  to  sorry 

cheer  came  he, 
For  ashes  black  were  crackling  where  the  green 

whins  used  to  be, 
And    stretch'd   among  the  prickly  coomb,  his 

heart's  blood  smoking  round, 
From  slender  nose  to  breast-bone  cleft,  lay  dead 

his  good  greyhound ! 

"They've  slain  my  dog,  the  Philistines!  they've 

ta'en  my  bonny  marc  !" — 
He  plunged  into  the  smoky   hole;    no   bonny 

beast  was  there — 


He  groped  beneath  his  burning  bed  (it  burn'd 
him  to  the  bone), 

Where  his  good  weapon  used  to  be,  but  broad- 
sword there  was  none  ; 

He  reel'd  out  of  the  stifling  den,  and  sat  down 
on  a  stone, 

And  in  the  shadows  of  the  night  'twas  thus  he 
made  his  moan — 

"  I  am  a  houseless  outcast ;  I  have  neither  bed 
nor  board, 

Nor  living  thing  to  look  upon,  nor  comfort  save 
the  Lord  : 

Yet  many  a  time  were  better  men  in  worse  ex- 
tremity ; 

Who  succor'd  them  in  their  distress,  He  now 
will  succor  me, — 

He  now  will  succor  me,  I  know;  and,  by  HU 
holy  Name, 

I'll  make  the  doers  of  this  deed  right  dearly  rue 
the  same ! 

"  My  bonny  mare  !  I've  ridden  you  when  Claver'se 

rode  behind, 
And  from  the  thumbscrew  and   the  boot  you 

bore  me  like  the  wind  ; 
And,  while  I  have  the  life  you  saved,  on  youi 

sleek  flank,  I  swear, 

Episcopalian  rowel  shall  never  ruffle  hair  ! 
Though  sword  to  wield  they've  left  ine  none — 

yet  Wallace  wight,  I  wis, 
Good  battle  did  on  Irvine  side  wi'  waur  weapon 

than  this." — 

His  fishing-rod  with  both  his  hands  he  griped  it 
as  he  spoke, 

And,  where  the  butt  and  top  were  spliced,  in 
pieces  twain  he  broke  ; 

The  limber  top  he  cast  away,  with  all  its  gear 
abroad, 

But,  grasping  the  tough  hickory  butt,  with  spike 
of  iron  shod, 

He  ground  the  sharp  spear  to  a  point ;  then 
pull'd  his  bonnet  down, 

And,  meditating  black  revenge,  set  forth  for  Car- 
rick  town. 

The  sun  shines  bright  on  Carrick  wall  and  Car- 
rick  Castle  gray, 

And  up  thine  aisle,  St.  Nicholas,  has  ta'en  his 
morning  wav, 

And  to  the  Xorth-Gate  sentinel  displayeth,  far 
and  near, 


634 


POEMS   OF  SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 


Sea,  hill,  and   tower,  and  all  thereon,  in  dewy 

freshness  clear, 
Save  where,  behind  a  ruin'd  wall,  himself  alone 

to  view, 
Is  peering  from  the  ivy  green  a  bonnet  of  the 

blue. 

The  sun  shines  red  on  Carrick  wall  and  Carriek 

Castle  old, 
And  all  the  western  buttresses  have  changed  their 

gray  for  gold  ; 
And  from  thy  shrine,  Saint  Nicholas,  the  pilgrim 

of  the  sky 
Has  gone  in  rich   farewell,   as  fits  such  royal 

votary ; 
Bat,  as  his  last  red  glance  he  takes  down  past 

black  Slieve-a-true, 
He  leaveth  where  he  found  it  first  the  bonnet  of 

the  blue. 


Again  he  makes  the  turrets  gray  stand  out  before 
the  hill ; 

Constant  as  their  foundation-rock,  there  is  the 
bonnet  still ! 

And  now  the  gates  are  open'd,  and  forth,  in  gal- 
lant show, 

Prick  jeering  grooms  and  burghers  blythe,  and 
troopers  in  a  row  ; 

But  one  has  little  care  for  jest,  so  hard  bested  is 
he 

To  ride  the  outlaw's  bonny  mare,  for  this  at  last 
is  she! 

Down  comes  her  master  with  a  roar,  her  rider 

with  a  groan, 
The    iron    and    the   hickory    are    through    and 

through  him  gone ! 
He  lies  a  corpse ;  and  where  he  sat,  the  outlaw 

sits  again, 
And  once  more  to  his  bonny  mare  he  gives  the 

spur  and  rein ; 
Then  some  \\  ith  sword,  and  some  with  gun,  they 

ride  and  run  amain  ; 
But  sword  and  gun,  and  whip  and  spur,  that  day 

they  plied  in  vain ! 

Ah !  little  thought  Willy  Gilliland,  when  he  on 

Skerry  side 
Drew  bridle  first,  and  wiped  his  brow  after  that 

weary  ride, 


That  where  he  lay  like  hunted  brute,  a  cavern'd 

outlaw  lone, 
Broad  lands  and  yeoman  tenantry  should  yet  be 

there  his  own  : 
Yet  so  it  was  ;  and  still  from  him  descendants 

not  a  few 
Draw  birth  and  lands,  and,  let  me  trust,  draw 

love  of  Freedom  too. 


THE  FORGING  OF  THE  ANCHOR. 

COME,  see  the  Dolphin's  anchor  forged — 'tis  at  a 

white  heat  now : 
The  bellows  ceased,  the  flames  decreased — though 

on  the  forge's  brow 
The  little  flames  still  fitfully  play  through  the 

sable  mound, 
And  fitfully  you  still  may  see  the  grim  smiths 

ranking  round, 
All  clad  in  leathern  panoply,  their  broad  hands 

only  bare  : 
Some  rest  upon  their  sledges  here,  some  work 

the  windlass  there. 

The  windlass  strains  the  tackle  chains,  the  black 

mound  heaves  below, 
And  red  and  deep  a  hundred  veins  burst  out  at 

every  throe: 
It   rises,  roars,  rends  all  outright  —  0   Vulcan, 

what  a  glow ! 
'Tis  blinding  white,  'tis  blasting  bright — the  high 

sun  shines  not  so  ! 
The  high  sun  sees  not,  on  the  earth,  such  fiery 

fearful  show, 
The  roof-ribs  swarth,  the  candent  hearth,  the 

ruddy  lurid  row 
Of  smiths  that  stand,  an  ardent  band,  like  men 

before  the  foe, 
As,  quivering,  through  his  fleece  of  flame,  the 

sailing  monster,  slow 
Sinks  on  the  anvil : — all  about  the  faces  fiery 

grow  ; 
"  Hurrah  !"  they   shout,  "  leap   out — leap   out ;" 

bang,  bang  the  sledges  go  : 
Hurrah !  the  jetted  lightnings  are  hissing  high 

and  low — 

A  hailing  fount  of  fire  is  struck  at  every  squash- 
ing blow  ; 
The  leathern  mail  rebounds  the  hail,  the  railing 

cinders  strow 


i'OEMS   OF   SAMUEL   FEH(.UsoN'. 


035 


The  ground  around ;  at  every  bouud,  the  swel- 
tering fountains  flow, 

Aud  thick  and  loud  the  swinking  crowd  at  every 
stroke  pant  "  ho  !" 

Leap  out,  leap  out,  my  masters ;  lea),  out  and 

lay  on  load  ! 
Let's  forge  a  goodly  anchor — a  bower  thick  and 

broad ; 
For  a  heart  of  oak  is  hanging  on  every  blow,  I 

bode : 
I  see  the  good   ship  riding  all   in   a   perilous 

road — 
The  low  reef  roaring  on  her  lee — the  roll  of 

ocean  pour'd 
From  stem  to  stern,  sea  after  sea,  the  mainmast 

by  the  board, 
The  bulwarks  down,  the  rudder  gone,  the  boats 

stove  at  the  chains  ! 
But  courage  still,  brave  mariners — the  bower  yet 

remains, 
And  not  an  inch  to  flinch  he  deigns,  save  when 

ye  pitch  sky  high  ; 
Then  moves  his  head,  as  though  he  said,  "  Fear 

nothing — here  am  I." 
Swing  in  your  strokes  in  order,  let  foot  and  hand 

keep  time ; 
Yom   blows  make   music  sweeter  far  than  any 

nteeple's  chime : 
But,  while  you  sling  your  sledges,  sing — and  let 

the  burthen  be, 

The  anchor  is  the  anvil-king,  and  royal  crafts- 
men we  ! 
Strike  in,  strike  in — the  sparks   begin   to   dull 

their  rustling  reel ; 
O'-T  hammers  ring  with  sharper  din,  our  work 

will  soon  be  sped. 
O  ir  anchor  soon  must  change  his  bed  of  fiery 

rich  array 
f  >r  a  hammock  at  the  roaring  bows,  or  an  oozy 

couch  of  clay ; 
)ur  anchor  soon  must  change  the  lay  of  merry 

craftsmen  here 
.''or  the  yeo-heave-o',  and  the  heave-away,  and 

the  sighing  seaman's  cheer ; 
Whin,  weighing  slow,  at  eve  they  go — far,  far 

from  love  and  home  : 
\TT«  sobbing  sweethearts,  in  a  row,  wail  o'er  the 

ocean  foam. 

t'  ivid  and  obdurate  gloom  he  darkens  down  at 
last: 


A  shapely  one  he  is,  and  strong,  as  e'er  from  cat 

was  cast : 
0  trusted  and  trustwoithy  guard,  if  thou  hadst 

life  like  me, 
What  pleasures  would  thy  toils  reward  beneath 

the  deep  green  sea  ! 
0  deep-sea  diver,  who  might  then  behold  such 

sights  as  thou  ? 
The  hoary   monster's  palaces !    methinks  what 

joy  'twere  now 
To  go  plumb  plunging  down  amid  the  assembly 

of  the  whales, 
And  feel  the  churn'd  sea  round  me  boil  beneath 

their  scourging  tails! 

Then  deep  in  tangle-woods  to  fight  the  fierce  sea- 
unicorn, 
And  send  him  foil'd  and  bellowing  back,  for  all 

his  ivory  horn  : 
To  leave  the  subtle  sworder-fish  of  bony  blade 

forlorn  ; 
And  for  the  ghastly-grinning  shark,  to  laugh  his 

jaws  to  scorn  : 
To  leap  down  on  the  kraken's  back,  where  'mid 

Norwegian  isles 
lie  lies,  a  lubber  anchorage  for  sudden  shallow'd 

miles  ; 
Till  snorting,  like  an  under-sea  volcano,  off  ht 

rolls ; 
Meanwhile  to  swing,  a-buffeting  the  far-aston- 

ish'd  shoals 
Of  his  back-browsing  ocean-calves  ;  or,  haply,  in 

a  cove, 

Shell-strown,  and  consecrate  of  old  to  some  Un- 
dine's love, 
To  find  the  long-hair'd  mermaidens  ;  or,  hard  by 

icy  lands, 
To  wrestle  with  the  Sea-serpent,  upon  cerulean 

sands. 


O  broad-arm'd  Fisher  of  the  deep,  whose  sports 

can  equal  thine  ? 
The  Dolphin  weighs  a  thousand  tons,  that  tugs 

thy  cable  line ; 
And  night  by  night,  'tis  thy  delight,  thy  glory 

day  by  day, 
Through  sable  sea  and  breaker  white  the  giant 

game  to  play — 
But,  shatner  of  our  little  sports !  forgive  the  name 

I  gave — 
A  fisher's  joy   is  to  destroy — thine  office  is  to 

save. 


636 


POEMS   OF  SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 


O  lodger  in  the  sea-kings'  halls,   couldst  thou 

but  understand 
Whose  be  the  white  bones  by  thy  side,  or  who 

that  dripping  band, 
Slow  swaying  in  the  heaving  wave,  that  round 

about  thee  bend, 
With  sounds  like  breakers  in  a  dream  blessing 

their  ancient  friend — 
Oh,  couldst  thou  know  what  heroes  glide  with 

larger  steps  round  thee, 
Thine  iron  side  would  swell  with  pride ;  thou'dst 

leap  within  the  sea ! 

Give  honor  to  their  memories  who  left  the  pleas- 
ant strand, 
To  shed  their  blood  so  freely  for  the  love  of 

Fatherland — 
Who  left  their  chance  of  quiet  age  and  grassy 

churchyard  grave, 
So  freely,   for   a   restless  bed  amid  the  tossing 

wave — 
Oh,  though  our  anchor  may  not  be  all  I  have 

fondly  sung, 
Honor  hirn   for  their  memory,  whose  bones  he 

goes  among ! 


THE  FORESTER'S  COMPLAINT. 

THROUGH  our  wild  wood-walks  here, 

Sun-bright  and  shady, 
Free  as  the  forest,  deer, 

Roams  a  lone  lady  : 
Far  from  her  castle-keep, 

Down  in  the  valley, 
Roams  siie,  by  dingle  deep, 

Green  hoJm  and  alley, 
With  her  sweet  presence  bright 

Gladd'ning  my  dwelling — 
Oh.  fair  her  face  of  light, 

Past  the  tongue's  telling  ! 
Woe  was  me 
E'er  to  see 
Beauty  so  shining  ; 

Ever  since,  hourly, 
Have  I  been  pining  ! 

In  our  blithe  sports'  debates, 
Down  by  the  river, 


I,  of  my  merry  mates, 

Foremost  was  ever ; 
Skilfullest  with  my  flute, 

Leading  the  maidens 
Heark'ning,  by  moonlight,  mute, 

To  its  sweet  cadence : 
Sprightliest  in  the  dance 

Tripping  together — 
Such  a  one  was  I  once 

Ere  she  came  hither  ! 
Woe  was  me 
E'er  to  see 
Beauty  so  shining.; 

Ever  since,  hourly, 
Have  I  been  pining! 

Loud  now  my  comrades  laugh 

As  I  pass  by  them  ; 
Broadsword  and  quarter-staff, 

No  more  I  ply  them  : 
Coy  now  the  maidens  frown, 

Wanting  their  dances ; 
How  can  their  faces  brown 

Win  one,  who  fancies 
Even  an  angel's  face 

Dark  to  be  seen  would 
Be,  by  the  Lily-grace 

Gladd'ning  the  greenwood? 
Woe  was  me 
E'er  to  see 
Beauty  so  shining ; 

Ever  since,  hourly, 
Have  I  been  pining  ! 

Wolf,  by  my  broken  bow, 

Idle  is  lying, 
While  through  the  woods  I  go, 

All  the  day,  sighing, 
Tracing  her  footsteps  small 

Through  the  moss'd  cover, 
Hiding  then,  breathless  all, 

At  the  sight  of  her, 
Lest  my  rude  gazing  should 

From  her  haunt  scare  her—- 
Oh, what  a  solitude 

Wanting  her,  there  were  ! 
Woe  was  me 
E'er  to  see 
Beauty  so  shining ; 

Ever  since,  hourly, 
Have  I  been  pining ! 


POEMS   OF  SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 


637 


THK  PRETTY  GIRL  OF  LOCH  DAN. 

THE  shades  of  eve  had  cross'd  the  glen 
That  frowns  o'er  infant  Avonmore, 

When,  nigh  Loch  Dan,  two  weary  men, 
We  stopp'd  before  a  cottage  door. 

41  God  save  all  here,"  my  comrade  cries, 
And  rattles  on  the  raised  latch-pin  ; 

"God  save  you  kindly,"  quick  replies 
A  clear,  sweet  voice,  and  asks  us  in. 

We  enter ;  from  the  wheel  she  starts, 
A  rosy  girl,  with  soft,  black  eyas ; 

Her  fluttering  courtesy  takes  our  hearts, 
Her  blushing  grace  and  pleased  surprise. 

Poor  Mary,  she  was  quite  alone, 

For,  all  the  way  to  Glenmalure, 
Her  mother  had  that  morning  gone, 

And  left  the  house  in  charge  with  her. 

But  neither  household  cares,  nor  yet 
The  shame  that  startled  virgins  feel, 

Could  make  the  generous  girl  forget 
Her  wonted  hospitable  zeal. 

She  brought  us,  in  a  beechen  bowl, 

Sweet  milk,  thatsmack'd  of  mountain  thyme, 

Oat  cake,  and  such  a  yellow  roll 
Of  butter — it  gilds  all  my  rhyme ! 

And,  while  we  ate  the  grateful  food 
(With  weary  limbs  on  bench  reclined), 

Considerate  and  discreet,  she  stood 
Apart,  and  listen'd  to  the  wind. 

Kind  wishes  both  our  souls  engaged, 
From  breast  to  breast  spontaneous  ran 

The  mutual  thought — we  stood  and  pledged 
THE  MODEST  ROSE  ABOVE  LOCH  DAN. 

"The  milk  we  drink  is  not  more  pure, 

Sweet  Mary — bless  those  budding  charms ! — 

Than  your  own  generous  heart,  I'm  sure, 
Nor  whiter  than  the  breast  it  warms  !" 

She  turn'd  and  gazed,  unused  to  hear 
Such  language  in  that  homely  glen; 

But,  Mary,  you  have  naught  to  fear, 

Though  smiled  on  by  two  stranger  men. 

Not  for  a  crown  would  I  alarm 
Your  virgin  pride  by  word  or  sign, 


Nor  need  a  painful  blush  disarm 

My  friend  of  thoughts  as  pure  as  mine. 

Her  simple  heart  could  not  but  feel 

The  words  we  spoke  were  free  from  guile ; 

She  stoop'd,  she  blush'd — she  fix'd  her  w,heel 
Tia  all  in  vain — she  can't  but  smile ! 

Just  like  sweet  April's  dawn  appears 
Her  modest  face — I  see  it  yet — 

And  though  I  lived  a  hundred  years, 
Me  thinks  I  never  could  forget 

The  pleasure  that,  despite  her  heart, 
Fills  all  her  downcast  eyes  with  light, 

The  lips  reluctantly  apart. 

The  white  teeth  struggling  into  sight, 

The  dimples  eddying  o'er  her  cheek — 
The  rosy  cheek  that  won't  be  still ! — 

Oh  !   who  could  blame  what  flatterers  speak, 
Did  smiles  like  this  reward  their  skill  ? 

For  such  another  smile,  I  vow, 

Though  loudly  beats  the  midnight  rain. 
I'd  take  the  mountain-side  e'en  now, 

And  walk  to  Luggelaw  again ! 


HUNGARY. 

AUGUST,  1849. 

AWAY  !  would  you  own  the  dread  rapture  of  war 

Seek  the  host- rolling  plain  of  the  mighty  Mag- 
yar; 

Where  the  giants  of  yore  from  their  mansion* 
come  down, 

O'er  the  ocean-wide  floor  play  the  game  of  re- 
nown. 

Hark !  hark !  how  the  earth  'neath  their  anna 

mcnt  reels, 
In    the    hurricane-charge — in    the   thunder   of 

wheels; 
How  the  hearts  of  the  forests  rebound  as  they 

pass, 
In  their  mantle  of  smoke,  through  the  quaking 

morass ! 


638 


I'OEMS   OF   SAMUEL   FERGUSON. 


God  !  the  battle  is  join'd  I  Lord  Sabaoth,  re- 
joice ! 

Freedom  thunders  her  hymn  in  the  battery's 
voice — 

Jn  the  soaring  hurrah — in  the  blood-stifled 
moan — 

Sends  the  voice  of  her  praise  to  the  foot  of  thy 
throne. 

Oh  !  hear,  God  of  freedom,  thy  people's  appeal ; 
Let  the  edges  of  slaughter  be  sharp  on  their 

steel, 
And  the  weight  of  destruction,  and  swiftness  of 

fear, 
Speed  death  to  his  mark  in  their  bullets'  career  1 

Holy  Nature,  arise  !  from  thy  bosom  in  wrath 
Shake  the  pestilence  forth  on  the  enemy's  path, 
That  the  tyrant  invaders  may  march  by  the  road 
Of  Sennacherib  invading  the  city  of  God  ! 

As  the  stars  in  their  courses  'gainst  Sisera  strove, 
Fight,  mists  of  the  fens,  in  the  sick  air  above  ; 
As  Scamander  his  carcasses  flung  on  the  foe, 
Fight,  floods  of  the  Theiss,  in  your  torrents  be- 
low ! 

As  the  snail  of  the  Psalmist  consuming  away, 
Let  the  moon-melted  masses  in  silence  decay ; 
Till  the  track  of  corruption  alone  in  the  air 
Shall  tell  sicken'd  Europe  the  Scythian  was  there ! 

Stay  !  stay ! — in  thy  fervor  of  sympathy  pause, 
Nor  become  inhumane  in  humanity's  cause  ; 
If  the  poor  Russian  slave  have  to  wrong  been 

abused, 
Are  the  ties  of  Christ's  brotherhood  all  to  be 

loosed  I 

The  mothers  of  Moscow  who  offer  the  breast 
To  their  orphans,  have  hearts,  as  the  mothers  of 

Pest ; 

Nor  are  love's  aspirations  more  tenderly  drawn 
From  the  bosoms  of  youth  by  the  Theiss  than 

the  Don. 

God  of  Russian  and  Magyar,  who  ne'er  hast  de- 
si  gn'd 

Save  one  shedding  of  blood  for  the  sins  of  man- 
kind, 

No  demon  of  battle  and  bloodshed  art  thou, 

To  the  war-wearied  nations  be  pitiful  now  I 


Turn  the  hearts  of  the  kings— -let  the  Magyar 

again 

Reap  the  harvests  of  peace  on  his  bountiful  plain  ; 
And   if    not  with   renown,  with  affections  am)' 

lives, 
Send  the  driven  serfs  home  to  their  children  ami 

wives ! — 

But  you   fill  all  my  bosom  with  tumult  once 

more — 
What!    Gorgey    surrender'd  !       What!     Bern's 

battles  o'er ! 

What !  Elaynau  victorious  ! — Inscrutable  God ! 
We  must  wonder,  and  worship,  and  bow  to  thy 

rod. 


ADIEU  TO  BRITTANY. 

RUGGED  land  of  the  granite  and  oak, 
I  depart  with  a  sigh  from  thy  shore, 

And  with  kinsman's  affection  a  blessing  invoke 
On  the  maids  and  the  men  of  Arvor. 

For  the  Irish  and  Breton  are  kin, 
Though  the  lights  of  antiquity  pale 

In   the   point  of  the  dawn  where  the   partings. 

begin 
Of  the  Bolg,  and  the  Kymro,  and  Gael. 

But,  though  dim  in  the  distance  of  time 
Be  the  low-burning  beacons  of  fame, 

Holy  Nature  attests  us,  in  writing  sublime, 
On  heart  and  on  visage,  the  same. 

In  the  dark-eye-lash'd  eye  of  blue-gray. 

In  the  open  look,  modest  and  kind, 
In  the  face's  fine  oval  reflecting  the  play 

Of  the  sensitive,  generous  mind, 

Till,  as  oft  as  by  meadow  and  stream 
With  thy  Maries  and  Josephs  I  roam, 

In  companionship  gentle  and  friendly  I  seem, 
As  with  Patrick  and  Brigid  at  home. 

Green,  meadow-fresh,  streamy-b right  land  ! 

Though  greener  meads,  valleys  as  fair, 
Be  at  home,  yet  the  home-yearning  heart  will- 
demand, 

Are  they  blest  as  in  Brittany  there  ? 


POEMS   OF   SAMUKL    FERGUSON. 


G39- 


I)emand  nut — repining  is  vain  : 
Yet,  would  God.  that  even  as  thon 

In  thy  homeliest  homesteads,  contented  Bretagnc, 
Wer«»  the  green  isle  my  thoughts  are   with 
now  ! 

But  I  call  thee  not  golden :  let  gold 

Deck  the  coronal  troubadours  twine, 
Where  the  waves  of  the  Loire  and  Garomna  are 

rolPd 

Through  the  land  of  the  white  wheat  and 
vine, 

And  the  fire  of  the  Frenchman  goes  up 
To  the  quick-thoughted,  dark-flashing  eye: 

While  Glory  and  Change,  quaffing  Luxury's  cup, 
Challenge  all  things  below  and  on  high. 

Leave  to  him — to  the  vehement  man 
Of  the  Loire,  of  the  Seine,  of  the  Rhone — 

In  the  Idea's  high  pathways  to  march  in  the  van, 
To  o'erthrow,  and  set  up  the  o'erthrown  : 

Be  it  thine  in  the  broad  beaten  ways 

That  the  world'i  simple  seniors  have  trod, 

To  walk  with  soft  steps,  living  peaceable  days, 
And  on  earth  not  forgetful  of  God. 

Nor  refine  that  thy  lot  has  been  cast 
With  the  things  of  the  old  time  before, 

For  to  thce  are  committed  the  keys  of  the  past, 
0  gray,  monumental  Arv&r  ! 

Yes,  land  of  the  great  Standing  Stones, 

It  is  thine  at  thy  feet  to  survey, 
From    thy    earlier    shepherd-kings'    sepulchre- 
thrones 

The  giant,  far-stretching  array  ; 

Where,  abroad  o'er  the  gorse-cover'd  lande, 
Where,  along  by  the  slow-breaking  ware, 

The  hoary,  inscrutable  sentinels  stand 
In  their  night-watch  by  History's  grave. 

Preserve  them,  nor  fear  for  thy  charge ; 

From  the  prime  of  the  morning  they  sprung, 
When  the  works  of  young  Mankind  were  lasting 
and  large, 

As  the  will  they  embodied  was  young. 

I  have  stood  on  Old  Sarum  :'  the  sun, 
With  a  pensive  regard  from  the  west. 


e,  3err1c*-trM  fcct 


Lit  the  beech-tops  low  down  in  the  ditch  of  the 

Dun, 
Lit  the  service-trees  high  on  its  crest : 

But  the  walls  of  the  Roman  were  shrunk 

Into  morsels  of  ruin  aroutvl, 
And  palace  of  monarch,  and  minster  of  monk, 

Were  effaced  from  the  graoey-foss'd  ground. 

Like  bubbles  in  ocean,  they  melt, 
O  Wilts,  on  thy  long-rolling  plain, 

And  at  last  but  the  works  of  the  hand  of  the 

Celt 
And  the  sweet  hand  of  Nature  remain. 

Even  so  :  though,  portentous  and  strange, 
With  a  rumor  of  troublesome  sounds, 

On  his  iron  way  gliding,  the  Angel  of  Change 
Spread  his  dusky  wings  wide  o'er  thy  bounds — 

He  will  pass ;  there'll  be  grass  on  his  track, 
And  the  pick  of  the  miner  in  vain 

Shall  search  the  dark  void  :  while  the  stones  of 

Carnac 
And  the  word  of  the  Breton  remain. 

Farewell  :  up  the  waves  of  the  Ranee, 

See,  we  stream  back  our  pennon  of  smoke  ; 

Farewell,  russet  skirt  of  the  fine  robe  of 
Rugged  land  of  the  granite  and  oak  ! 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

ON    HKARINO    WEEK-DAY    8KRVICK    THERR,    8JIP- 
TEMBEK,    1858. 

FROM  England's  gilded  halls  of  state 
1  cross'd  the  Western  Minster's  gate. 
And,  'mid  the  tombs  of  England's  dead, 
1  heard  the  Holy  Scriptures  read. 

Tim  w.ills  around  and  pillarM  piers 
Had  stood  well-nigh  seven  hundred  years ; 
The  words  the  priest  gave  forth  had  stood 
Since  Christ,  and  since  before  the  Flood. 

A  thousand  hearts  around  parti i.>k 

The  comfort  of  th«  Holy  Hook  ; 

Ten  thousand  suppliant  hands  were  spread 

In  lifted  stone  above  iry  head. 


•G40 


POEMS  OF  SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 


In  dust  decay'd,  the  hands  are  gone 

That  fed  and  set  the  builders  on ; 

In  heedless  dust  the  fingers  lie 

That  hew'd  and  heaved  the  stones  on  high ; 

And  back  to  earth  and  air  resolved 

The  brain  that  plann'd  and  poised  the  vault; 

But,  undecay'd,  erect,  and  fair, 

To  heaven  ascends  the  builded  Prayer, 

With  majesty  of  strength  and  size, 
With  glory  of  harmonious  dyes, 
With  holy  airs  of  heavenward  thought, 
From  floor  to  roof  divinely  fraught. 

Fall  down,  ye  bars :   enlarge,  my  soul ! 
To  heart's  content  take  in  the  whole ; 
And,  spurning  pride's  injurious  thrall, 
With  loyal  love  embrace  them  all  ! 

Yet  hold  not  lightly  home ;  nor  yet 
The  graves  on  Dunagore  forget ; 
Nor  grudge  the  stone-gilt  stall  to  change 
For  humble  bench  of  Gorman's  Grange. 

The  self-same  Word  bestows  its  clicer 
On  simple  creatures  there  as  here ; 


And  thence,  as  hence,  poor  souls  do  rise 
In  social  flight  to  common  skies. 

For  in  the  Presence  vast  and  good 
That  bends  o'er  all  our  livelihood, 
With  humankind  in  heavenly  cure, 
We  all  are  like,  we  all  are  poor. 

His  poor,  be  sure,  shall  never  want 
For  service  meet  or  seemly  chant, 
And  for  the  Gospel's  joyful  sound 
A  fitting  place  shall  still  be  found  ; 

Whether  the  organ's  solemn  tones 
Thrill  through  the  dust  of  warriors'  bones, 
Or  voices  of  th.e  village  choir 
From  swallow-haunted  eaves  aspire, 

Or,  sped  with  healing  on  its  wings, 
The  Word  solicit  ears  of  kings, 
Or  stir  the  souls,  in  moorland  glen, 
Of  kingless  covenanted  men. 

Enough  for  thee,  indulgent  Lord, 
The  willing  ear  to  hear  Thy  Word — 
The  rising  of  the  burthen'd  breast — 
And  thou  suppliest  all  the  rest. 


Persians  anb 


THE  ORIGIN  OF  THE  SCYTHIANS. 

HERODOTUS    ("  MELPOMENE"). 

WHEN,  o'er  Riphsean  wastes,  the  son  of  Jove 
Slain  Geryou's  beeves  from  Erytheia  drove, 
Sharp  nipp'd  the  frost,  and  feathery  whirls  of 

snow 

Fill'd  upper  air  and  hid  the  earth  below. 
The  hero  on  the  ground,  his  steeds  beside, 
Spread,  shaggy-huge,  the  dun  Nemean  hide, 
And,  warmly  folded,  while  the  tempest  swept 
The  dreary  Hyperborean  desert,  slept 


When  Hercules  awoke  and  look'd  around, 
The  milk-white  mares  were  nowhere  to  be  <bund. 


Long  search'd  the  hero  all  the  neighboring  plain. 
The  brakes  and  thickets  ;  but  he  search'd  in  vain. 
At  length  he  reach'd  a  gloomy  cave,  and  there 
He  found  a  woman  as'a  goddess  fair  ; 
A  perfect  woman  downward  to  the  knee, 
But  all  below,  a  snake,  in  coil'd  deformity. 

With  mutual  wonder  each  the  other  eyed : 
He  question'd  of  his  steeds,  and  she  replied : 
"  Hero,  thy  steeds  within  my  secret  halls 
Are  safely  stabled  in  enchanted  stalls  ; 
But  if  thou  thence  my  captives  wouldst  remove, 
Thou,  captive  too,  must  yield  me  love  for  love." 

Won  by  the  price,  perchance  by  passion  sway'd, 
Alcides  yielded  to  the  monster  maid. 


POEMS  OF  SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 


i.ll 


The  steeds  recover'cl,  and  the  burnish'd  car 
Prepared,  she  said  :  "  Remember,  when  afar, 
That,  sprung  from  thee,  three  mighty  sons  shall 

prove 

Me  not  unworthy  of  a  hero's  love. 
But  wben  iny   babes  are  grown   to  manhood, 

where 
WouLdst  thou  thy  sons  should  seek  a  father's 

care  f" 

The  soft  appeal  e'en  stern  Alcides  felt — 
•  And,  u  Take,"  be  said,  "  this  bow  and  glittering 

belt"— 

From  his  broad  breast  the  baldrick  he  unslung 
(A  golden  phial  from  its  buckle  hung), — 
•'  And,  when  my  sons  are  grown  to  man's  estate, 
Him  whom  thou  first  shall  see  decline  the  weight 
Of  the  great  belt,  or  fail  the  bow  to  bend, 
To  Theban  Hercules,  his  father,  send 
For  tutelage ;  but  him  whom  thou  shalt  see 
Thus  bear  the  belt,  thus  bend  the  bow,  like  me, 
Naught  further  needing,  by  thy  side  retain, 
The  destined  monarch  of  the  northern  plain." 

He  went :  the  mighty  mother,  at  a  birth, 
Gave  Gelon,  Agathyrs,  and  Scyth1  to  earth. 
To  early  manhood  grown,  the  former  twain 
Essay'd  to  bear  the  belt  and  bow  in  vain ; 
And,  southward   banish'd  from  their   mother's 

face, 

Sought  lighter  labors  in  the  fields  of  Thrace : 
While,  far  refulgent  over  plain  and  wood, 
Herculean  Scyth  the  glittering  belt  indued, 
And,  striding  dreadful  on  his  fields  of  snow, 
With  aim  unerring  twang'd  his  father's  bow. 
From  him  derived,  the  illustrious  Scythian  name, 
And  all  the  race  of  Scythian  monarchs  came. 


THE  DEATH  OF  DERMLD. 

IRISH    ROMANCE. 

King  Cormac  bad  affianced  bis  daughter  Granla  to  Finn,  son  of 
Coiniial,  tbe  Finn  Mac  Coole  of  Irish,  and  Flngal  of  Scottish  tra- 
dition. In  addition  to  bis  warlike  accomplishments,  Finn  was 
reported  to  have  obtained  the  glfta  of  poetry,  serond-sleht,  and 
healing,  In  tbe  manner  reform!  to  below.  On  his  personal  Intro- 
duction, his  age  and  aspect  proved  displeasing  to  Granla,  who 
threw  herself  on  the  gallantry  of  DtTtnid,  the  handsomest  of  Kinn's 
attendant  warriors,  and  Injured  him  reluctantly  to  fly  with  her. 
Tbelr  pursuit  by  Finn  forms  tbe  subject  of  one  of  the  most  popn- 
(at  native  Irish  romance*.  In  tbe  course  of  their  wanderings. 


1  In  Celtic  tradition,  the  progenitors  of  the  Flrbolgs.  Plct*,  and 
ftcota  r«*D«ctlvel«. 


Dormid,  bavins  pursued  a  wild  boar,  met  the  fate  of  A  dor.  Is,  who 
appears  to  have  been  his  prototype  In  tbe  Celtic  Imagination. 
Finn,  arriving  on  tbe  scene  just  before  bis  rival's  death,  giver 
ocraston  to  the  most  pathetic  passage  c,t  the  tale,  which,  at  tbtt 
point,  is  comparatively  free  from  the  characteristics  of  vulgarity 
and  extravagance  attaching  to  the  rest  of  tbe  composition.  Tb* 
Incidents  of  the  original  are  followed  In  rfao  piece  below,  wliict 
however,  does  not  profe»s  to  be  a  translation.  Tbe  original  mav 
be  perused  in  tbe  spirited  version  of  Mr.  O'Grady  :  "Publication* 
of  the  Irish  Osslanic  Society,"  vol.  III.,  p.  185.  It  Is  from  tbl> 
Dermid  that  Highland  tradition  draws  the  genealogy  of  the  Claii 
Campbell — 

"The  race  of  brown  Dorm  id  who  slew  the  wild  boar." 


FINN  on  the  mountain  found  the  mangled  man, 
The  slain  boar  by  him.     "  Dermid,"  said  the  king, 
"  It  likes  me  well  at  last  to  see  thee  thus. 
This  only  grieves  me,  that  the  womankind 
Of  Erin  are  not  also  looking  on  : 
Such  sight  were  wholesome  for  the  wanton  eyea 
So  oft  enaroor'd  of  that  specious  form  : 
Beauty  to  foulness,  strength  to  weakness  tnrn'd." 

"Yet  in  thy  power,  if  only  in  thy  will, 
Lies  it^  0  Finn,  even  yet  to  heal  me  " 

"How?" 

"  Feign  not  the  show  of  ignorance,  nor  deem 

I  know  not  of  the  virtues  which  thy  hand 
Drew  from  that  fairy's  half-discover'd  hall, 
Who  bore  her  silver  tankard  from  the  fount — 
So  closely  follow'd,  that  ere  yet  the  door 
Could  close  upon  her  steps,  one  arm  was  in  ; 
Wherewith,  though  seeing  naught,  yet  touching 

all, 

Thou  graspedst  half  the  spiritual  world  ; 
Withdrawing  a  heap'd  handful  of  its  gifts — 
Healing,  and  sight  prophetic,  and  the  power 
Divine  of  poesy :  but  healing  most 
Abides  within  its  hollow  : — virtue  such 
That  but  so  much  of  water  as  might  wet 
These  lips,  in  that  hand  brought,  would  make 

me  whole. 

Finn,  from  the  fountain  fetch  me  in  thy  paln>> 
A  draught  of  water,  and  I  yet  shall  live." 

II  How  at  these  hands  canst  thou  demand  thy  life, 
Who  took'st  my  joy  of  life  ?" 

"  She  loved  thee  noi : 

Me  she  did  love,  and  doth  ;  and  were  she  here 
She  would  BO  plead  with  thee,  that,  for  her  sake, 
Thou  wouldst  forgive  us  both,  and  bid  mo  live." 

"I  was  a  man  had  spent  my  prime  of  years 
In  war  and  couucil.  little  bless'd  with  love ; 


(542 


POEMS  OF  SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 


Though  poesy  was  raiue,  and,  in  my  hour, 

The  seer's  burthen  not  desirable  ; 

And  now   at  last  had  thought  to   ha?e   man's 

share 

Of  marriage  blessings;  and  the  King  supreme, 
Cormac,  had  pledged  his  only  daughter  mine; 
When  thou,  with  those  pernicious  beauty-gifts 
The  flashing   white   tusk  there  hath  somewhat 

spoil'd, 

Didst  win  her  to  desert  her  father's  house, 
And  roam  the  wilds  with  thee." 

"  It  was  herself, 

Grania,  the  Princess,  put  me  in  the  bonds 
Of  holy  chivalry  to  share  her  flight. 
'  Behold,'  she  said,  '  he  is  an  aged  man 
(And  so  thou  art,  for  years  will  come  to  all), 
And  I  so  young  ;  and,  at  the  Beltane  games, 
When  Carbry  Liffacher  did  play  the  men 
Of  Brea,  I,  unseen,  saw  thee  snatch  a  hurl, 
And  thrice  on  Tara's  champions1  win  the  goal ; 
And  gave  thee  love  that  day,  and  still  will  give.' 
So  she  herself  avow'd.     Resolve  me,  Finn, 
For  thou  art  just,  could  youthful  warrior,  sworn 
To  maiden's  service,  have  done  else  than  1 1 
No :  hate  me  not — restore  me — give  me  drink." 

"  I  will  not." 

"  Nay,  but,  Finn,  thou  hadst  not  said 
'  I  will  not,'  though  I'd  ask'd  a  greater  boon, 
That  night  we  supp'd  in  Breendacoga's  lodge. 
Remember  :  we  were  faint  and  hunger-starved 
From  three  days'  flight;  and  even  as  on  the 

board 

They  placed  the  viands,  and  my  hand  went  forth 
To  raise  the  wine-cup,  thou,  more  quick  of  ear, 
O'erheard'st  the  stealthy  leaguer  set  without ; 
And  yet  shouldst  eat  or  perish.     Then  'twas  I, 
Fasting,  that  made  the  sally  ;  and  'twas  I, 
Fasting,  that  made  the  circuit  of  the  court ; 
Three   times  I  coursed   it,  darkling,  round  and 

round ; 

From  whence  returning,  when  I  brought  thee  in 
The  three  lopp'd  heads  of  them  that  lurk'd  with- 
out— 

Thou  hadst  not  then,  refresh 'd  and  grateful,  said 
4 1  will  not,'  had  I  ask'd  thee,  '  Give  me  drink.'" 


1  "  On  Tara's  champions,11  ar  ghatra  Teamhracfi.    The  idiom 
to  praeerved, 


"There  springs  no  water  on  this  summit  bald." 

"  Nine  paces  from  the  spot  thou  standest  on, 
The  well-eye — well   thou   know'st    it — bubble* 
clear."' 


Abash'd,  reluctant,  to  the  bubbling  weH 
Went  Finn,  and  scoop'd  the  water  in  his  palms  ; 
W'herewith  returning,  half-way,,  came  the  thought 
Of  Grania,  and  he  let  the  water  spill. 


"Ah  me,"  said  Dermid,  "hast  thon  then  forgot 
Thy  warrior-art,  that  oft,  when  helms  were  splity 
And  buckler-bosses  shatter'd  by  the  spenr, 
Has  satisfied  the  thirst  of  wounded  men  1 
Ah,  Finn,  these  hands  of  thine  were  not  so  slack 
That  night,  when,  captured  by  the  King  ofThule, 
Thou  lay'st  in  bonds  within  the  temple  gato 
Waiting  for  morning,  till  the  observant  kiivg 
Should  to  his  sun-f/od  make  thee  sacrilice. 
Close-pack'd  thy  fingers  then,  thong-drawn  and 

squeezed, 

The  blood-drops  oozing  under  every  nail, 
When,    like    a    shadow,    through    the    sleeping 

priests 

Came  I,  and  loosed  thee  :  and  the  hierophant 
At  day-dawn  coming,  on  the  altar-?tep, 
Instead  of  victim  straighten'd  to  his  knife, 
Two  warriors  found,  erect,  for  battle  arm'd.* 

Again  abash'd,  reluctant  to  the  well 
Went  Finn,  and  scoop'd  the  water  in  his  palms, 
Wherewith  returning,  half-way,  came  the  thought 
That   wrench 'd   him ;    and    the    shaken  water 
spril'd. 

"  False  one,  thou  didst  it  purposely !     I  swear 
I  saw  thee,  though  mine  eyes  do  fast  grow  dim. 
Ah  me,  how  much  imperfect  still  is  man ! 
Yet  such  were  not  the  act  of  Him,  whom  once 
On  this  same  mountain,  as  we  sat  at  eve — 
Thou  yet  mayest  see  the  knoll  that  was  our  conch, 
A  stone's  throw  from  the  spot  where  now  I  lie — 
Thou  show'dst  me,  shuddering,  when  the  seer'* 

fit, 

Sudden  and  cold  as  hail,  assail'd  thy  soul 
In  vision  of  that  Just  One  crucified 
For  all  men's  pardoning,  which,  once  again, 
Thou  saw'st,  with  Cormac,  struck  in  Rossnaree.* 


POEMS   OF  SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 


G43 


Finn  trembled,  and  a  third  time  to  the  well 
Went  straight,  and  scoop'd  the  water   in    his 

palms ; 

Wherewith  in  haste  half-way  return'd,  he  saw 
A  smile  on  Dermid's  face  rclax'd  in  death. 


THE  INVOCATION. 

LUCRETIUS. 

JOT  of  the  world,  divine  delight  of  Love, 
Who  with  life-sowing  footsteps  soft  dost  move 
Through   all  the   still    stars   from    their  sliding 

stands 

See,  fishy  seas,  and  fruit-abounding  lands ; 
Bringing  to  presence  of  the  gracious  sun 
All  living  things  :  thee  blights  and  vapors  shun, 
And  thine  advent :  for  thee  the  various  earth 
Glows  with  the  rose  :  for  thee  the  murmurous 

mirth 

Of  ocean  sparkles;  and,  at  thy  repair, 
Diffusive  bliss  pervades  the  placid«air. 
For,  see,  forthwith  the  blandness  of  the  Spring 
Begins,  and  Zephyr's  seasonable  wing 
Wantons  abroad  in  primal  lustihood, 
Smit  with  sweet  pangs  the  wing'd  aerial  brood 
Of  pairing  birds  proclaim  thy  reign  begun  ; 
Thence  through  the  fields  where  pasturing  cattle 

run, 

Runs  the  soft  frenzy,  all  the  savage  kind, 
Touch'd  with  thy  tremors  in  the  wanton  wind, 
Prancing  the  plains,   or   through  the    rushing 

floods 
Cleaving  swift  ways :  thou,  who  through  waving 

woods, 

Tall  mountains,  fishful  seas,  and  leafy  bowers 
Of  nestling  birds,  keep'st  up  the  joyous  hours, 
Making  from  age  to  age,  bird,  beast,  and  man 
Perpetuate  life  and  time; — aid  thou  my  plan. 


AROHCTAS  AND  THE  MARINER. 

HORAT.  OD.  I.  28. 
MARINER. 

THEE,  of  the  sea  and  land  and  unaumm'd  sand 
The  Mensurator 


The  dearth  c-f  some  poor  earth  from  a  i'riend'k 

hand 

Detains,  a  waiter 
For  sepulture,  here  on  the  Matine  strand  ; 

Nor  aught  the  better 
Art   thou,   Aichytas,  now,   in   thought   to  har« 

spann'il 
Pole  and  equator ! 


ARCHYTA8. 

The  sire  of  Pelops,  too,  though  guest  and  hoat 
Of  Gods,  gave  up  the  ghost : 

Beloved  Tithonus  into  air  withdrew  : 
And  Minos,  at  the  council-board  of  Jove 
Once  intimate  above, 

Hell  holds  ;  and  hell  with  strict  embrace  anew 
Constrains  Panthokles,  for  all  his  lore, 
Though  by  the  shield  he  bore 

In  Trojan  jousts,  snatch'd  from  the  trophied 

fane, 

He  testified  that  death  slays  naught  within 
The  man,  but  nerve  and  skin  ; 

But  bore  his  witness  and  his  shield  in  vain. 
For  one  night  waits  us  all  ;  one  downward  road 
Must  by  all  feet  be  trod  : 

All  heads  at  last  to  Prosperinc  must  come : 
The  furious  Fates  to  Mars's  bloody  shows 
Ca*t  these  :  the  seas  whelm  those  : 

Commix'd  and  close,  the  young  and  old  troop 

home. 

Me  also,  prone  Orion's  comrade  swift, 
The  South-wind,  in  the  drift 

Of  white  Illyrian  waves,  caught  from  the  day: 
But,  shipmate,  thou  refuse  not  to  my  dead 
Bones  and  unburied  ln-ad, 

The  cheap  poor  tribute  of  the  funeral  clay! 
So,  whatsoe'er  the  East  may  foam  or  roar 
Against  the  Hesperian  shore, 

Lot  crack  Veoutin'a  woods,  thou  safe  and  free; 
While  great  God  Neptune,  the  Tarentine's  trust, 
And  Jupiter  the  just, 

With  confluent  wealth  reward  thy  piety. 
Ah !    wouldst   thou   leave   me  I     wouldst   thou 

leave,  indeed, 
Thv  unoffending  seed 

*  O 

Under  the  dead  man's  curse  f     Beware !  th» 

day 

May  come  when  thou  shall  auflct  equal  wrong : 
Give — 'twill  not  keep  thee  long — 

Three  handfuls  of  sea-sand,  and  go  toy  way. 


POEMS   OF  SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 


Versions  from  tjjc  Jrisjj. 


An  apology  is  needed  for  the  rudeness  of  some  of  the  following 
pieces.  Irish  poetical  remains  con^st  chiefly  of  bardie,  composi- 
tions and  songs  of  the  cGun-try,  of  which  the  examples  here  given 
could  not  be  candidly  rendered  without  some  reflection  of  certain 
faults  of  the  originals.  The  former  class  have  inherent  vices,  re- 
sulting from  the  conditions  of  their  production.  The  office  of  the 
bard  required  skill  in  music,  a  retentive  memory,  and  a  knowledge 
of  the  common  forms  of  panegyric,  rather  than  original  genius. 
A  large  proportion  of  these  compositions  consisted  of  adulatory 
odes  addressed  to  protectors  and  patrons.  Many  of  the  best 
musical  performances  of  Carolan  are  associated  with  words  of  this 
character,  and  exhibit  an  incongruous  union  of  noble  sounds  and 
mean  ideas.  It  has  been  usual,  In  giving  him  and  the  later  harpers 
the  credit  which  they  well  merit  for  originality  aim  fertility  in  the 
production  of  melodies,  to  include  their  odes  and  songs,  as  efforts 
of  poetic  genius,  in  the  c«'  ••unendation  :  but  these  portions  </f  the 
compositions  are  generally  made  up  of  gross  flatteries  and  the  con- 
ventionalities of  the  Pantheon.  The  images  imd  sentiments  are  in 
til  much  alike ;  and  it  is  rarely  that  an  original  thought  repays  the 
trouble  of  the  translator.  In  celebrating  some  of  the  ladies  of 
families  who  patronized  him,  Carolan  has,  however,  produced  a  few 
pieces  in  which  the  words  are  not  unworthy  of  the  music,  lie 
was  sensible  of  the  charms  of  grace  and  virtue,  and  although  in- 
capable of  distinguishing  between  elegant  and  vulgar  forms  of 
praise,  has  in  these  instances  expressed  genuine  sentiments  of  ad- 
miration with  a  great  degree  of  natural  and  affectionate  tenderness 
— united,  it  must  be  remembered,  with  original  and  beautiful 
music.  One  of  these  pieces,  "Grace  Nugent,"1  although  too  full 
of  the  stock  phrases  of  the  adulatory  school,  is  perhaps  the  most 
pleasing  of  its  class.  In  addressing  one  of  his  male  patrons  also, 
in  "The  Cup  of  O'Hara,"2  he  exhibits  some  originality  in  trans- 
ferring to  his  friend's  wassail-cup  the  praises  which  were  usually 
lavished  on  personal  excellencies.  It  is  among  the  country  songs, 
however,  that  the  greatest  amount  and  variety  of  characteristic 
composition  is  found.  In  these  we  must  not  expect  quite  so  much 
refinement  as  is  found  in  the  pieces  composed  by  the  bards  and 
harpers,  most  of  which  have  been  transmitted  in  writing:  for  the 
songs  have  only  been  preserved  orally  by  the  peasantry,  who 
would  naturally  prefer  such  versions  as  suited  their  more  homely 
tastes.  If  others  of  a  more  refined  character  have  ever  existed, 
they  are  not  now  forthcoming-;  but  it  is  probable  that  at  all  times 
the  songs  of  the  native  Irish  have  been  of  the  same  homely  de- 
scription as  those  which  remain:  for,  before  the  introduction  of 
English  manners,  there  existed  an  almost  complete  personal 
;  equality  among  individuals  of  all  ranks.  It  is  still  usual  in  some 
parts  of  the  west  of  Ireland  for  the  native  population  to  use  the 
Christian  names  of  those  to  whom  they  speak,  whatever  may  be 
the  rank  of  the  person  addressed.  These  primitive  manners  ad- 
mitted of  but  little  difference  in  the  modes  of  expressing  ideas 
common  to  all ;  and,  if  we  make  a  moderate  allowance  for  the 
corruptions  which  most  of  these  pieces  have  undergone  in  their 
transmission  through  more  or  less  numerous  generations  of  the 
populace,  we  shall  probably  be  safe  in  taking  them  as  approximate 
indexes  of  the  tone  and  taste  of  native  Irish  society,  in  the  castle 
as  well  as  in  the  cabin.  It  has  been  the  opinion  of  many  judges 
in  criticism  that  such  a  state  of  manners  is  the  one  most  favorable 
to  the  development  of  the  poetic  faculty.  Certainly,  the  lyrical 
pieces  produced  during  such  a  phase  of  society  afford  a  fuller  in- 
light  into  the  humors  and  genius  of  •  people  than  the  offspring  of 
any  other  period  in  its  progreas.  It  is  not  probable  that  the  rural 


1  See 


'  See  [.age  19C. 


populace  will  ever  again  produce  any  thing  comparable  to  tn.ts* 
effusions  of  a  ruder  age;  though  the  cultivated  intellect  and  last* 
of  the  upper  class,  using  the  vehicle  of  a  more  copious  though  leu 
fluent  language,  and  applying  itself  to  the  wider  range  of  ideas 
incident  to  an  advanced  state  of  civilization,  may  fairly  hope  to 
attain  a  much  greater  excellence:  for,  to  say  the  truth,  notwith- 
standing the  strength  of  passion  and  abundance  of  sentiment  and 
humor  expressed  in  the  country  songs  of  the  Irish,  they  have 
little  vigor  of  thought  and  but  a  moderate  degree  of  art  in  their 
structure:  but  not  even  the  songs  of  Burns  express  sentiment 
more  charmingly.  Even  in  those  dedicated  to  festivity  and  the 
chase,  a  sweet  and  delicate  pathos  mingles  with  the  ordinary 
topics,  which  it  is  as  difficult  to  catch  in  translation,  as  it  is  in 
music  to  define  or  analyze  the  characteristic  tones  nnd  turns  of 
the  melody.  The  general  structure  of  the  melody  i>,  with  few 
exceptions,  the  same  in  all.  A  writer  to  whom  Ireland  is  largely 
indebted  in  almost  all  the  departments  of  art  and  literature.  Dr. 
Petrie,  thus  describes  their  peculiar  arrangement:  -'They  ure 
formed,  for  the  most  part,  of  four  strains  of  equal  length.  The 
first  soft,  pathetic,  |nd  subdued  ;  the  second  ascends  in  the  scale, 
and  becomes  bold,  energetic,  and  impassioned;  the  third,  a  repe- 
tition of  the  second,  is  sometimes  a  little  varied  and  more  florid, 
and  loads,  often  by  a  graceful  or  melancholy  passage,  to  the  fourth, 
which  is  always  a  repetition  of  the  first."  Tin-  same  writer  has 
beautifully  and  truly  compared  the  effect  of  the  last  part  follow- 
ing the  bold  and  surcharged  strains  of  the  second  and  third,  to  the 
dissolution  in  genial  showers  of  a  summer  cloud.  This  progress 
of  the  melody  is  often  reflected  in  the  structure  of  the  song, 
which,  beginning  plaintively  and  tenderly,  mounts  with  the  music 
In  vehemence,  and  subsides  with  it  in  renewed  tenderness  nt  the 
conclusion  of  the  stanza.  This  analogy  between  the  sentiment 
and  melody  runs  through  many  of  the  following  pieces,  as,  tor  ex- 
ample, the  Jittive  and  rustic  but  tender  song  of  "The  Coolun,"8 
and  may  be  observed  in  the  passionate  old  strain  "Cean  Dubh 
Urellsh,"4  where  the  energy  of  the  middle  part  of  the  piece  is 
also  associated  with  one  of  those  duplications  of  the  rhythm 
which  constitute  a  peculiar  characteristic  of  Irish  song-writing. 
It  is  dillici.lt  in  English  to  imitate  these  duplications  and  crassi- 
tudes, which  give  so  much  of  its  effect  to  the  original,  where, 
owing  to  the  pliancy  of  the  sounds,  several  syllables  are  often,  as 
it  were,  fused  together,  and  internal  rhymes  and  correspondences 
produced  within  the  body  of  the  line :  such  as,  for  example,  in 
"The  Boatman:"4 

O  Whillan,  rough,  bold-faced  rock,  that  stoop'st  o'er  the  bay, 
Look  forth  at  the  new  bark  beneath  me  cleaving  her  way ; 
Saw  ye  ever,  on  sea  or  river,  'mid  the  mounting  of  spray, 
Boat  made  of  a  tree  that  urges  through  the  surges  like  mine  to-day, 
On  the  tide-top,  the  tide- top  T 

"  I  remember,"  says  Whillan,  "  a  rock  I  have  ever  be«n ; 
And  constant  my  watch,  each  day,  o'er  the  sea-wave  green  ; 
But  of  all  that  I  ever  of  barks  and  of  galleys  have  seen, 
This  that  urges  through  the  surges  beneath  you  to-duy  Is  queen 

On  the  tide-top,  the  tide-top." 

It  is  a  significant  fact  that  some  of  the  best  of  the  native  amatory 
songs  appear  to  have  been  the  compositions  of  men  in  outlawry 
and  in  misery.  In  the  "  County  Leitrim,"  the  fear  of  famine  min- 
gles with  the  ardor  of  desire;  and  scarcity  and  poverty  enter 


»  See  page  19S. 


See  page  199. 


See  page  199 


POEMS  OF  SAMUEL   FERGUSON. 


largely  Into  the  sentiment  of  "  Ca>hel  «f  Munster."1  A  large 
number  also  of  this  class  of  coinp...«ltii>ii!'  are  songs  of  bumble 
llf«-.  Some  of  these,  »uch  HS  "  Yougliall  Harbor,"7  dexpite  the 
rusticity  of  the  topics,  bespeak  iiiucli  gfii.-rous  feeling  and  eensl- 
bi  Ity  :  am!,  us  rfpinls  all.  the  observation  may  be  made  that  they 
are  uvdded  to  sirain>  of  inusio  wonderfully  various,  expressive, 
and  sweet  to  native  ears.  The  production  either  of  melodies  or 
nf  accompanying  words  has  now  wholly  ceased;  mid  the  language 
itself,  within  another  generation,  will  probably  be  no  longer  spoken 
In  Ireland. 


DEIRDRA'S  FAREWELL  TO  ALBA. 

OLD    IRISH    ROMANCE.* 

FARKWKLL  to  fair  Alba,  high  house  of  the  sun, 
Farewell  to  the  mountain,  the  cliff,  and  the  dun  ; 
Dun  Sweeny,  adieu  !  for  my  love  cannot  stay, 
And  tarry  I  may  not  when  love  cries  away. 

Glen  Vashan  !    Glen  Vashan !    where  roebucks 

run  free. 
Where  ray  love  used  to  feast  on  the  red  deer 

with  me, 
Where  rock'd  on  thy  waters  while  stormy  winds 

blew, 
My  love  used  to  slumber — Glen  Vashan,  adieu  1 

Glcndaro !    Glendaro !    where   birchen    boughs 

weep 
Honey  dew  at  high  noon  o'er  the  nightingale's 

sleep, 
Where  my  love  used  to  lead  me  to  hear  the 

cuckoo 
'Mong  the  high  haze"!  bushes — Glendaro,  adieu  1 

Glen  Urchy  !  Glen  Urchy  !    where  loudly  and 

long 

My  love  used  to  wake  up  the  woods  with  his  song, 
While  the  son  of  the  rock,4  from  the  depths  of 

the  dell, 
Laugh'd  sweetly  in  answer — Glen  Urchy,  farewell ! 

Glen  Etive !    Glen  Etive!    where  dappled  does 

roam, 
Where  1  leave  the  green  sheeling  I  first  call'd  a 

home; 
Where  with  me  and  my  true  love  delighted  to 

dwell, 
The  sun  made  his  mansion — Glen  Etive,  farewell  1 


1  8««  page  119.  »  See  page  111. 

1  The  tale  of  the  iragtcnl  fate  of  the  BODS  of  Usnach,  from  which 
till*  nnd  tin-  following'  piece  bav«i  b«en  lukeii,  may  be  seen  In  tb« 
" Transaction*  of  the  Itierno-Celtio  Society,"  Dublin,  1S08;  and  In 
tj,»  "  Atlanils."  Dublin.  1S60. 

•  (too  of  the  rock,  i.  e..  Kcho. 


Farewell  to  Inch  Draynach,  adieu  to  the  roar 
Of  the  blue  billows  bursting  in  light  on  the  shore  ;. 
Dun  Fiagh,  farewell !  for  my  love  cannot  stay, 
And  tarry  I  may  not  when  love  cries  away. 


DEIRDRA'S  LAMENT  FOR  THE  SONS  OF 
USNACH. 

OLD    IRISH    ROMANCE. 

THE  lions  of  the  hill  are  gone, 
And  I  am  left  alone — alone  : 
Dig  the  grave  both  wide  and  deep, 
For  I  am  sick,  and  faiu  would  sleep ! 

The  falcons  of  the  wood  are  flown, 
And  I  am  left  alone — alone  : 
Dig  the  grave  both  deep  and  wide. 
And  let  us  slumber  side  by  side. 

The  dragons  of  the  rock  are  sleeping, 
Sleep  that  wakes  not  for  our  weeping  : 
Dig  the  grave,  and  make  it  read}'  ; 
Lay  me  on  my  true- love's  body. 

Lay  their  spears  and  bucklers  bright 
By  the  warriors'  sides  aright ; 
Many  a  day  the  three  before  me 
On  their  linked  bucklers  bore  me. 

Lay  upon  the  low  grave  floor, 
'Neath  each  head,  the  blue  claymore; 
Many  a  time  the  noble  three 
Rcdden'd  these  blue  blades  for  me. 

Lay  the  collars,  as  is  meet, 
Of  their  greyhounds  at  their  feet; 
Many  a  time  for  me  have  they 
Brought  the  tall  red  deer  to  bay. 

In  the  falcon's  j.-ssi's  throw 
Hook  and  arrow,  line  an.l  bow; 
Never  again  by  stream  or  plain 
Shall  the  gentle  woodsmen  go. 

Sweet  companions  ye  were  ever — 
Harsh  to  me,  your  sister,  never ; 
Woods  and  wilds  and  misty  valley* 
Were,  with  you,  as  good's  a  palace. 

Oh  !  to  hear  my  true  love  sinking. 
Sweet  as  sound  of  trumpets  ringing  : 


646 


POEMS   OF   SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 


Like  the  sway  of  ocean  swelling 

Roll'd  his  deep  voice  round  our  dwelling. 

Oh  !  to  hear  the  echoes  pealing 
Round  our  green  and  fairy  sheeling, 
When  the  three,  with  soaring  chorus, 
Pass'd  the  silent  skylark  o'er  us. 

Echo,  now  sleep,  morn  and  even — 
Lark  alone  enchant  the  heaven  ! — 
Ardan's  lips  are  scant  of  breath, 
Neesa's  tongue  is  cold  in  death. 

Stag,  exult  on  glen  and  mountain — 
Salmon,  leap  from  loch  to  fountain — 
Heron,  in  the  free  air  warm  ye — 
Usnach's  sons  no  more  will  harm  ye ! 

Erin's  stay  no  more  you  are, 
Rulers  of  the  ridge  of  war ; 
Never  more  'twill  be  your  fate 
To  keep  the  beam  of  battle  straight ! 

Woe  is  me  !  by  fraud  and  wrong, 
Traitors  false  and  tyrants  strong, 
Fell  Clan  Usnach,  bought  and  sold, 
For  Barach's  feast  and  Conor's  gold  ! 

Woe  to  Emau,  roof  and  wall  ! — 
Woe  to  Red  Branch,  hearth  and  hall ! — 
Tenfold  woe  and  black  dishonor 
To  the  foul  and  false  Chin  Conor  ! 

Dig  the  grave  both  wide  and  deep, 
Sick  I  am,  and  fain  would  sleep  ! 
Dig  the  grave  and  make  it  ready, 
Lay  me  on  my  true  love's  bodv  ! 


THE  DOWNFALL  OF  THE  GAEL. 

O'GXIVE,'  BARD  OF  O'NEILL. 

Cir.  1580. 

Mr  heart  is  in  woe, 
And  my  soul  deep  in  trouble, — 

For  the  mighty  are  low, 
And  abased  are  the  noble: 


1  O'Ouive.  new 


The  Sons  of  the  Gael 
Are  in  exile  and  mourning, 

Worn,  weary,  and  pale, 
As  spent  pilgrims  returning  , 

Or  men  who,  in  flight 
From  the  fiekl  of  disaster, 

Beseech  the  black  night 
On  their  flight  to  fall  faster ; 

Or  seamen  aghast 
When  their  planks  gape  asunder, 

And  the  waves  fierce  and  fast 
Tumble  through  in  hoarse  thunder  ; 

Or  men  whom  we  see 
That  have  got  their  death-omen — 

Such  wretches  are  wo 
In  the  chains  of  our  foemen ! 

Our  courage  is  fear, 
Our  nobility  vileness, 

Our  hope  is  despair, 
And  our  comeliness  foulness. 

There  is  mist  on  our  heads, 
And  a  cloud  chill  and  hoary 

Of  black  sorrow,  sheds 
An  eclipse  on  our  glory. 

From  Boyne  to  the  Linn 
Has  the  mandate  been  given, 

That  the  children  of  Finn 
From  their  country  be  driven. 

That  the  sons  of  the  king — 
Oh,  the  treason  and  malice! — 

Shall  no  more  ride  the  ring 
In  their  own  native  valleys  ; 

No  more  shall  repair 
Where  the  hill  foxes  tarry, 

Nor  forth  to  the  air 
Fling  the  hawk  at  her  quarry 

For  the  plain  shall  be  broke 
By  the  share  of  the  stranger, 

And  the  stone-mason's  stroke 
Tell  the  woods  of  their  danger ; 

The  green  hills  and  shore 
Be  with  white  keeps  disfigured, 

And  the  Mote  of  Rathmore 
Be  the  Saxon  churl's 


1'OEMS   OF  SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 


047 


The  land  of  the  lakes 
Shall  no  more  know  the  prospect 
Of  valleys  and  brakes  — 
So  transform'd  is  her  aspect  ! 

Who  in  Erin's  cause  would  stand, 
Brwthers  of  the  avenging  band, 
He  must  wed  immortal  quarrel, 
Pain  and  sweat  and  bloody  peril. 

The  Gael  cannot  tell, 
In  the  uprooted  wild  wood 
And  red  ridgy  dell, 
The  old  nurse  of  his  childhood  : 

On  the  mountain  bare  and  steep, 
Snatching  short  but  pleasant  sleep, 
Then,  ere  sunrise,  from  his  eyrie, 
Swooping  on  the  Saxon  quarry. 

The  nurse  of  his  youth 
Is  in  doubt  as  she  views  him, 
If  the  wan  wretch,  in  truth, 
Be  the  child  of  her  bosom. 

What  although  you've  fail'd  to  keep 
Liffey's  plain  or  Tara's  steep, 
Cashel's  pleasant  streams  to  save, 
Or  the  meads  of  Croghan  Maev  ; 

We  starve  by  the  board, 
A.nd  we  thirst  amid  wassail  — 
For  the  guest  is  the  lord, 
And  the  host  is  the  vassal  ! 

Want  of  conduct  lost  the  town, 
Broke  the  white-wall'd  castle  down, 
Moira  lost,  and  old  Tallin, 
And  let  the  conquering  stranger  in. 

Through  the  woods  let  us  roam, 
Through  the  wastes  wild  and  barren; 

O                                                                                                            * 

We  are  strangers  at  home  ! 
We  are  exiles  in  Erin  ! 

'Twas  the  want  of  right  command, 
Not  the  lack  of  heart  or  hand, 
Left  your  hills  and  plains  to-day 
'Neath  the  strong  Clan  Saxon's  sway. 

And  Erin's  a  bark 
O'er  the  wide  waters  driven  I 
And  the  tempest  howls  dark, 
And  her  side  planks  are  riven  ! 

Ah,  had  heaven  never  sent 
Discord  for  our  punishment, 
Triumphs  few  o'er  Erin's  host 
Had  Clan  London  now  to  boast  I 

And  in  billows  of  might 
Swell  the  Saxon  before  her,  — 
Unite,  oh,  unite! 
Or  the  billows  burst  o'er  her  ! 

Woe  is  me,  'tis  God's  decree 
Strangers  have  the  victory  : 
Irishmen  may  now  be  found 
Outlaws  upon  Irish  ground. 

Like  a  wild  beast  in  his  den 
Lies  the  chief  by  hill  and  glen, 
While  the  strangers,  proud  and  savage, 
Cri  flan's  richest  valleys  ravage. 

^Vr»r»  ia  mo    t.Vin  firm  I  nffi»nf*p 

O'BYRNE'S  BARD  TO  THE  CLANS  OF 
wir.K'  row 

Cir.  1580. 

GOD  be  with  the  Irish  host, 
Never  be  their  battle  lost ! 
For,  in  battle,  never  yet 
Have  they  basely  earn'd  defeat. 

Host  of  armor  red  and  bright, 
May  ye  fight  a  valiant  fight ! 
For  the  green  spot  of  the  eai  th, 
For  the  land  that  gave  you  birth. 


Treachery  and  violence, 

Done  against  my  people's  rights — 

Well  may  mine  be  restless  nights  1 

When  old  Loinster's  sons  of  fame, 
Heads  of  many  a  warlike  name, 
Redden  their  victorious  hilts 
On  the  Gaul,  my  soul  exults. 

When  the  grim  Gaul,  who  have  conic 
Hither  o'er  the  ocean  foam, 


648 


POEMS  OF  SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 


From  the  fight  victorious  go, 
Then  my  heart  sinks  deadly  low. 

Bless  the  blades  our  warriors  draw. 
God  be  with  Clan  Ranclagh  ! 
But  my  soul  is  weak  for  fear, 
Thinking  of  their  danger  here. 

Have  them  in  thy  holy  keeping, 
God  be  with  them  lying  sleeping, 
God  be  with  them  standing  fighting, 
Erin's  foes  in  battle  smiting ! 


LAMENT  OVER  THE  RUINS  OF  THE 
ABBEY  OF  TIMOLEAGUE. 

JOHN  COLLINS — DIED  1S16. 

LONE  and  weary  as  I  wanderM 
By  the  bleak  shore  of  the  sea, 

Meditating  and  reflecting 
On  the  world's  hard  destiny  ; 

Forth  the  moon  and  stars  'gan  glimmer, 

In  the  quiet  tide  beneath, — 
For  on  slumbering  spray  and  blossom 

Breathed  not  out  of  heaven  a  breath. 

On  I  went  in  sad  dejection, 

Careless  where  ray  footsteps  bore, 

Till  a  ruin'd  church  before  me 
Open'd  wide  its  ancient  door, — 

Till  I  stood  before  the  portals, 
Where  of  old  were  wont  to  be, 

For  the  blind,  the  halt,  and  leper, 
Alms  and  hospitality. 

Still  the  ancient  seat  was  standing, 
Built  against  the  buttress  gray, 

Where  the  clergy  used  to  welcome 
Weary  travellers  on  their  way. 

There  I  sat  me  down  in  sadness, 

'Neath  my  cheek  I  placed  my  hand, 

Till  the  tears  fell  hot  and  briny 
Down  upon  the  grassy  land. 

There,  I  said  in  woeful  sorrow, 

Weeping  bitterly  the  while, 
Was  a  time  when  joy  and  gladness 

Reign'd  vrithiu  this  ruin'd  pile; — 


Was  a  time  when  bells  were  tinkling. 
Clergy  preaching  peace  abroad, 

Psalms  a-singing,  music  ringing, 
Praises  to  the  mighty  God. 

Empty  aisle,  deserted  chancel, 
Tower  tottering  to  your  fall, 

Many  a  storm  since  then  has  beaten 
On  the  gray  head  of  ycur  wall ! 

Many  a  bitter  storm  and  tempest 
Has  your  roof-tree  turn'd  away, 

Since  you  first  were  form'd  a  temple 
To  the  Lord  of  night  and  day. 

Holy  house  of  ivied  gables, 

That  wcrt  once  the  country's  pride, 

Houseless  now  in  weary  wandering 
Roam  your  inmates  far  and  wide. 

Lone  you  arc  to-day,  and  dismal, — 
Joyful  psalms  no  more  are  heard 

Where,  within  your  choir,  her  vesper 
Screeches  the  cat-headed  bird. 

Ivy  from  your  eaves  is  growing, 

Nettles  round  your  green  hearth -stone, 

Foxes  howl,  where,  in  your  corners, 
Dropping  waters  make  their  moan. 

Where  the  lark  to  early  matins 
Used  your  clergy  forth  to  call, 

There,  alas  !  no  tongue  is  stirring, 
Save  the  daw's  upon  the  wall. 

Refectory  cold  and  empty, 

Dormitory  bleak  and  bare, 
Where  are  now  your  pious  uses, 

Simple  bed  and  frugal  fare  ? 

Gone  your  abbot,  rule  and  order, 
Broken  down  your  altar-stones  ; 

Naught  see  I  beneath  your  shelter, 
Save  a  heap  of  clayey  bones. 

Oh  !  the  hardship,  oh  !  the  hatred. 

Tyranny,  and  cruel  war, 
Persecution  and  oppression, 

That  have  left  you  as  you  arc  ! 

I  myself  once  also  prosper'd  ; — 
Mine  is,  too,  an  alter'd  plight ; 

Trouble,  care,  and  age  have  left  me 
Good  for  naught  but  grief  to-night. 


POEMS  OF   SAMUEL   FERGUSON. 


Gone,  my  motion  and  my  vigor, — 
Gone,  the  use  of  eye  and  car ; 

At  iny  feet  lie  friends  and  children, 
Powerless  and  corrupting  here  : 

Woe  is  written  on  my  visage, 
In  a  nut  my  heart  would  lie — 

Death's  deliverance  were  welcome — 
Father,  let  the  old  man  die. 


TO  TUB  HARPER  O'CONNELLAN. 

ENCHANTER  who  reignest 

Supreme  o'er  the  North, 
Who  hast  wiled  the  coy  spirit 

Of  true  music  forth  ; 
In  vain  Europe's  minstrels 

To  honor  aspire, 
When  thy  swift  slender  fingers 

Go  forth  on  the  wire  1 

There  is  no  heart's  desire. 

Can  be  felt  by  a  king, 
That  thy  hand  cannot  match 

From  the  soul  of  the  string, 
By  its  conquering,  capturing, 

Magical  sway, 
For,  ch.irmer,  thou  stealest 

Thy  notes  from  a  fay  ! 

Enchanter,  1  say, — 

For  thy  magical  skill 
Can  soothe  every  sorrow, 

And  heal  every  ill : 
Who  hear  thee  they  praise  thee; 

They  weep  while  they  praise ; 
For,  charmer,  from  Fairyland 

Fresh  are  thy  lays  ! 


GRACE  NUGENT. 

CAROLAK. 

BRIGHTEST  blossom  of  the  Spring, 
Grace,  the  sprightly  girl  I  sing: 
Grace,  who  bore  the  palm  of  mind 
From  all  the  rest  of  womankind. 


Whomsoe'er  the  fates  decree, 
IJappy  fate !  for  life  to  be 
Day  and  night  my  Coolun  near, 
Ache  or  pain  need  never  fear  ! 

Her  neck  outdoes  the  stately  swan, 
Her  radiant  face  the  summer  dawn  : 
Ah,  happy  thrice  the  youth  for  whom 
The  fates  design  that  branch  of  bloom ! 
Pleasant  are  your  words  benign, 
Rich  those  azure  eyes  of  thine  : 
Ye  who  see  my  queen,  beware 
Those  twisted  links  of  golden  hair! 

This  is  what  I  fain  would  say 
To  the  bird-voiced  lady  gay, — 
Never  yet  conceived  the  heart 
Joy  which  Grace  cannot  impart : 
Fold  of  jewels !  case  of  pearls  ! 
Coolun  of  the  circling  curls  ! 
More  I  say  not,  but  no  less 
Drink  you  health  and  happiness  ! 


MILD  MABEL  KELLY. 

CAROLAN. 

WHOEVER  the  youth  who  by  Heaven's  decree 
Has  his  happy  right  hand  'neath  that  bright 
head  of  thine, 

'Tis  certain  that  he 
From  all  sorrow  is  free 
Till  the  day  of  his  death,  if  a  life  so  divine 
Should  not  raise  him   in  bliss  above  mortal  de- 
gree : 
Mild  Mabel-ni-Kelly,  bright  Coolun  of  curls, 

All  stately  and  pure  as  the  swan  on  the  lake; 
Her  mouth  of  white  teeth  is  a  palace  of  pearls, 
And  the  youth  of  the  land  are  love-sick  for 
her  sake ! 

No  strain  of  the  sweetest  e'er  heard  in  the  land 
That  she  knows  not  to  sing,  in  a  voice  so  en- 
chanting, 

That  the  cranes  on  the  strand 
Fall  aslct-p  where  they  stand  ; 
Oh,  for  her  blooms  the  rose,  and  the  lily  ne'er 

wanting 
To  shed  its  mild  radiance  o'er  bosom  or  hand  : 


050 


POEMS   OF   SAMUEL   FERGUSOX. 


The  dewy  blue  blossom  that  hangs  on  the  spray, 
More  blue  than  her  eye,  human  eye  never  saw, 

Deceit  never  lurk'd  in  its  beautiful  ray, — 
Dear  lady,  I  drink  to  you,  statute  yo  bragh  ! 


THE  CUP  OF  O'UARA. 

CAHOLAN. 

WIRE  I  west  in  green  Arran, 

Or  south  in  Glanmore, 
Where  the  long  ships  come  laden 

With  claret  in  store  ; 
Yet  I'd  rather  than  shiploads 

Of  claret,  and  ships, 
Have  your  white  cup,  0'IIara, 

Up  full  at  my  lips. 

But  why  seek  in  numbers 

Its  virtues  to  tell, 
When  O'Hara's  own  chaplain 

lias  said,  saying  well, — 
"  Turlogh,1  bold  son  of  Brian, 

Sit  ye  down,  boy,  again, 
Till  we  drain  the  great  cupauu 

In  another  health  to  Keane."* 


THE  FAIR-HAIR'D  GIRL. 

IRISH    SONG. 

THK  sun  has  set,  the  stars  are  still, 
The  red  moon  hides  behind  the  hill ; 
The  tide  has  left  the  brown  beach  bare, 
The  birds  have  fled  the  upper  air ; 
Upon  her  branch  the  lone  cuckoo 
Is  chanting  still  her  sad  adieu  ; 
And  you,  my  fair-hair'd  girl,  must  go 
Across  the  salt  sea  under  woe! 

I  through  love  have  learn'd  three  things, 
Sorrow,  sin,  and  death  it  brings ; 
Yet  day  by  day  my  heart  within 
Dares  shame  and  sorrow,  death  and  sin  : 
Maiden,  you  have  aim'd  the  dart 
Rankling  in  my  ruin'd  heart : 


1  Tnrlogh  Carolan,  the  composer. 
1  Keane  O'Hara,  the  patron. 


Maiden,  may  the  God  above 
Grant  you  grace  to  grant  me  love  ! 

Sweeter  than  the  viol's  string, 
And  the  notes  that  blackbirds  sing; 
Brighter  than  the  dewdrops  rare 
Is  the  maiden  wondrous  fair : 
Like  the  silver  swans  at  play 
Is  her  neck,  as  bright  as  day ! 
Woe  is  me,  that  e'er  my  sight 
Dwelt  on  charms  so  deadly  bright  1 


PASTHEEN  FIN. 

IRISH  RUSTIC  SONG. 

On,  my  fair  Pastheen  is  my  heart's  delight, 
Her  gay  heart  laughs  in  her  blue  eye  bright ; 
Like  the  apple  blossom  her  bosom  white, 
And  her  neck  like  the  swan's  on  a  March  morn 

bright ! 
Then,  Oro$  come  with  me  !  come  with  me ! 

come8  with  me  ! 

Oro,  come  with  me !  brown  girl,  sweet ! 
And,  oh  !  I  would  go  through  snow  and  sleet, 
If  you  would   come  with  me,  brown  girl, 
sweet ! 

Love  of  my  heart,  my  fair  Pastheen  ! 
Her  cheeks  are  red  as  the  rose's  sheen, 
But  my  lips  have  tasted  no  more,  I  ween, 
Thau  tlie  glass  I  drank  to  the  health  of  my  queen  ! 

Then,  Oro,  come  with  me!  come  with  me! 
come  with  me ! 

Oro,  come  with  me  !  brown  girl,  sweet ! 

And,  oh !  I   would  go   through  snow   and 
sleet, 

If  you  would   come  with   me,  brown  girl, 

sweet ! 

• 

Were  I  in  the  town,  where's  mirth  and  glee, 
Or  'twixt  two  barrels  of  barley  bree, 
With  my  fair  Pastheen  upon  my  knee, 
'Tis  I  would  drink  to  her  pleasantly  ! 

Then,  Oro,  come  with  me !  come  with  ine ! 
come  with  me ! 

Oro,  come  with  me!   brown  girl,  sweet! 

'  The  emphasis  is  on  "  com*." 


mi-IMS   OF  SAMUEL  FEK<:i;s<  >N. 


r,r>i 


And,  oh  !  I  would  go  through  snow  aud 

sleet, 
If  you  would   come  with  me,  browu  girl, 

sweet ! 

Nine  nights  I  lay  in  longing  and  pain, 
Betwixt  two  bushes,  beneath  the  rain, 
Thinking  to  see  you,  love,  once  again  ; 
But  whistle  and  call  were  all  in  vain ! 

Then,  Oro,  come  with  me !  come  with  me  1 

come  with  me ! 

Oro,  come  with  me  !  brown  girl,  sweet ! 
And,  oh  !  I  would  go  through  snow  and 

sleet, 

If  you  would  come  with   me,  brown  girl, 
sweet ! 

I'll  leave  my  people,  both  friend  and  foe ; 
From  all  the  girls  in  the  world  I'll  go ; 
But  from  you,  sweetheart,  oh,  never  !  oh,  no ! 
Till  I  lie  in  the  coffin,  stretch'd  cold  and  low ! 
Then,  Oro,  come  with  me  !  come  with  me ! 

come  with  me  ! 

Oro,  come  with  me !  brown  girl,  sweet! 
And,  oh  !  I   would  go  through  snow  and 

sleet, 

If  you  would  come  with  me,  brown  girl, 
gwect ! 


MOLLY  A  STORE. 

IRISH    SONG. 

OH,  Mary  dear,  oh,  Mary  fair, 

Oh,  branch  of  generous  stem, 
White  blossom  of  the  banks  of  Nair, 

Though  lilies  grow  on  them  ! 
You've  left  me  sick  at  heart  for  love, 

So  faint  I  cannot  see, 
The  candle  swims  the  board  above, — 

I'm  drunk  for  love  of  thee ! 
Oh,  stately  stem  of  maiden  pride, 

My  woe  it  is,  and  pain, 
That  I,  thus  sever'd  from  thy  side, 

The  long  night  must  remain  ! 

Through  all  the  towns  of  Innisfail 
I've  wander'd  far  and  «'!<!.•; 

But  from  Downpatrick  to  Kinsalc, 
From  Carlow  to  Kilbride, 


'Mong  lords  and  dames  of  high  degree, 

Where'er  my  feet  have  gone, 
My  Alary,  one  to  equal  thee 

I've  neve r  look'd  upon  ; 
1  live  in  darknees  and  in  doubt 

Whene'er  my  love's  away, 
But,  were  the  blessed  sun  put  out, 

iler  shadow  would  make  day  ! 

'Tis  she  indeed,  young  bud  of  Hiss, 

And  gentle  as  she's  fair, 
Though  lily-white  her  bosom  is, 

And  sunny-bright  her  hair, 
And  dewy-azure  her  blue  eye, 

And  rosy-red  her  check, — 
Yet  brighter  she  in  modesty, 

More  beautifully  meek  ! 
The  world's  wise  men  from  north  to  south 

Can  never  cure  my  pain  ; 
But  one  kiss  from  her  honey  mouth 

Would  make  me  whole  again  1 


CASH  EL  OF  MUNSTER. 

IK1SH  RUSTIC  BALLAD. 

I'D  wed  you  without  herds,  without  money,  or 

rich  array, 
And  I'd  wed  you  on  a  dewy  morning  at  day- 

dawn  gray  ; 
My  bitter  woe  it  is,  love,  that  we  are  not  far 

a\vay 
In  Cashel  town,  though  the  bare  deal  board  w-re 

our  marriage-bed  this  day  ! 

Oh,  fair  maid,  remember  the  green  hill  side, 
Remember  how  [  hunted  about  the  valleys  wide; 
Time  now  has  worn  me  ;  my  locks  are  turn'd  to 


The  ycai  is  scarce  and  I  am  poor,  but  send  me 
not,  love,  away  ! 

Oh,  deem  not  my  blood  is  of  base  strain,  my 

gH 
Oh,  deem  not  my  birth  was  as  the  birth  of  the 

churl  ; 

Marry  me,  and  prove  me,  and  say  *oon  you  will, 
That  noble  blood  is  written  on  my  right  side 

htill  ! 


6">2 


POEMS   OF  SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 


My  purse1  holds  no  red  gold,  no  coin  of  the  silver 

white, 
No  herds  are  mine  to  drive  through  the  long 

twilight! 
But  the  pretty  girl  that  would  take  me,  all  bare 

though  I  be  and  lone, 
Oh,  I'd  take  her  with  me  kindly  to  the  county 

Tyrone. 

Oh,  my  girl,  I  can  see  'tis  in  trouble  you  are, 
And,  oh,  rny  girl,  I  see  'tis  your  people's  reproach 

you  bear : 
"  I  am  a  girl  in  trouble  for  his  sake  with  whom 

1%, 

And,  oh,  may  no  other  maiden  know  auch  re- 
proach as  I !" 


THE  COOLUN. 

IRISH    RUSTIC    BALLAD. 

On,  had  you  seen  the  Coolun, 

Walking  down  by  the  cuckoo's  street, 
With  the  dew  of  the  meadow  shining 

On  her  milk-white  twinkling  feet ! 
My  love  she  is,  and  my  coleen  oye, 

And  she  dwells  in  Bal'nagar; 
And  she  bears  the  pal  in  of  beauty  bright 

From  the  fairest  that  in  Erin  are. 

In  Bal'nagar  is  the  Coolun, 

Like  the  berry  on  the  bough  her  cheek ; 
Bright  beauty  dwells  forever 

On  her  fair  neck  and  ringlets  sleek  : 
Oh,  sweeter  is  her  mouth's  soft  music 

Than  the  lark  or  thrush  at  dawn, 
Or  the  blackbird  in  the  greenwood  singing 

Farewell  to  the  setting  sun. 

Ris«  up,  my  boy  !  make  ready 

My  horse,  for  I  forth  would  ride, 
To  follow  the  modest  damsel, 

Where  she  walks  on  the  green  hill  side  : 
For,  ever  since  our  youth  were  we  plighted, 

In  faith,  troth,  and  wedlock  true  — 
She  is  sweeter  to  me  nine  times  over, 

Than  organ  or  cuckoo  ! 

For,  ever  since  my  childhood 

I  loved  the  fair  and  darling  child  ; 


But  our  people  came  between  us, 

And  with  lucre  our  pure  love  defiled  : 

Oh,  my  woe  it  is,  and  my  bitter  pain, 
And  I  weep  it  night  and  day, 

That  the  coleen  bawn  of  my  early  love 
Is  torn  from  my  heart  away. 

Sweetheart  and  faithful  treasure, 

Be  constant  still,  and  trne ; 
Nor  for  want  of  herds  and  houses 

Leave  one  who  would  ne'er  leave  yon : 
I'll  pledge  you  the  blessed  Bible, 

Without  and  eke  within, 
That  the  faithful  God  will  provide  for  us. 

Without  thanks  to  kith  or  kin. 

Oh,  love,  do  you  remember 

When  we  lay  all  night  alone 
Beneath  the  ash  in  the  winter-storm, 

When  the  oak  wood  round  did  groan  f 
No  shelter  then  from  the  blast  had  we, 

The  bitter  blast  or  sleet, 
But  your  gown  to  wrap  about  our  heads, 

And  my  coat  round  our  feet. 


YOUGHALL  HARBOR. 

IRISH  RUSTIC   BALLAD. 

ONE  Sunday  morning,  into  Youghall  walkingr 

I  met  a  maiden  upon  the  way ; 
Her  little  mouth  sweet  as  fairy  music, 

Her  soft  cheeks  blushing  like  dawn  of  day  ! 
I  laid  a  bold  hand  upon  her  bosom, 

And  ask'd  a  kiss  :  but  she  answer'd,  "  No  : 
Fair  sir,  be  gentle  ;  do  not  tear  my  mantle ; 

'Tis  none  in  Erin  my  grief  can  know. 

"'Tis  but  a  little  hour  since  I  left  Yonghall, 

And  my  love  forbade  me  to  return  ; 
And  now  my  weary  way  I  wander 

Into  Cappoquin,  a  poor  girl  forlorn  : 
Then  do  not  tempt  me ;  for,  alas !  I  dread  them 

Who    with   tempting   proffers    teach    girls   to 

roam, 
Who'd  first  deceive  us,  then  faithless  leave  us, 

And  send  us  shame-faced  and  barefoot  home," 

"  My  heart  and  hand  here !  I  mean  you  marriage  ! 

I  have  loved  like  you  and  known  love's  pain  ; 
And  if  you  turn  back  now  to  Youghall  Harbor, 

You  ne'er  shall  want  house  or  home  again  : 


POEMS   OF  SAMUEL   FERGUSON. 


653 


You  shall  have  a  lace  cap  like  any  lady, 

Cloak  and  capuchin,  too,  to  keep  you  warm, 

And  if  God  please,  maybe,  a  little  baby, 
By  and  by  to  nestle  within  your  arm." 


CEAN  DUBH  DEELISEL1 

Pur  your  head,  darling,  darling,  dnrling, 

Your  darling  bu^V  head  my  heart  above  ; 
Oh,  mouth  of  honey,  with  the  thyme  for  fra- 
grance, 
Who,  with  heart  in  breast,  could  deny  you 

love  ? 
Oh,   many   and   many   a  young  girl   for  me  is 

pining, 
Letting  her  locks  of  gold  to  the  cold   wind 

free, 

For  me,  the  foremost  of  our  gay  young  fellows ; 
But  I'd  leave  a  hundred,  pure  love,  for  thee ! 
Then  put  your  head,  darling,  darling,  darling, 
Your  darling  black  head  my  heart  above; 
Oh,  mouth  of  honey,  with  the   thyme  for  fra- 
grance, 

Who,  with  heart  in  breast,  could  deny  you 
love? 


BOATMAN'S  HYMN. 

HARK  that  bear  me  through  foam  and  squall, 

You  in  the  storm  are  my  castle  wall : 

Though  the  sea  should  redden  from  bottom  to 

top, 

From  tiller  to  mast  she  takes  no  drop  ; 
On  the  tide-top,  the  tide-top, 

Wherry  a*-oon,  my  land  and  store  ! 
On  the  tide-top,  the  tide-top, 
She  is  the  boat  can  sail  go  leorf 

She  dresses  herself,  and  goes  gliding  on, 
Like  a  dame  in  her  robes  of  the  Indian  lawn ; 
For  God  has  bless'd  her,  gunnel  and  whale, 
And  oh  !  if  you  saw  her  stretch  out  to  the  gale, 
On  the  tide-top,  the  tide-top,  &c. 

Whillan,*  ahoy  !  old  heart  of  stone, 
Stooping  so  black  o'er  the  beach  alone, 

1  Pronoonoed  Onwn  dfiu  dttUth,  1.  e.,  clear  black  bead 

''  0<>  Ifor,  I.  e.,  abundantly  well. 

9  W  hillan.  •  rock  on  the  shore  near  Blackaod  Harbor 


Answer  me  well — on  the  bursting  brine 
Suw  you  ever  a  bark  like  mine  ? 

On  the  tide-top,  the  tide-top,  <kc. 

Says  Whillan  :  "  Since  first  I  was  made  of  stone, 
I  have  look'd  abroad  o'er  the  beach  alone — 
But  till  to-day,  on  the  bursting  brine, 
Saw  I  never  a  bark  like  thine," 

On  the  tide-top,  the  tide-top,  «kc. 

14  God  of  the  air !"  the  seamen  shout, 

When  they  see  us  tossing  the  brine  about ; 

44  Give  us  the  shelter  of  strand  or  rock, 

Or  through  and   through  us  she  goes  with   a 

shock!" 
On  the  tide-top,  the  tide-top, 

Wherry  aroon,  my  land  and  store, 
On  the  tide-top,  the  tide-top, 
She  is  the  boat  can  sail  go  leor  ! 


THE  DEAR  OLD  AIR. 

MISFORTUNE'S  train  may  chase  our  joys, 

But  not  our  love ; 
And  I  those  pensive  looks  will  prize, 

The  smiles  of  joy  above  : 
Yoor  tender  looks  of  love  shall  still 

Delight  and  console ; 
Even  though  your  eyes  the  tear-drops  fill 

Beyond  your  love's  control. 

Of  troubles  past  we  will  not  speak, 

Or  future  woe  : 
Nor  mark,  thus  leaning  check  to  cheek, 

The  stealing  tear-drops  flow  : 
But  I'll  sing  you  the  dear  old  Irish  air, 

Soothing  and  low, 
You  loved  so  well  when,  gay  as  fair, 

You  won  me  long  ago. 


THE  LAPFUL  OF  NUTS. 

WIIKNE'ER  I  see  soft  hazel  eyes 

And  nut-brown  curls. 
I  think  of  those  bright  t.aya  I  spent 

Among  the  Limerick  girls  ; 
When  up  through  Gratia  woods  I  went, 

Nutting  with  thee ; 


654 


POEMS   OF   SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 


And  we  plnck'd  the  glossy  clustering  fruit 
From  many  a  bending-  tree. 

Beneath  the  hazel  boughs  we  sat, 

Thou,  love,  and  I, 
And  the  gathered  nuts  lay  in  thy  lap, 

Beneath  thy  downcast  eye  : 
But  little  we  thought  of  the  store  we'd  won, 

I,  love,  or  thou  ; 
For  our  hearts  were  full,  and  we  dare  not  own 

The  love  that's  spoken  now. 

Oh,  there's  wars  for  willing  hearts  in  Spain, 

And  high  Germanic ! 
And  I'll  come  back,  ere  long,  again, 

With  knio-htlv  fame  and  fee : 

O  f 

And  I'll  come  back,  if  I  ever  come  back, 

Faithful  to  thee, 
That  sat  with  thy  white  lap  full  of  nuts 

Beneath  the  hazel  tree. 


MARY'S  WAKING. 

SOFT  be  the  sleep,  and  sweet  the  dreams, 

And  bright  be  the  awaking, 
Of  Mary  this  mild  April  morn, 

On  my  pale  vigil  breaking  : 
May  weariness  and  wakefulness 

And  unrepaid  endeavor, 
And  aching  eyes  like  mine  this  day, 

Be  far  from  her  forever  ! 

The  quiet  of  the  opening  dawn, 
The  freshness  of  the  moraine*1, 

O' 

Be  with  her  through  the  cheerful  day 

Till  peaceful  eve  returning 
Shall  put  an  end  to  household  cares 

And  dutiful  employment, 
And  bring  the  hours  of  genial  mirth 

And  innocent  enjoyment. 

And  whether  in  the  virgin  choir, 

A  joyous  sylph,  she  dances, 
Or  o'er  the  smiling  circle  sheds 

Her  wit's  sweet  influences  ; 
May  he  by  favoring  fate  assign'd 

Her  partner  or  companion, 
Be  one  that  with  an  angel's  mind 

Is  fit  to  hold  communion. 


Ah  me !  the  wish  is  hard  to  frame  ! 

But  should  some  youth,  more  favor'd, 
Achieve  the  happiness  which  I 

Have  fruitlessly  endeavor'd, 
God  send  them  love  and  length  of  days, 

And  health  and  wealth  abounding, 
And  long  around  their  hearth  to  hear 

Their  children's  voices  sounding  ! 

Be  still,  be  still,  rebellious  heart ; 

If  he  have  fairly  won  her, 
To  bless  their  union  I  am  bound 

In  duty  and  in  honor : 
But,  out  alas  !  'tis  all  in  vain  ; 

I  love  her  still  too  dearly 
To  pray  for  blessings  which  I  feel 

So  hard  to  give  sincerely. 


HOPELESS  LOVE. 

SINCE  hopeless  of  thy  love  I  go, 

Some  little  mark  of  pity  show  ; 

And  only  one  kind  parting  look  bestow, — 

One  parting  look  of  pity  mild 

On  him,  through  starless  tempest  wild, 

Who  lonely  hence  to-night  must  go,  exiled. 

But  even  rejected  love  can  warm 
The  heart  through  night  and  storm  : 
And  unrelenting  though  they  be, 
Thine  eyes  beam  life  on  me. 

And  I  will  bear  that  look  benign 

Within  this  darkly-troubled  breast  to  shine, 

Though  never,  never  can  thyself,  ah  me,  be  mine  I1 


THE  FAIR  HILLS  OF  IRELAND. 

OLD    IRISH    SONG. 

A   PLENTEOUS   place   is   Ireland  for  hospita 
cheer, 

Uileacan  dubh  0  ! 

Where  the  wholesome  fruit  is  bursting  from  the 
yellow  barley  ear ; 

Uileacan  dubh  0  f 

There  is  honey  in  the  trees  where  her  misty  val<  , 
expand, 


POEMS  OF  SAMUEL   FERGUSON. 


055 


And  her  forest  paths,  in  summer,  arc  by  falling 

waters  fann'd, 
There  is  dew  at  high  noontide  there,  and  springs 

i'  the  yellow  sand, 
On  the  fair  hills  of  holy  Ireland. 

Curl'd   he  is  and   ringleted,  and  plaited  to  the 
knee, 

Uileacan  dubh  0  ! 

Each  captain  who  comes  sailing  across  the  Irish 
sea  ; 

Uileacan  dubh  0  ! 

And  I  will  make  my  journey,  if  life  ana  health 
but  stand, 

Unto  that  pleasant  country,  that  fresh  and  fra- 
grant strand, 

And   leave  your  boasted  braveries,  your  wealth 
and  high  command, 

Foi  the  fair  hills  of  holy  Ireland. 

Large   and   profitable   are   the  stacks   upon   the 

ground, 

Uileacan  dubh  0  / 
The  butter  and  the  cream  do  wondrously  abound, 

(fileucan  dubh  0  ! 
Tho  cres«es  on  the  water  and  the  sorrels  are  at 

hand. 
And  the  cuckoo's  calling  daily  his  note  of  music 

bland, 
And  the  bold  thrush  sings  so  bravely  his  song  i' 

the  forests  grand, 
On  the  fair  hills  of  holy  Ireland. 


TORNA'S   LAMENT  FOR  CORC   AND 
NIALL. 

rorna,  chief  doctor  and  archbnrd  of  Ireland,  was  thf  last  great 
bard  of  pagan  Ireland.  Among  the  poems  which  have  reached  un 
i-  his  lament  over  Core  and  Niall  of  the  nine  homages,'0  whom  he 
wn«  hound  by  the  tie  of  fosterage.  In  its  native  simplicity.  It  pre- 
•riits  a  touching  picture  of  minded  affection,  devoted  loyalty,  and 
desolate  bereavement  With  what  natural  touches  tbo  har.l  por- 
tray* the  character  of  the  royal  youths,  and  dwells  with  justifiable 
[.'!•!.•  on  the  honor  of  his  own  position  — placed  between  them — 
Niall  on  the  right  side,  the  seat  of  dignity;  and  Con:,  to  whom 
pride  was  unknown,  on  his  left,  appropriately  nearer  hl»  heart. 
T  if  present  version  of  this  ancient  relic  Is  as  nearly  literal  as  pos- 
sible, and  expressly  made  In  deprecation  of  that  spirit  of  refining 
upon  the  original  by  which  many  of  the  poetical  translations  v>f  th* 
bards  are  characterized. 

Mr  foster-children  were  not  slack ; 
Core  or  Neal  ne'er  turn'd  his  back ; 
Neal,  of  Tara's  palace  hoar, 
Worthy  seed  of  Owen  More ; 


Core,  of  Cashel's  pleasant  rock, 
Con-cead-cahu's '  honored  stock. 
Joint  exploits  made  Erin  theirs — 
Joint  exploits  of  high  cotrpeers; 
Fierce  they  were,  and  stormy  strong 
Neal,  amid  the  reeling  throng, 
Stood  terrific  ;  nor  was  Core 
Hindmost  in  the  heavy  work. 
Neal  Mac  Eochv  Vivahain 
Ravaged  Albin,  hill  and  plain  ; 
While  he  fought  from  Tara  far, 
Core  disdained  unequal  war. 
Never  saw  I  man  like  Neal, 
Making  foreign  foemen  reel ; 
Never  saw  I  man  like  Core, 
Swinging  at  the  savage  work;* 
Never  saw  I  better  twain, 
Search  all  Erin  round  again  — 
Twain  so  stout  in  warlike  deeds — 
Twain  so  mild  in  peaceful  weeds. 

These  the  foster-children  twain 
Of  Torna,  I  who  sing  the  strain  ; 
These  they  are,  the  pious  ones, 
My  sons,  my  darling  foster-sons ! 
Who  duly  every  day  would  come 
To  glad  the  old  man's  lonely  home 
Ah,  happy  days  I've  spent  between 
Old  Tara's  hall  and  Cashel-grecn  ! 
From  Tara  down  to  Cashtl  ford. 
From  Cashel  back  to  Tara's  lord. 
When  with  Neal,  his  regent,  I 
Dealt  with  princes  royally. 
If  with  Core  perchance  I  were, 
I  was  his  prime  counsellor. 

Therefore  Neal  I  ever  set 

On  my  right  hand — thus  to  get 

Judgments  grave,  and  weighty  worda, 

For  the  right  hand  loyal  lords ; 

But,  ever  on  my  left-hand  side. 

Gentle  Core,  who  knew  not  pride, 

That  none  other  so  might  part 

His  dear  body  from  my  heart. 

Gone  is  generous  Core  O'Yeor. — woe  is  mel 

Gone  is  valiant  Neal  O'Con — woe  is  me! 


1  Con  of  the  hundred  battles. 

•  In  the  paraphrase  of  this  elegy,  by  Mr.  D'Alton,  In  ibt  •  U!» 
•trelsy  :"— 

"The  eye  of  heaven  ne'er  looked  on  one 

So  God-like  In  the  field  a*  Tarn's  lord. 
Save  him  the  eomrmle  of  his  youth  alone- 
Brave  Core,  Usrriflc  wleldrr  of  the  iwonl  " 


P56 


POEMS   OF   SAMUEL   FERGUSON. 


Gone  the  root  of  Tarn's  stock — woe  is  me  ! 
Gone  the  head  of  Cashel  rock — woe  is  me ! 
Broken  is  my  witless  brain — 
Neal,  the  mighty  king,  is  slain ! 
Broken  is  my  brui>ed  heart's  core — 
Core,  the  High  More,  is  no  more ! ' 
Mourns  Lea  Con,  in  tribute's  chain, 
Lost  Mac  Eochy  Vivahain, 
And  her  lost  Mac  Lewy  true — 
Mourns  Lea  Mogha,'  ruined  too  I 


UNA   PHELIMY. 

AX    ULSTER    BALLAD,    A.  D.   1641. 

•"  AWAKKX,  Una  Phelimy, 

How  canst  thou  slumber  so. 
How  canst  thou  dream  so  quietly 

Through  such  a  night  of  woe  ? 
'Through  such  a  aignt  of  woe,"  tie  said, 

"  How  canst  thou  dreaming  lie, 
When  the  kindred  of  thy  love  lie  dead, 

And  he  must  fall  OL-  fiyf" 

•She  rose  and  to  the  casement  came ; 

"Oh,  William  dear,  speak  low  ; 
For  I  should  bear  my  brothers'  blame 

Did  Hugh  or  Angus  know." 
•"  Did  Hugh  or  Angus,  know,  Una  f 

All,  little  dreamest  thou 
-On  what  a  bloody  errand  bent, 

Are  Hugh  and  Angus  now." 

•*  Oh,  what  has  chanced  my  brothers  dear ! 

My  Willia-m,  tell  me  true  ! 
Our  God  forbode  that  what  I  fear 

Be  that  they're  gone  to  do !" 
*  They're  gone  on  bloody  work,  Una, 

The  worst  we  feared  is  done ! 
They've  taken  to  the  knife  at  last, 

The  massacre's  begun  ! 

1  The  beautiful  definition  of  the  different  feeling  experienced  by 
Hhe  loss  of  each,  here  conveyed— his  reason  being  affected  by  the 
peat  national  loss  sustained  by  the  death  of  Niall ;  wh,!le  bis  heart 
i  bruised  by  the  loss  of  Core,  his  favorite— is  thus  expressed  in 
Mr.  D'Alton's  version [: — 

"In  NialPs  fall  my  reason  felt  the  shock; 

But,  oh,  when  Core  expired,  my  heart  was  broken." 
'  Leath  Cuin,  or  Con.  and  Leath  Moirha— the  names  of  the  great 
northern  and  southern  divisions  of  the  island,  of  which  these  princes 
were  the  respective  representatives.  This  territoriiil  division  was 
made  in  the  reign  of  Conn  of  the  hundred  battles,  A.  D.  ISO,  and 
<narked  by  a  great  wall  which  extended  from  Galway  to  Dublin. 


"They  came  upon  us  while  we  slept 

Fast  by  the  sedgy  Bann  ; 
In  darkness  to  our  beds  they  crept, 

And  left  me  not  a  man  ! 
Bann  rolls  my  comrades  ever  now 

Through  all  his  pools  and  fords ; 
And  their  hearts'  best  blood  is  warm.  Una, 

Upon  thy  brothers'  swords  ! 

"  And  mine  had  borne  them  company, 

Or  the  good  blade  I  wore, 
Which  ne'er  left  foe  in  victory 

Or  friend  in  need  before, 
In  theirs  as  in  their  fellows'  hearts 

Also  had  dimm'd  its  shine, 
But  for  these  tangling  curls,  Una, 

And  witching  eyes  of  thine  ! 

"  I've  borne  the  brand  of  flight  for  these, 

For  these  the  scornful  cries 
Of  kmd  insulting  enemies; 

But  busk  thee,  love,  and  rise, 
For  Ireland's  now  no  place  for  us ; 

'Tis  time  to  take  our  flight 
When  neighbor  steals  on  neighbor  thai, 

And  stabbers  strike  by  night. 

"  And  black  and  bloody  the  revenge 

For  this  dark  midnight's  sake 
The  kindred  of  my  rnurder'd  friends 

On  thine  and  thee  will  take, 
Unless  thou  rise  and  fly  betimes, 

Unless  thou  fly  with  me, 
Sweet  Una,  from  this  land  of  crimes 

To  peace  beyond  the  sea. 

"  For  trustful  pillows  wait  us  there, 

And  loyal  friends  beside, 
Where  the  broad  lands  of  my  father  are. 

Upon  the  banks  of  Clyde. 
In  five  days  hence  a  ship  will  be 

Bound  for  that  happy  home  ; 
Till  then  we'll  make  our  sanctuary 

In  sea-cave's  sparry  dome. 
Then  busk  thee,  Una  Phelimy, 

And  o'er  the  waters  come  1" 

*  *  *  * 

The  midnight  moon  is  wading  deep, 

The  land  sends  off  the  gale, 
The  boat  beneath  the  sheltering  steep 

Hangs  on  a  seaward  sail ; 
And,  leaning  o'er  the  weather-rail, 

The  lovers,  hand  in  hand. 


POEMS   OF   SAMUEL  FERGUSON 


65, 


Take  their  last  look  of  Innisfail — 
"  Farewell,  doom'd  Ireland  !" 

"  And  art  thou  doomed  to  discord  still  f 

And  shall  thy  sons  ne'er  cease 
To  search  and  struggle  for  thine  ill, 

Ne'er  share  thy  good  in  peace? 
Already  do  thy  mountains  feel 

Avenging  Heaven's  ire ; 
\lark — hark — this  is  no  thunder  peal, 

That  was  no  lightning  fire  !" 

It  was  no  fire  from  heaven  he  saw, 

For,  far  from  hill  and  dell, 
O'er  Gobbin's  brow  the  mountain  flaw 

Hears  musket-shot  and  yell, 
And  shouts  of  brutal  glee,  that  tell 

A  foul  and  fearful  tale, 
Vhile  over  blast  and  breaker  swell 

Thin  shrip|f«j  and  woman's  wail. 


Now  fill  they  far  the  upper  sky, 

Now  down  'mid  air  they  go, 
The  frantic  scream,  the  piteous  cry, 

The  groan  of  rage  and  woe; 
And  wilder  iu  their  agony 

And  shriller  still  they  grow — 
Now  cease  they,  choking  suddenly, 

The  waves  boom  on  below. 

"  A  bloody  and  a  black  revenge  1 

Oh,  Una,  bless'd  are  we 
Who  this  sore-troubled  land  can  change 

For  peace  beyond  the  sea ; 
But  for  the  manly  hearts  and  true 

That  Antrim  still  retain, 
Or  be  their  banner  green  or  blue, 

For  all  that  there  remain, 
God  grant  them  quiet  freedom  too, 

And  blithe  homes  soon  again  I" 


POEMS  OF  JOHN  BANIM. 


AILLEEN. 

Tis  not  for  love  of  gold  I  go, 

'Tis  not  for  love  of  fame ; 
Though  fortune  should  her  smile  bestow 

And  1  may  win  a  name, 

Ailleen, 

And  1  may  win  a  name. 

And  yet  it  is  for  gold  I  go, 

And  yet  it  is  for  fame, 
That  they  may  deck  another  brow, 

And  bless  another  name, 

Ailleen, 

And  bless  another  name. 

For  this — but  this,  I  go;  for  this 

I  lose  thy  love  awhile, 
And  all  the  soft  and  quiet  bliss 

Of  thy  young,  faithful  smile, 

Ailleen, 

Of  thy  young,  faithful  smile. 

I  go  to  brave  a  world  I  hate, 

And  woo  it  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  tempt  a  wave,  and  try  a  fate 

Upon  a  stranger  shore, 

Ailleen, 

Upon  a  stranger  shore. 

Oh  !  when  the  bays  are  all  my  own, 

I  know  a  heart  will  care ! 
Oh !  when  the  gold  is  wooed  and  won, 

I  know  a  brow  shall  wear, 

Ailleen, 

I  know  a  brow  shall  wear ! 

And  when,  with  both  return'd  again, 

My  native  land  to  see, 
I  know  a  smile  will  meet  me  there, 

And  a  hand  will  welcome  me, 
Ailleen, 

And  a  hand  will  welcome  ma 


SOGGARTH  AROON. 

AM  I  the  slave  they  say, 

Soggarth  aroon  ?' 
Since  you  did  show  the  way, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
Their  slave  no  more  to  be, 
While  they  would  work  with  me 
Ould  Ireland's  slavery, 

Soggarth  aroon  ? 

Why  not  her  poorest  man, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
Try  and  do  all  he  can, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
Her  commands  to  fulfil 
Of  his  own  heart  and  will, 
Side  by  side  with  you  stil^ 

Soggarth  aroon  ? 

Loyal  and  brave  to  you, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
Yet  be  no  slave  to  you, 

Soggarth  aroon, — 
Nor,  out  of  fear  to  you, 
Stand  up  so  near  to  you — 
Och  !  out  of  fear  to  you  ! 

Soggarth  aroon  ! 

Who  in  the  winter's  night, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
When  the  cowld  blast  did  biu>- 

Soggarth  aroon, 
Came  to  my  cabin-door, 
And  on  my  eartheu-flure 
Knelt  by  me,  sick  and  poor, 

Soggarth  aroon  ? 

Who,  on  the  marriage-day, 

Soggarth  aroou, 
Made  the  poor  caoin  gay, 

Soggarth  aroon — 

'    I'l  ]«r;  iliinr 


POEMS   OF  JOHN   JJANIM. 


And  did  both  laugh  and  sing, 
Making  our  hearts  to  ring, 
At  the  poor  christening, 
Soggarth  aroon  '( 

Who,  as  friend  only  met, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
Never  did  flout  me  yet, 

Soggarth  aroon  ? 
And  when  my  hearth  was  dim, 
Gave,  while  his  eye  did  brim, 
What  I  should  give  to  him,' 

Soggarth  aroon  ? 

Oeh  !  you,  and  only  you, 

Soggarth  aroon ! 
And  for  this  1  was  true  to  you, 

Soggarth  aroon  ; 
In  love  they'll  never  shake, 
When  for  ould  Ireland's  sake 
We  a  true  part  did  take, 

Soggarth  aroon  ! 


THE  FETCH. 

[la  Ireland,  a  Fetch  it)  the  supernatural  fat-simile  of  some 
individual,  which  comes  to  insure  to  ita  original  a  happy 
longevity  or  immediate  dissolution.  If  Been  in  the  morninjj, 
the  one  event  is  predicted ;  if  In  the  evening,  the  other.— 
Aut/ior'i  lioie.] 

TUB  mother  died  when  the  child  was  born, 

And  left  me  her  baby  to  keep ; 
I  rock'd  its  cradle  the  night  and  morn, 

Or,  silent,  hung  o'er  it  to  weep. 

Twas  a  sickly  child  through  its  infancy, 

He  cheeks  were  so  ashy  pale ; 
Till  it  broke  from  my  arms  to  walk  in  glee, 

Out  in  the  sharp,  fresh  gale. 

And  then  my  little  girl  grew  strong, 

And  laugh'd  the  hours  away  ; 
Or  sung  me  the  merry  lark's  mountain  song, 

"Which  lie  taught  her  at  break  of  day. 

/» 

1  'I'll'-  Irir-h  Roman  Catholic  priei*(  In  -i]|>|><n  tril  by  volun- 
tary conlnliiilioiie  from  tin-  dock  ,  but  here,  (ur  in  iiumy  rttfen.) 
Uic  pnem  icveroe-  the  order  ol  iflvtfiK-  and  txsaUms  charily 
AU  ihe  IMHIT  pcjuanl 


When  she  wreathed  her  hair  in  thicket  bow- 
ers, 

With  the  hedge-rose  and  hare-bell  blue, 
I  call'd  her  my  May,  in  her  crown  of  flonon. 

And  her  smile  so  soft  and  new. 

And  the  rose,  I  thought,  never  shamed  hoi 
check, 

Hut  rosy  and  rosier  made  it ; 
And  her  eye  of  blue  did  more  brightly  b'^ak, 

Thro'  the  blue-bell  that  strove  to  sha^e  it. 

One  evening  I  left  her  asleep  in  her  smiles, 
And  walk'd  through  the  mountain*  lonely ; 

I  was  far  from  my  darling,  ah  !  many  .ung 

miles, 
And  I  thought  of  her,  and  her  only ! 

She  darken'd  my  path  like  a  troubled  drc  DQ 

In  that  solitude  far  and  drear ; 
I  spoke  to  my  child !  but  she  did  not  see/ 

To  hearken  with  human  ear. 

She  only  look'd  with  a  dead,  dead  eye, 
And  a  wan,  wan  cheek  of  sorrow, 

I  knew  her  Fetch  !  she  was  call'd  to  da. 
And  she  died  upon  the  morrow. 


THE  IRISH  MAIDEN'S  SONG/ 

You  know  it,  now — it  is  betray'd 

This  moment — in  mine  eye — 
And  in  my  young  cheek's  crimson  shade 

And  in  my  whispi-r'd  sigh  ; 
You  know  it,  now — yet  listen,  now — 

Though  ne'er  was  love  more  true, 
My  plight  and  troth,  and  virgin  vow, 

Still,  still  I  keep  from  you, 

Ever  — 

Ever,  until  a  proof  you  give 
How  oft  you've  heard  me  say 

I  would  not  e'en  his  empress  live, 
Who  idles  life  away 


1  In  tin-in-  lines  we  ece  again  Mr  l'mniin>  tin-qualify  fid 
want  of  mastery  in  lyric  composition  ;  Inn  In-  i-  happier  1)1*0 
usual  throughout  the  last  verve,  particularly  In  the  two  Ci.al 
line*,  which  are  exquisitely  touching  iu  feeliiiK,  auU  yerlw.1 
in  execution 


660 


1'OEMS  OF  JOHN  BANLM. 


Without  one  effort  for  the  land, 
In  which  my  fathers'  graven 

Were  hollow'd  by  a  despot  hand — 

To  darkly  close  on  slaves 

Never ! 

See !  round  yourself  the  shackles  hang, 

Yet  come  you  to  Love's  bowers, 
That  only  he  may  soothe  their  pang, 

Or  hide  their  links  in  flowers; — 
Sut  try  all  things  to  snap  them,  first, 
And  should  all  fail,  when  tried, 
fated  chain  you  cannot  burst 

My  twining  arms  shall  hide 

Ever! 


THE  RECONCILIATION. 

[This  ballad  is  paid  to  have  been  founded  on  a  fact  which 
•ocnrred  In  a  remote  country  chapel  at  the  time  when  exertions 
were  made  to  pnt  down  faction-fight?  among  the  peasantry.] 

THE  old  man  he  knelt  at  the  altar 

His  enemy's  hand  to  take, 
And  at  first  his  weak  voice  did  falter, 

And  his  feeble  limbs  did  shake; 


For  his  only  brave  boy,  his  glory, 

Had    been    stretch'd   at  the    old    man's 
feet, 

A  corpse,  all  so  haggard  and  gory, 
By  the  hand  which  he  now  must  greet 

And  soon  the  old  man  stopp'd  speaking 

And 'rage  which  had  not  gone  by, 
From  under  his  brows  came  breaking 

Up  into  his  enemy's  eye — 
And  now  his  limbs  were  not  shaking, 

But  his  clench'd  hands  his  bosom  cross'd, 
And  he  look'd  a  fierce  wish  to  be  taking 

Revenge  for  the  boy  he  had  lost ! 

but  the  old  man  he  look'd  around  him, 

And  thought  of  the  place  he  was  in, 
And  thought  of  the  promise  which  bound 
him, 

And  thought  that  revenge  was  sin — 
And  then,  crying  tears,  like  a  woman, 

"  Your    hand  ! "     he     said  — "  aye      hat 

hand ! 
And  I  do  forgive  you,  foeman, 

For  the  sake  of  our  Weeding  land 


POEMS  OF  CHARLES  JAMES  LEVER. 


BAD  LUCK  TO  THIS  MARCHING. 


"Paddy  Cf  Carroll." 

BAD  luck  to  this  marching, 
Pipeclaying  and  starching ; 

How  neat  one  must  be  to  be  kill'd  by  the 

French  ! 

I'm  sick  of  parading, 
Through  wet  and  cold  wading, 

Or  standing  all  night  to  be  shot  in  a  trench. 

o  o 

To  the  tune  of  a  fife 
They  dispose  of  your  life, 
You  surrender  your   soul  to  some  illigant 

lilt; 

Now  I  like  "  Garryowen"1 
When  I  hear  it  at  home, 
But  its  not  half  so  sweet  when  you're  going 
to  be  kilt. 

Then,  though  up  late  and  early 

Our  pay  comes  so  rarely, 
The  devil  a  farthing  we've  ever  to  spare ; 

They  say  some  disaster 

Befell  the  paymaster; 

OE  my  conscience  I  think  that  the  money's 
not  there. 

And,  just  think,  what  a  blunder, 

They  won't  let  us  plunder, 
While  the  convents  invite  us  to  rob  them, 
'tis  clear ; 

Though  there  isn't  a  village 

But  cries,  "  Come  and  pillage !" 
Yet  we   leave   all   the   mutton   behind   for 
Mounseer.1 

Like  a  sailor  that's  nigh  land, 
I  lout*  for  that  Island 


>  A  favorite  Irish  air,  and  also  a  celebrated  locality  In  the 
city  of  Limerick. 

'  A  capital  Hue  this— the  natural  comment  of  a  hungry 
»oldier,— illustrating  a  Tact  honorable  to  the  British  army  In 
the  Peninsular  war 


Where  even  the  kisses  we  steal  if  we  please ; 
Where  it  is  no  disgrace 
If  you  don't  wash  your  face, 
And   you've  nothing  to  do  but  to  stand  at 

your  ease. 

With  no  sergeant  to  abuse  us, 
We  fight  to  amuse  us, 
Sure  it's  better  beat  Christians  than  kick  % 

baboon ; 

How  I'd  dance  like  a  fairy 
To  see  ould  Dunleary,1 

And   think   twice   ere  I'd  leave  it  to  be  a 
drasroon ! 


IT'S  LITTLE  FOR  GLORY  I  CARE. 

IT'S  little  for  glory  I  care ; 

Sure  ambition  is  only  a  fable  ; 
I'd  as  soon  be  myself  as  Lord  Mayor, 

With  lashins  of  drink  on  the  table. 
I  like  to  lie  down  in  the  sun, 

And  drame  when  my  faytures  is  scorchin', 
That  when  I'm  too  ould  for  more  fun, 

Why,  I'll  marry  a  wife  with  a  fortune. 

And  in  winter,  with  bacon  and  eggs, 
And  a  place  at  the  turf-fire  basking, 

Sip  my  punch  as  I  roasted  my  legs, 
Oh  !  the  devil  a  more  I'd  be  asking. 

o 

For  I  haven't  a  jaynius  for  work, — 
It  was  never  the  gift  of  the  Bradics, — 

But  I'd  make  a  most  illigant  Turk, 
For  I'm  fond  of  tol>:iee<>  and 


1  A  landing-place  in  Dublin  Hay—  now  called  Kinggtovru,  la 
commemoration  of  the  visit  of  George  IV..  UK  "  Pa«*agv,"  In 
the  Cove  of  I'ork.  k'<>e"  by  tin-  liiuher  "  style  and  title"  of 
"Qiicenstown,"  since  ihe  visit  of  Her  M;iji-i«iy  (£ucfn  Victoria. 
Duuleary,  of  old,  could  aflbrd  -heller  but  to  a  few  n>hing-boati 
under  a  small  pier.  The  harbor  of  Kingstown  has  anchorage 
within  its  capacious  sweep  «(  masonry  Tor  chip*  of  war;  ID 
(act  it  i*  one  of  the  ilnest  works  in  the  British  dominion*. 


662 


POEMS  OF  CHARLES  JAMES  LEVER. 


LARRY  M'HALE. 

OH  !  Larry  M'Hale  he  had  little  to  fear, 
And   never  could  want  when    the  crops 

didn't  fail ; 
He'd  a  house  and  demesne  and  eight  hundred 

a  year, 

Aud  the  heart  for  to  spend  it,  had  Larry 
M'llftle! 

The  soul  of  a  party, — the  life  of  a  feast, 
And  an  illigant  song  he  could  sing,  I'll  be 

bail; 
He  would    ride  with  the  rector,  and  drink 

with  the  priest, 

Oh !    the  broth  of  a  boy  was  old  Larry 
M'Hale. 

It's  little  l-'e  cared  for  the  judge  or  recorder,1 
Ilis  house  was  as  big  and  as  strong  as  a 

Jilil ; 
With    a  cruel  four-pounder,  he  kept  all  in 

great  order, 

He'd    murder  the   country,  would  Larry 
M'Hale. 

He'd  a  blunderbuss  too ;  of  horse-pistols  a 
pair ; 

But  his  favorite  weapon  was  always  a  flail : 
I  wish  you  could  see  how  he'd  empty  a  fair, 

For  he  handled  itnately,  did  Larry  M'Hale. 


1  I  forget  the  narae  of  the  quaint  old  chronicler,  \vbo,  speak- 
ing of  the  unsettled  grate  of  Ireland,  writes,  "  They  pay  the 
Krng's  writ  rnnneth  not.  here,  but  to  that  I  say  nay:  the 
King's  writ  doth  rnnue,— but  it  rnnneth  awaye." 

Oiice  npon  a  time  it  was  nearly  as  much  as  a  bailiffs  life 
wap  worth  to  cross  the  Shannon  westward  « iih  a  writ.  If  he 
escaped  with  hii>  life,  he  was  sure  to  get  rouj:li  treatment  any- 
how. One  line  morning,  for  example,  n  Imilitl  reitmiod  tc  the 
policitor  who  had  sent  him  into  Galway  with  the  kind's  parch- 
ment, and  his  aspect  declared  discomlittire  :  he  looked  singu- 
larly bilious,  moreover.  "  1  see,"  said  the  attorney, "  you  did 
not  serve  it." 

"  No,  faith." 

"  Then  you  will  return  it,  with  an  affidavit  that — " 

"  1  can't  return  it,"  said  the  bailiff. 

"  Why  not  f " 

"  They  cotch  me  and  made  me  ate  it." 

"  In  it  eat  the  parchment  f " 

"  Every  scrap  of  it." 

"  And  what  did  you  do  with  the  seal  ?" 

"  They  made  me  ate  that  too,  the  villain?  !" 

L«rt  it  not  be  imagined,  however,  that  we  had  an  tne  fun  to 
onn-elvee  in  Ireland,  or  that  we  can  even  claim  originality  in 
oar  boluses  for  bailiffs  ;  for  it  is  recorded  that  a  certain 
"  Roger  Lord  Clifford,  who  died  1327,  was  so  obstinate  and 
CAreloeB  of  the  king's  displeasure,  as  that  he  caused  a  pur- 
»iiivant  that  served  a  writ  upon  him  in  the  Baron's  chamber, 
lucre  to  eat  and  swallow  down  part  of  the  wax  that  the  said 
writ  was  sealed  with,  a?  rt  were  in  contempt  of  the  said 
4mj{."—  Memoir  of  the  Countess  of  Pembroke,  JJS. 


His  ancestors  were  kings  before  Moses  wa* 

born  , 
His  mother  descended  from  great  Gratia 

Uaile  ; 
He  laujjh'd  all  the  Blakes  and  the  Frenches 

O 

to  scorn : 

They  were  mushrooms  compared  to  old 
"Larry  M'Hale. 

He  sat  down  every  day  to  a  beautiful  diiwier, 

With  cousins  and  uncles  enough  for  a  tail ; 

And,  though  loaded  with  debt,  oh  !  the  devil 

a  thinner 

Couhi    law    or   the    sheriff    make    Larry 
M'Hale. 

With  a  larder  supplied,  and  a  cellar  well- 
stored, 
None  lived  half  so  well,  from   Fair-Head 

to  Kinsale, 

And  he  piously  said,  "I've  a  plentiful  board, 
And    the   Lord   he  is  good  to  old  Larry 
M'llale." 

So  fill  up  your  glass,  and  a  high  bumper  give 

him, 

It's  little  we'd  care  for  the  tithes  or  repale ; 
For  ould  Erin  would  be  a  fine  country  to 

live  in, 
If  we  only  had  plenty,  like  Larry  M'llale. 


MARY  DRAPER. 

DOX'T  talk  to  me  of  London  dames, 
Nor  rave  about  your  foreign  rhunes, 
That  never  lived — except  in  drames, 

Nor  shone,  except  on  paper  : 
I'll  sing  you  'bout  a  girl  I  knew, 
Who  lived  in  Ballywhackmacrew, 
And,  let  me  tell  you,  mighty  few 

Could  equal  Mary  Draper. 

Her  cheeks  were  red,  her  eyes  were  blue, 
Her  hair  was  brown  of  deepest  hue, 
Her  foot  was  small  and  neat  to  view, 

Her  waist  was  slight  and  taper  ; 
Her  voice  was  music  to  your  ear, 
A  lovely  brogue,  so  rich  and  clear. 


POEMS  OF  CIIAJILES  JAMES  LEVER. 


663 


Oh,  the  like  I  ne'er  again  shall  hear 
As  from  sweet  Mary  Draper. 

She'd  ride  a  wall,  she'd  drive  a  team, 

Or  with  a  fly  she'd  whip  a  stream, 

Or  may-be  sing  you  "  Rousseau's  dream," 

For  nothing  could  escape  her  ; 
I've  seen  her,  too — upon  my  word — 
At  sixty  yards  bring  down  her  bird — 
Oh  !  she  charm'd  all  the  Forty-third  ! 

Did  lovely  Mary  Draper. 

And,  at  the  spring  assizes  ball, 
The  ju-nior  bar  would,  one  and  all, 
For  all  her  favorite  dances  call, 

And  Harry  Deane1  would  caper ; 
Lord  Clare*  would  then  forget  his  lore  ; 
King's  counsel,  voting  Inw  a  bore, 
Were  proud  to  figure  on  the  floor 

For  love  of  Mary  Draper. 

The  parson,  priest,  sub-sheriff  too, 
Were  all  her  slaves,  and  so  would  you, 
If  you  had  only  but  one  view 

Of  such  a  face  or  shape,  or 
Her  pretty  ankles — but,  alone, 
It's  only  west  of  old  Athlone 
Such   girls  were   found — and    now   they're 
gone — 

So,  here's  to  Mary  Draper  1 


NOW  CAN'T  YOU  BE  AISY  ? 

Am— "  ArraA.  Kutty,  now  can't  you  be  aityP' 

OH  !  what  stories  I'll  tell  when  my  sodger- 
iug's  o'er, 

And  the  gallant  Fourteenth  is  disbanded 
Not  a  drill  uor  parade  will  I  hear  of  no  more, 

When  safely  in  Ireland  landed. 


1  Barry  Deane  Urady,  a  distinguished  lawyer  on  the  Western 
Circuit. 

*  Lord  Chancellor  of  Ireland,  celebrated  for  bis  hatred  of 
Cnrran.  He  carried  th!»  feeling  to  the  unjust  and  undignified 
length  of  always  treating  t.iiu  with  disrespect  in  Court,  to  the 
great  injury  of  Curran's  practice.  On  one  occasion,  when 
that  eminent  man  was  addressing  him.  Lord  Clare  turned  to 
a  pet  dog  beside  him  on  the  bench,  and  gave  all  the  attention 
to  his  canine  favorite  which  he  xhould  have  bestowed  on  the 
counsel.  Curran  suddenly  stopped.  Lord  Clare  observing 
this,  said,  "Yon  may  no  nn,  Mr.  Curran— I'm  listening  to 
yon."  "  1  b*?K  pardon  for  my  mistake,  my  Lord,"  replied 
Outran ;  "  1  "lopped,  my  Lord,  because  1  thought  your  Lord- 


With  the  blood  that  I  spilt — the  Frenchmen 

I  kilt, 

I'll  drive  all  the  girls  half  crazy  ; 
And  some  'cute  one  will  cry,  with  a  wink  of 

her  eye, 
"  Mr.  Free,  now — why  can't  you  be  aisy  ?" 

I'll  tell  how  we  routed  the  squadrons  in  fight, 

And  destroy'd  them  all  at  "  Talavera," 
And  then  I'll  just  add  how  we  fimsh'd  the 
night, 

In  learning  to  dance  the  "  Bolera ;" 
How  by  the  moonshine  we  drank  raal  wine, 

And  rose  next  day  fresh  as  a  daisy ; 
Then  some  one  will  cry,  with  a  look  mighty 
sly, 

"  Arrah,  Mickey — now  can't  you  be  aisy  ?" 

I'll  tell  how  the  nights  with  Sir  Arthur  we 
spent, 

Around  a  big  fire  in  the  air  too, 
Or  may-be  enjoying  ourselves  in  a  tent, 

Exactly  like  Donnybrook  fair  too  ; 
How  he'd  call  out  to  me — "  Pass  the  wine, 
Mr.  Free, 

For  you're  a  man  never  is  lazy  !" 
Then  some  one  will  cry,  with  a  wink  of  her  eye, 

"  Arrah,  Mickey  dear — can't  you  be  aisy  ?" 

I'll  tell,  too,  the  .long  years  in  fighting  we 

pass'd, 

Till  Mounseer  ask'd  Bony  to  lead  him. 
And  Sir  Arthur,  grown  tired  of  glory  at  last, 
Begg'd  of  one  Mickey  Free  to  succeed  him. 
But, "  acushla,"  says  I, "  the  truth  is,  I'm  shy  ! 

There's  a  lady  in  Ballynacrazy  ! 
And  I  swore  on  the  book — "  she  gave  me  a 

look. 

And  cried,  "  Mickey — now  can't  you  be 
aisy  ?" 


OH!  ONCE  WE  WERE  ILLIGANT 
PEOPLE. 

On  1  once  we  were  illigant  people, 

Though  we  now  live  in  cabins  of  mud  ; 

And  the  land  that  ye  see  from  the  steeple 
Belong'd  to  us  all  from  the  flood. 

My  father  was  then  king  of  Connanght, 
My  graudaunt  viceroy  of  Tralee; 


664 


POEMS  OF  CHARLES  JAMES  LEVER. 


But  the  Sassenach  came,  and,  signs  on  it ! 
The  divil  an  acre  have  we. 

The  least  of  us  then  were  all  earls, 

And  jewels  we  wore  without  name ; 
We  drank  punch  out  of  rubies  and  pearls — 

Mr.  Petrie,1  can  tell  you  the  same, 
But,  except  some  turf-mould  and  potatoes, 

There's  nothing  our  own  we  can  call  : 
And  the  English — bad  luck  to  them  ! — hate 
us, 

Because  we've  more  fun  than  them  all  !* 

My  grandaunt  was  niece  to  St.  Kevin, 

That's  the  reason  my  name's  Mickey  Free ! 
Priest's  nieces — but  sure  he's  in  heaven, 

And  his  failins  is  nothin'  to  me. 
And  we  still  might  get  on  without  doctors, 

If  they'd  let  the  ould  island  alone ; 
And  if  purplemen,  priests,  and  tithe-proctors 

Were  cramm'd   down   the  great  gun  of 
Athlone. 


POTTEEN,  GOOD  LUCK  TO  YE, 
DEAR. 

Av  I  was  a  monarch  in  stat'e, 

Like  Romulus  or  Julius  Caysar, 
With  the  best  of  fine  victuals  to  eat, 

And  drink  like  great  Nebuchadnezzar, 
A  rasher  of  bacon  I'd  have, 

And  potatoes  the  finest  was  seen,  sir  ; 
And  for  drink,  it's  no  claret  I'd  crave, 

But  a  keg  of  old  Mullen's  potteen,  sir. 
With  the  smell  of  the  smoke  on  it  still. 

They  talk  of  the  Romans  of  ould, 

Whom  they  say  in  their  own  times  was 
frisky : 


1  Now  Dr.  Petrie.  The  eong  was  written  by  my  eateemed 
friend,  the  author,  before  my  other  esteemed  friend,  the  dis- 
tinguished antiquary  alluded  to,  had  the  academic  honor  of 
LL.D.  appended  to  his  name— a  name  which  has  laid  the 
alphabet  under  many  more  contributions  of  the  same  sort. 

*  This  is  a  capital  idea,  and  most  characteristic  of  the  queer 
fellow  that  utters  it,  Mister  "Mickey  Free,"*  to  whose  ac- 
quaintance I  would  recommend  the  reader—  if  there  be  any  who 
does  not  know  him  already.  For  my  own  part,  I  will  add  a 
wish  that  all  the  rivalries  between  the  sister  isles,  for  the 
future,  may  be  in  the  pursuit  of  happiness— in  obtaining 
wnat  phall  give  cause  to  laugh  the  most. 

•   rule  "  Charles  O'MaHur  " 


But  trust  me,  to  keep  out  the  cowld, 
The  Romans'  at  home  here  like  whisky. 

Sure  it  warms  both  the  head  and  the  heart, 
It's  the  soul  of  all  rea'lin'  and  writin' ; 

It  teaches  both  science  and  art, 

And  disposes  for  love  or  for  fightin'. 
Oh,  potteen,  good  luck  to  ye,  dear. 


THE  BIVOUAC. 

A  IB—"  Garry t/Ktn." 

Now    that    we've    pledged    each    eye    of 

blue, 

And  every  maiden  fair  and  true, 
And  our  green  island  home — to  you 

The  ocean's  wave  adorning, 
Let's  give  one  hip,  hip,  hip,  hurra  ! 
And  drink  e'en  to  the  coming  day, 

Wrhen  squadron  square 

We'll  all  be  there  ! 
To  meet  the  French  in  the  morning. 

May  his  bright  laurels  never  fade, 
Who  leads  our  fighting  fifth  brigade, 
Those  lads  so  true  in  heart  and  blade. 

And  lamed  for  danger  scorning  ; 
So  join  me  in  one  hip,  hurra! 
And  drink  e'en  to  the  coming  day, 

When  squadron  square 

We'll  all  be  there  ! 
To  meet  the  French  in  the  morning. 

And  when  with  years  and  honors  crown'd, 
You  sit  some  homeward  heai-th  around, 
And  hear  no  more  the  stirring  sound 
That  spoke  the  trumpet's  warning  ; 
You  fill,  and  drink,  one  hip,  hurra  1 
And  pledge  the  memory  of  the  day, 

When  squadron  square 

They  all  were  there 
To  meet  the  French  in  the  morning. 


*  An  abbreviation  of  Koman  Catholic.  The  Irish  peasant 
used  the  word  "Roman"  in  contradistinction  to  that  of 
"  Protestant."  An  Hibernian,  in  a  religious  wrangle  with  a 
Scotchman,  said.,  "  Ah,  don't  bother  me  any  more,  man  !  I'll 
prove  to  ye  mine  is  the  raal  ould  religion  by  one  word.  St. 
Paul  wrote  an  epistle  to  The  Romans  /—but  he  never  wrote  ona 
to  The  Protestants.  Answer  me  that  /" 


POEMS  OF  CHARLES  JAMES  LEVER. 


6(35 


THE  GIRLS  OF  THE  WEST. 


"  Thady  ye  Gander." 

You  may  talk,  if  you  please, 
Of  the  brown  Portuguese, 

But,  wherever  you  roam,  wherever  you  roam, 
You  nothing  will  meet 
Half  so  lovely  or  sweet 

As  the  girls  at  home,  the  girls  at  home. 
Their  eyes  are  not  sloes, 
Nor  so  long  is  their  nose, 

But  between  me  and  you,  between  me  and 

you, 

They  are  just  as  alarming, 
And  ten  times  more  charming, 

With  hazel  and  blue,  with  hazel  and  blue. 

They  don't  ogle  a  man 

O'er  the  top  of  their  fan 
Till  his  heart's  in  a  flame,  his  heart's  in  a 
flame ; 

But  though  bashful  and  shy, 

They've  a  look  in  their  eye, 
That  just  comes  tc  the  same,  just  comes  to 
the  same. 

No  mantillas  they  sport, 

But  a  petticoat  short 
Shows  an  ankle  the  best,  an  ankle  the  best, 

And  a  leg — but,  oh  murther ! 

I  dare  not  go  further, 
So  here's  to  the  West,  so  here's  to  the  West 


THE  IRISH  DRAGOON. 

Ai»— "  Sprig  <tf  ShUlelaJi." 

OH,  love  is  the  soul  of  an  Irish  dragoon, 
In  battle,  in  bivouac,  or  in  a  saloon — 
From  the   tip   of  his  spur  to  his  bright 

sabertasche. 
With  his  soldierly  gait  and  his  bearing  so 

high, 
His  gay  laughing  look  and  his  light  speaking 

eye, 

He  frowns  at  his  rival,  he  ogles  his  wench, 
He  springs  on  his   saddle   and   chasses  the 

French — 
With   his  jingling   spur   and   his   bright 

sabertasehe. 


His   spirits   are   high  and   he   little   knows 

care, 
Whether  sipping  his  claret   or   charging  a 

square — 
With   his  jingling   spur   and   his   bright 

sabertasche. 

As  ready  to  sing  or  to  skirmish  he's  found, 
To  take  off  his  wine  or  to  take  up  his  ground : 
When  the  bugle  may  call  him,  how  little  he 

fears 
To  charge  forth   in   column   and    beat  the 

Mounseers — 

With   his  jingling   spur   and   his   bright 
sabertaschc. 

When  the  battle  is  over  he  gayly  rides  back 

To  cheer  every  soul  in  the  night  bivouac — 
With   his  jingling   spur   and   his   bright 
sabertasche. 

Oh  !   there   you  may  see  him  in  full   glory 
crown'd, 

And  he  sits  'mid  his  friends  on  the  hardly- 
won  ground, 

And  hear  with  what  feeling  the  toast  he  will 
give, 

As  he  drinks  to  the  land  where  all  Irishmen 

live — 

With  his   jingling   spur   and   his   bright 
sabertasche. 


THE  MAN  FOR  GAL  WAY. 

To  drink  a  toast, 
A  proctor  roast, 

Or  bailiff,  as  the  case  is  ; 
To  kiss  your  wife, 
Or  take  your  life 

At  ten  or  fiftei-n  paces  ; 
To  keep  game  cocks,  to  hunt  the  fox, 

To  drink  in  punch  the  Solway, 
With  debts  galore,  but  fun  far  inoro  ; 
Oh,  that's  "the  man  for  Gahvuy." 

With  debts,  <fco. 

The  King  of  Oude 
Is  mighty  proud, 

And  so  were  onest  the  Cay  Hare ; 


•G66 


POEMS  OF  CHARLES  JAMES  LEVER. 


But  ould  Giles  Eyre 
Would  make  them  stare, 

Av  he  had  them  with  the  Blazers.1 
To  the  divil  I  fling  ould  Runjeet  Sing, 

He's  only  a  prince  in  a  small  way, 
And  knows  nothing  at  all  of  a  six-foot  wall ; 
Oh,  he'd  never  "do  for  Gal  way." 

With  debts,  &c. 

Ye  think  the  Blakes 
Are  no  "  great  shakes  ;" 

They're  all  his  blood  relations; 
And  the  Bodkins  sneeze 
At  the  grim  Chinese, 

For  they  come  from  the  Phenaycians. 

So  fill  to  the  brim,  and  here's  to  him 

Who'd  drink  in  punch  the  Sol  way; 

With  debts  galore,  but  fun  far  more ; 

Oh  1  that's  "the  man  for  Gal  way." 

With  debts,  &c. 


THE  POPE  HE  LEADS  A  HAPPY 
LIFE.1 

(From  the  German.) 

THE  Pope  he  leads  a  happy  life, 
He  knows  no  cares  nor  marriage  strife  ; 
He  drinks  the  best  of  Rhenish  wine — 
I  would  the  Pope's  gay  lot  were  mine. 

But  yet  not  happy  is  his  life — 
He  loves  no  maid  or  wedded  wife, 
Nor  child  hath  he  to  cheer  his  hope — 
I  would  not  wish  to  be  the  Pope. 


1  This  generally  implies  the  arbitrament  of  the  "  duello," 
blazers  being  a  figurative  term  for  pistols  ;  but  in  the  present 
case,  if  I  remember  rightly,  the  Blazers  allude  to  a  very  break- 
neck pack  of  hounds,  so  called. 

1  Whether  this  is  a  close  or  a  free  translation,  I  know 
not ;  but  I  do  know  it  was  originally  written  for,  and  sung  at, 
the  festive  meetings  of  the  "  Burschen  Club"  of  Dublin,  by 
the  author  ;  and  I  cannot  name  that  Club  without  many  a  re- 
miniscence of  bright  evenings,  and  of  bright  friends  that 
made  them  such.  Brightest  among  them  all  was  my  early  and 
valued  friend  Charles  Lever— by  title  "  King"  of  the  Burschen- 
Bhaft,  while  my  humbler  self  was  honored  with  the  title  of 
their  "  Minstrel,"  they  having  recognized  in  me  some  quali- 
ties which  the  world  was  afterward  good  enough  to  acknowl- 
edge. Many,  indeed  most  of  the  men  of  that  Club,  have 
fince  become  distinguished  ;  and  what  songs  were  written 
for  occasions  by  all  of  them  1  What  admirable  fooling  of  the 
highest  class  was  there  1  In  the  words  of  Hamlet,  we  fooled 
•rach  other  to  the  top  of  onr  bent ;  but  over  all  the  wildest 
mirth  there  was  a  presiding  good  taste  I  never  once  saw  vio- 
•Uttod.  A  distinguished  old  barrister,  who  had  known  ranch 


The  Sultan  better  pleases  me, 

He  leads  a  life  of  jollity, 

Has  wives  as  many  as  he  will — 

I  would  the  Sultan's  throne  then  fill 

But  yet  he's  not  a  happy  man — 
He  must  obey  the  Alcoran  : 
And  dares  not  taste  one  drop  of  wine-- 
I  would  not  that  his  lot  were  mine. 

So  here  I  take  my  lowly  stand, 
Pll  drink  my  own,  my  native  land ; 
I'll  kiss  my  maiden's  lips  divine, 
And  drink  the  best  of  Rhenish  wiue. 

And  when  my  maiden  kisses  me 
I'll  fancy  I  the  Sultan  be ; 
And  when  my  cheering  glass  I  tope, 
I'll  fancy  then  I  am  the  Pope. 


THE  PICKETS  ARE  FAST  RETREAT 
ING,  BOYS. 

AIB— "  The  Young  May  Moon." 

THE  pickets  are  fast  retreating,  boys, 
The  last  tattoo  is  beating,  boys  ; 

So  let  every  man 

Finish  his  can, 

And    drink    to    our  next    merry   meeting, 
boys! 

The  colonel  so  gayly  prancing,  boys, 
Has  a  wonderful  trick  of  advancing,  boys; 
When  he  sings  out  so  large, 
"  Fix  bayonets  and  charge !" 
He  sets  all  the  Frenchmen  a-dancing,  boys  ! 


of  the  former  bright  days  of  Dublin,  was  onr  gnest  on  one 
occasion,  and  he  said  that  he  never  had  witnessed  anything 
like  our  festive  board,  since  the  famous  "Monks  of  the 
Screw."  Oh  !  merry  times  of  the  Burschenshaft,  how  often  I 
recall  yon  1 — and  yet  there  is  sometimes  a  dash  of  sadness  in 
the  recollection.  Too  truly  says  the  song — 

"  The  walks  where  we've  roam'd  without  tiring, 

The  songs  that  together  we've  sung, 
The  jest,  to  whose  merry  inspiring 

Our  mingling  of  laughter  hath  rung  ; 
Ok,  trifles  like  these  become  precious, 

Embalm'd  in  the  memory  of  years  ;    . 
The  smiles  of  the  past,  so  remember'd, 

How  often  they  waken  our  tears  I" 


POEMS  OF  CHARLES  JAMES  LEVER. 


Gf>7 


Lei  Mounseer  look  ever  so  big,  my  boys, 
Who  cares  for  fighting  a  fig,  my  boys? 

When  we  play  "  Garryowen" 

He'd  rather  go  home, 
For  ftomi'how  he's  no  taste  for  a  jig,  my  boys. 


WIDOW  MALONE. 

Dn>  you  hear  of  the  Widow  Malone, 

Ohone  1 
Who  lived  in  the  town  of  Athlone  ? 

Ohonc ! 

Oh,  she  melted  the  hearts 
Of  the  swains  in  them  parts, 
So  lovrly  the  Widow  Malone, 

Ohone  1 
So  lovely  the  Widow  Malone. 

Of  lovers  she  had  a  full  seore, 

Or  more, 
And  fortunes  they  all  had  galore, 

In  store ; 

From  the  minister  down 
To  the  clerk  of  the  crown, 
All  were  courting  the  Widow  Malone, 

Ohone  I 
All  were  courting  the  Widow  Malone. 

O 

Hut  BO  modest  wns  Mistress  Malone, 

'Twas  krown 
That  no  one  could  see  her  alone, 

O  .one! 


Let  them  ogle  and  sigh, 

They  could  ne'er  catch  her  eye, 

So  bashful  the  Widow  Malone, 

Ohone ! 

So  bashful  the  Widow  Malone. 

Till  one  Mister  O'Brien,  from  Clare, — 

How  quare  I 
It's  little  for  blushing  they  care 

Down  there, 

Put  his  arm  round  her  waist — 
Gave  ten  kisses  at  laste — 
"Oh,"  says  he,  "you're  my  Molly  Malone, 

My  own!" 
"Oh,"  says  he,  "you're  my  Molly  Malone' 

And  the  widow  they  a-11  thought  so  shy, 

My  eye! 
Ne'er  thought  of  a  simper  or  si:jh, 

For  why  ? 

But,  "  Lucius,"  says  she, 
"Since  you've  now  made  so  free, 
You  may  marry  your  Mary  Malone, 

Ohone  ! 
You  may  marry  your  Mary  Malone." 

There's  a  moral  contained  in  my  song, 

Not  wrong, 
And  one  comfort,  it's  not  very  long, 

But  strong, — 
If  for  widows  you  die, 
L^arn  to  kiss,  not  to  sigh, 
For  they're  all  like  sweet  Mistress  Malone, 

Ohone  ! 
Oh,  they're  all  like  sweet  Mistreps  Malone 


POEMS  OF  JOHN  STERLING, 


THE   MARINERS. 

RAISE  we  the  yard,  ply  the  oar, 

The  breeze  is  calling  us  swift  away; 

The  waters   are   breaking  in  foam  on  the 

shore; 
Our  boat  no  more  can  stay,  can  stay. 

When  the  blast  flies  fast  in  the  clouds  on  high, 
And  billows  are  roaring  loud  below, 

The  boatman's  song,  in  the  stormy  sky, 
Still  dares  the  gale  to  blow,  to  blow. 

The  timber  that  frames  his  faithful  boat, 
Was  dandled  in  storms  on  the  mountain 
peaks;  [float, 

And  in  storms,   with  bounding  keel,  'twill 
And  laugh  when   the   sea-fiend  shrieks, 
and  shrieks. 

And  then  on  the  calm  and  glistening  nights, 
We  have  tales  of  wonder,  and  joy,  and  fear, 

The  deeds  of  the  powerful  ocean  sprites, 
With  our  hearts  we  cheer,  we  cheer. 

For  often  the  dauntless  mariner  knows 
That  he  must  sink  to  the  land  beneath, 

Where  the  diamond  on  trees  of  coral  grows, 
In  emerald  halls  of  Death,  of  Death. 

Onward  we  sweep  through  smooth  and  storm; 

We  are  voyagers  all  in  shine  or  gloom; 
And  the  dreamer  who  skulks  by  his  chim- 
ney warm. 

Drifts  in  his  sleep  to  doom,  to  doom. 


THE  DREAMER  ON   THE   CLIFF. 

OXCE  more,  thou  darkly  rolling  main, 
I  bid  thy  lonely  strength  adieu; 

And  sorrowing  leave  thee  once  again, 
Familiar  long,  yet  ever  new  ! 


And  while,  thou  changeless,  boundless  sea, 

I  quit  thy  solitary  shore, 
I  sigh  to  turn  away  from  thee, 

And  think  I  ne'er  may  greet  thee  more. 

Thy  many  voices  which  are  one, 

The  varying  garbs  that  robe  thy  might, 

Thy  dazzling  hues  at  set  of  stm, 
Thy  deeper  loveliness  by  night; 

The  shades  that  flit  with  every  breeze 
Along  thy  hoar  and  aged  brow, — 

What  has  the  universe  like  these  ? 
Or  what  so  strong,  so  fair  as  thou  ? 

And  when  yon  radiant  friend  of  earth 

Has  bridged  the  waters  with  her  rays, 
Pure  as  those  beams  of  heavenly  birth, 

That  round  a  seraph's  footsteps  blaze- 
While  lightest  clouds  at  times  o'ercast 

The  splendor  gushing  from  the  spheres, 
Like  softening  thoughts  of  sorrow  past, 

That  fill  the  eyes  of  joy  with  tears; 

The  soul,  methinks,  in  hours  like  these, 
Might  pant  to  flee  its  earthly  doom, 

And  freed  from  dust  to  mount  the  breeze, 
An  eagle  soaring  from  the  tomb. 

Or  mix'd  in  stainless  air,  to  roam 

Where'er  thy  billows  know  the  wind, — 

To  make  all  climes  my  spirit's  home, 
And  leave  the  woes  of  all  behind. 

Or  wandering  into  worlds  that  beam 
Like  lamps  of  hope  to  human  eyes, 

Wake  'mid  delights  we  now  but  dream, 
And  breathe  the  rapture  of  the  skies. 

But  vain  the  thought;  my  feet  are  bound 
To  this  dim  planet, — clay  to  clay, — 

Condemned  to  tread  one  thorny  round, 
And  chain  with  links  that  ne'er  decay. 


POEMS  OF  JOHN   STERLING. 


15C.O 


Yet  while  thy  ceaseless  current  flows, 
Thou  mighty  main,  and  shrinks  again, 

Methinks  thy  rolling  floods  disclose 
A  refuge  sate,  at  least  from  men. 

Within  thy  gently  heaving  breast, 
That  hides  no  passions  dark  and  wild, 

My  weary  soul  might  sink  to  rest, 
As  in  its  mother's  arms  a  child  ; 

Forget  the  world's  eternal  jars, 

In  murmurous  caverns  cool  and  dim, 

And  long,  o'ertoiled  with  angry  wars, 
Hear  but  thy  billow's  distant  hymn  1 


THE  DEAREST. 

On  that  from  far-away  mountains, 

Over  the  restless  waves, 
Where  bubble  enchanted  fountains, 

Rising  from  jewell'd  caves, 
I  could  call  a  fairy  bird, 
Who,  whenever  thy  voice  was  heard, 

Should  come  to  thee,  dearest ! 

He  should  have  violet  pinions, 

And  a  beak  of  silver  white, 
And  should  bring  from  the  sun's  dominions 

Eyes  that  would  give  thee  light. 
Thou  shouldst  see  that  he  was  born 
In  a  land  of  gold  and  morn, 

To  be  thy  servant,  dearest  f 

Oft  would  he  drop  on  thy  tresses 

A  pearl  or  a  diamond  stone, 
And  would  yield  to  thy  light  caresses 

Blossoms  in  Eden  grown. 
Round  thy  path  his  wings  would  shower 
Now  a  gom  and  now  a  flower, 

And  dewy  odors,  dearest ! 

He  should  fetch  from  his  eastern  island 

The  songs  that  the  Peris  sing, 
And  when  evening  is  clear  and  silent, 

Spells  to  thy  ear  would  bring, 
And  with  his  mysterious  strain 
Would  entrance  thy  weary  brain ; — 

Love's  own  music,  dearest  I 


No  Phccnix,  alas !  will  hover, 
Sent  from  the  morning  star ; 

And  thou  must  take  of  thy  lover 
A  gift  not  brought  so  far : 

Wanting  bird,  and  gem,  and  song, 

Ah  !  receive  and  treasure  long 
A  heart  that  loves  thee,  dearest ! 


LAMENT  FOR  DAEDALUS. 

[The  subject  of  this  poem  was  a  celebrated  scnlptoi  ol 
Greece,  who  lived,  as  we  are  told,  three  generations  before 
the  Trojan  war.  Mankind  's  indebted  to  him,  it  appears,  for 
the  discovery  of  several  of  the  mechanical  powers.  Daedalus 
was  the  most  ingenious  artist  of  his  time,  having  made  statues 
to  which  he  communicated  the  power  of  motion,  like  ani- 
mated beings.  They  were  of  two  kinds,  one  son  having  a 
spring  which  stopped  them  when  one  pleased  ;  while  the 
others,  having  no  snch  contrivance,  went  along  to  the  end  o'f 
tbeir  line,  and  could  not  be  stopped.  Plato  and  Socrates  u>"d 
these  different  statues  in  illustration  of  some  of  their  theories. 
With  regard  to  opinion,  they  taught  that  so  far  as  it  was  hu- 
man, it  was  founded  only  on  probabilities:  but  that  when 
God  enlightened  men.  that  which  was  opinion  hefore,  now 
became  science.  They  compared  opinion  to  those  statues 
which  could  not  be  ^tapped  in  consequence  of  its  instability 
and  constant  change  ;  but  when  it  is  restrained  and  fixed  by 
reasoning  drawn  from  sources  which  Divine  Light  discover* 
to  us,  then  opinion  becomes  science,  like  those  statues  of 
Daedalus  which  had  the  governing  spring  added  to  them.— 
This  lament  is  taken  from  an  unassuming  little  volume  of 
"  Poems,"  published  by  our  author  in  1640,  and  contains  -ome 
genuine  poetry.  Most  of  the  pieces  appeared  in  tflacktcood' i 
Magazine,  under  the  signature  of  "  Archieus."] 

WAIL  for  Daedalus,  all  that  is  fairest ! 

All  that  is  tuneful  in  air  or  wave  ! 
Shapes  whose  beauty  is  truest  and  rarest, 

Haunt  with   your  lamps  and   spells  hig 
grave ! 

Statues,  bend  your  heads  in  sorrow, 

Ye  that  glance  'mid  ruins  old, 
That  know  not  a  past,  nor  expect  a  morrow 

On  many  a  moonlight  Grecian  wold ! 

By  sculptured  cave  and  darken'ti  river, 
Thee,  Dtedalus,  oft  the  nymphs  recall  $ 

The  leaves  with  a  sound  of  winter  quiver, 
Murmur  thy  name,  and  withering  fall. 

Yet  are  thy  visions  in  soul  the  grandest 
Of  all  that  crowd  on  the  tear-dimm'd  ey«, 

Though,  Daedalus,  thou  no  more  commandcst 
New  stars  to  that  ever-widening  sky. 


670 


POEMS   OF  JOHN    STERLING. 


Ever  thy  phantoms  arise  before  us, 
Our  loftier  brothers,  but  one  in  blood ; 

By  bed  and  table  they  lord  it  o'er  us 

With  looks  of  beauty  and  words  of  good. 

They  tell  us  and  show  us  of  man  victorious 
O'er  all  that's  aimless,  blind,  and  base; 

Their  presence  has  made  our  nature  glorious, 
And  given  our  night  an  illumined  face. 

Thy  toil  has  won  them  a  godlike  quiet; 

Thou  hast  wrought  their  path  to  a  lovely 

sphere ; 
Their  eyes  to  calm  rebuke  our  riot. 

And  shape  us  a  home  of  refuge  here. 

For  Daedalus  breathed  in  them  his  spirit ; 

In  them  their  sire  his  beauty  sees ; 
We  too,  a  younger  brood,  inherit 

The  gifts  and  blessings  bestow'd  on  these. 

But,  ah  !  their  wise  and  bounteous  seeming 
Recalls  the  more  that  the  sage  is  gone ; 

Weeping  we  wake  from  deceitful  dreaming, 
And  find  our  voiceless  chamber  lone. 

Daedalus,  thou  from  the  twilight  tieest, 
Which   thou  with  visions   hast   made  so 
bright ; 

And  when  no  more  those  shapes  thou  seest, 
Wanting  thine  eye  they  lose  their  light. 

Ev'n  in  the  noblest  of  man's  creations, 
Those  fresh  worlds   round   those  old  of 
ours, 

When  the  seer  is  gone,  the  orphan'd  nations 
Know  but  the  tombs  of  perish'd  Powers. 

Wail  for  Daedalus,  Earth  and  Ocean  ! 

Stars  and  Sun,  lament  for  him ! 
Ages,  quake  in  strange  commotion ! 

All  ye  realms  of  life,  be  dim  ! 

Wail  for  Daedalus,  awful  voices, 

From  earth's  deep  centre  mankind  appal ; 
Seldom  ye  sound,  and  then  Death  rejoices, 

For  he   knows  that   then    the   mightiest 
fall. 


THE   HUSBANDMAN. 

EARTH,  of  man  the  bounteous  mother, 

Feeds  him  still  with  corn  and  wine ; 
He  who  best  would  aid  a  brother, 

Shares  with  him  these  gifts  divine. 
Many  a  power  within  her  bosom, 

Noiseless,  hidden,  works  beneath; 
Hence  are  seed  and  leaf  and  blossom, 

Golden  ear  and  cluster'd  wreath. 

These  to  swell  with  strength  and  beauty, 

Is  the  royal  task  of  man  ; 
Man's  a  king,  his  throne  is  Duty, 

Since  his  work  on  earth  began. 
Bud  and  harvest,  bloom  and  vintage, 

These,  like  man,  are  fruits  of  earth  ; 
Stamp'd  in  clay,  a  heavenly  mintage, 

All  from  dust  receive  their  birth. 

Barn  and  mill  and  wine-vat's  treasures. 

Earthly  goods  for  earthly  lives, 
These  are  Nature's  ancient  pleasures, 

These  her  child  from  her  derives. 
What  the  dream  but  vain  rebelling, 

If  from  earth  we  sought  to  flee  ? 
'Tis  our  stored  and  ample  dwelling, 

'Tis  from  it  the  skies  we  see. 

Wind  and  frost,  and  hour  and  season, 

Land  and  water,  sun  and  shade, 
Work  with  these  as  bids  thy  reason, 

For  they  work -thy  toil  to  aid. 
Sow  thy  seed  and  reap  in  gladness ! 

Man  himself  is  all  a  seed ; 
Hope  and  hardship,  joy  and  sadness 

Slow  the  plant  to  ripeness  lead. 


LOUIS   XV. 

THE  King  with  all  the  kingly  train  had  left. 

his  Pompadour  behind, 
And  forth  he  rode  in  Senart's  wood  the  royal 

beasts  of  chase  to  find. 
That  day  by  chance  the  Monarch    mused, 

and  turning  suddenly  away, 
He  struck  alone  into  a  path  that  far  from 

crowds  and  courtiers  lay. 


POEMS  OF  JOHN   STERLING. 


U71 


Tie  saw  the  pale  green  shadows  play  upon 

the  brown  untrodden  earth  ; 
He  saw  the  birds  around  him  flit  as  if  he 

were  of  peasant  birth  ; 
He  saw  the  trees  that  know  no  king  but  him 

who  bears  a  woodland  axe ; 
He  thought  not,  but   he  look'd  about  like 

one  who  still  in  thinking  lacks. 

Then  close  to  him  a  footstep  fell,  and  glad 
of  human  sound  was  he, 

For  truth  to  say  lie  found  himself  but  mel- 
ancholy companie; 

But  that  which  he  would  ne'er  have  guess'd, 
before  him  now  most  plainly  came ; 

The  man  upon  his  weary  back  a  coffin  bore 
of  rudest  frame. 

M  Why,  who  art  thou  ?"  exclaim'd  the  King, 

"and  what  is  that  I  see  thee  bear?" 
11 1  am  a  laborer  in  the  wood,  and  'tis  a  coffin 

for  Pierre. 
Close  by  the  royal  hunting-lodge  you  may 

have  often  seen  him  toil ; 
But  he  will  never  work  again,  and  I  for  him 

must  di<*  the  soil" 


The  laborer  ne'er  had  seen  the  King,  and 
this  he  thought  was  but  a  man, 

Who  made  at  first  a  moment's  pause  and 
then  anew  his  talk  began  ; 

"I  think  I  do  remember  now, — he  had  a 
dark  and  glancing  eye, 

And  1  have  seen  his  sturdy  arm  with  won- 
drous strokes  the  pickaxe  ply. 

"Pray  tell  me,  friend,  what   accident  can 

thus  have  kill'd  our  good  Pierre?" 
"  O !  nothing  more  than  usual,  sir,  he  died 

of  living  upon  air. 
'Twas  hunger  kill'd  the  poor  good  man,  who 

long  on  empty  hopes  relied  ; 
He  could  not  pay  Gabelle  and  tax  and  feed 

his  children,  so  he  died. " 

The  man  stopp'd  short,  and  then  went  on — 

"  It  is,  you  know,  a  common  story, 
Our  children's  food  is  eaten  up  by  courtiers, 

mistresses,  and  glory." 
The  King  look'd  hard  upon  the   man,  and 

afterward  the  coffin  eyed, 
Then    spurr'd    to   ask  of  Pompadour,   how 

came  it  that  the  peasants  died  ? 


POEMS  OF  REV.  CHARLES  WOLFE. 


GO  !  FORGET  ME. 

Go,  forget  me — why  should  sorrow 
O'er  that  brow  a  shadow  fling  ? 

Go,  forget  me — and  to-morrow 
Brightly  smile,  and  sweetly  sing. 

Smile — though  I  shall  not  be  near  thee 

Sing — though  I  shall  never  hear  thee : 
May  thy  soul  with  pleasure  shine, 
Lasting  as  the  gloom  of  mine. 

Like  the  sun,  thy  presence  glowing, 
Clothes  the  meanest  things  in  light, 

And  when  thou,  like  him,  art  going, 
Loveliest  objects  fade  in  night. 

All  things  look'd  so  bright  about  thee, 

That  they  nothing  seem  without  thee ; 
By  that  pure  and  lucid  mind 
Earthly  things  were  too  refined. 

Go, 'thou  vision  wildly  gleaming, 
Softly  on  my  soul  that  fell ; 

Go,  for  me  no  longer  beaming — 
Hope  and  Beauty  !  fare  ye  well ! 

Go,  and  all  that  once  delighted 

Take,  and  leave  me  all  benighted ; 
Glory's  burning,  generous  swell, 
Fancy  and  the  Poet's  shell. 


N  JT  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral-note, 
As  his  corse  to  the  rampai't  we  hurried  ; 

Not  a  soldier  discharged  his  farewell  shot 
O'er  the  grave  where  our  hero  we  buried. 


We  buried  him  darkly  at  dead  of  night, 
The  sods  with  our  bayonets  turning, 

By  the  struggling  moonbeam's  misty  light, 
And  the  lantern  dimly  burning. 

No  useless  coffin  enclosed  his  breast, 

Not  in  sheet  or  in  shroud  we  wound  him  ; 

But  he  lay  like  a  warrior  taking  his  rest, 
With  his  martial  cloak  around  him. 

Few  and  short  were  the  prayers  we  said, 
And  we  spoke  not  a  word  of  sorrow ; 

But  we  steadfastly  gazed  on  the  face  that 

was  dead, 
And  we  bitterly  thought  of  the  morrow. 

We    thought,  as  we    hollow'd   his    narrow 

bed, 

And  smooth'd  down  his  lonely  pillow, 
That  the  foe  and  stranger  would  tread  o'er 

his  head, 
And  we  far  away  on  the  billow  ! 

Lightly  they'll  talk  of  the  spirit  that's  gone, 
And  o'er  his  cold  ashes  upbraid  him, — 

But  little  he'll  reck,  if  they  let  him  sleep  on 
In  the  grave  where  a  Briton  has  laid  him. 

But  half  of  our  heavy  task  was  done, 

When  the  clock  struck  the  hour  for  re- 
tiring; 

And  we  heard  the  distant  and  random  gun 
That  the  foe  was  sullenly  firing. 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down, 

From  the    field   of  his   fame,  fresh   and 
gory; 

We  carved  not  a  line,  we  raised  not  a  stone — 
But  we  left  him  alone  in  his  glory ! 


POEMS  OF  REV.  CHARLES  WOLFE 


673 


THE    CHAINS    OF    SPAIN    ARE 
BREAKING. 

TIIK  chains  of  Spain  aru  breaking  ! 

Let  Gaul  despair,  and  fly  ; 
Her  wrathful  trumpet's  speaking, 

Let  tyrants  hear,  and  die. 

Her  standard,  o'er  us  arching, 

Is  burning  red  and  far  ; 
The  soul  of  Spain  is  marching, 

JTI  thunders  to  the  war — 

Look  around  your  lovely  Spain, 
And  say,  shall  Gaul  remain  ? — 
Behold  yon  burning  valley ; 
Behold  yon  naked  plain — 
Let  us  hear  their  drum — 
Let  them  come,  let  them  come  ! 
For  vengeance  and  freedom  rally, 
And,  Spaniards  !  onward  for  Spain. 

Remember !  remember  Barossa ; 

Remember  Napoleon's  chain — 
Remember  your  own  Saragossa, 

And  strike  for  the  cause  of  Spain — 
Remember  your  own  Saragossa, 

And  onward  !  onward  !  for  Spain. 


OH !   SAY  NOT  THAT  MY  HEART  IS 
COLD. 

OH  !  say  not  that  my  heart  is  cold 

To  aught  that  once  could  warm  it ; 
That  nature's  form,  so  dear  of  old, 

No  more  has  power  to  charm  it ; 
Or  that  the  ungenerous  world  can  chill, 

One  glow  of  fond  emotion, 
For  those,  who  made  it  dearer  still, 

And  shared  my  wild  devotion. 

Still  oft  those  solemn  scenes  I  view, 

In  rapt  and  dreamy  sadness ; 
Oft  look  on  those,  who  loved  them  too, 

With  fancy's  idle  gladness ; 
Again  I  long'd  to  view  the  light, 

In  nature's  features  glowing  ; 
Again  to  trend  the  mountain's  height, 

And  taste  the  soul's  o'erflowing. 


Stern  duty  rose,  and  frowning  tlunj 

Her  leaden  chain  around  me ; 
With  iron  look,  and  sullen  tongue, 

He  mutter'd,  as  he  bound  me — 
"  The  mountain  breeze,  the  boundless  heaven, 

Unfit  for  toil  the  creature  ; 
These  for  the  free,  alone,  are  given — 

But,  what  have  slaves  with  nature  ?" 


GONE  FROM  HER  CHEEK. 

GONE  from  her  cheek  is  the  summer  bloom, 
And  her  cheek  has  lost  its  faint  perfume, 
And  the  gloss  has  dropp'd  from  her  raven 

hair, 
And  her  forehead  is  palo,  though  no  longei 

fair ; 

And  the  spirit,  that  set  in  her  soft,  blue  eye. 
Is  sunk  in  cold  mortality ; 
And  the  smile  that  play'd  on  her  lip  is  fled, 
And  every  grace  has  left  the  dead. 

Like  slaves,  they  obey'd  her  in  height  of 

power, 

But  loll  her,  all,  in  her  winter-hour; 
And  the  crowds  that  swore  for  her  love  to 

die, 
Shrunk  from  the  tone  of  her  parting  sigh — 

And  this  is  man's  fidelity ! 

'Tis  woman  alone,  with  a  firmer  heart, 
Can  see  all  those  idols  of  life  depart ; 
And  love  the  more,  and  soothe,  and  bless 
Man  in  his  utter  wretchedness. 


OH,  MY  LOVE  HAS  AN  EYE  OF  THE 
SOFTEST  BLUE. 

OH,  my  love  has  an  eye  of  the  softest  blue, 
Yet  it  was  not  that  that  won  me ; 

But  a  little  bright  drop  from  her  soul  WM 

there, 
'Tis  that  that  has  undone  me. 


674 


POEMS  OF  REV.  CHARLES  WOLFE. 


I  might  have  pass'd  that  lovely  cheek, 
Nor  perchance  my  heart  have  left  me ; 

But  the  sensitive  blush  that  came  trembling 

there, 
Of  my  heart  it  forever  bereft  me. 

I  might  have  forgotten  that  red,  red  lip, 
Yet  how  from  that  thought  to  sever  ? 

But  there  was  a  smile  from  the   sunshine 

within, 
And  that  smile  I'll  remember  forever. 

Think  not  'tis  nothing  but  lifeless  clay, 
The  elegant  form  that  haunts  me ; 

"Tis  the  gracefully  elegant  mind  that  moves 
In  every  step,  that  enchants  me. 

Let  me  not  hear  the  nightingale  sing, 
Though  I  once  in  its  notes  delighted ; 

The  feeling  and  mind  that  comes  whispering 

forth 
Has  left  me  no  music  beside  it. 

Who  could  blame  had  I  loved  that  face, 
Ere  my  eye  could  twice  explore  her  ; 

Yet  it  is  for  the  fairy  intelligence  there, 
And  her  warm,  warm  heart,  I  adore  her. 


IF  I  HAD  THOUGHT  THOU  COULDST 
HAVE  DIED. 

IF  I  had  thought  thou  couldst  have  died, 
I  might  not  weep  for  thee ; 


But  I  forgot,  when  by  thy  side, 
That  thou  couldst  mortal  be. 

It  never  through  my  mind  had  pass'd 
The  time  would  e'er  be  o'er, 

And  I  on  thee  should  look  my  last, 
And  thou  shouldst  smile  no  more. 

And  still  upon  that  face  I  look, 
And  think  'twill  smile  affain : 

O  7 

And  still  the  thought  I  will  not  brook, 

That  I  must  look  in  vain. 
But  when  I  speak,  thou  dost  not  say 

What  thou  ne'er  leftst  unsaid, 
And  now  I  feel,  -as  well  I  may, 

Sweet  Mary  !  thou  art  dead. 

[f  thou  wouldst  stay  e'en  as  thou  art;, 

All  cold,  and  all  serene, 
I  still  might  press  thy  silent  heart, 

And  where  thy  smiles  have  been  ! 
While  e'en  thy  chill  bleak  corse  I  have, 

Thou  seemest  still  mine  own, 
But  there  I  lay  thee  in  thy  grave — 

And  I  am  now  alone. 

I  do  not  think,  where'er  thou  art, 

Thou  hast  forgotten  me ; 
And  I,  perhaps,  may  soothe  this  heart 

In  thinking  too  of  thee  ; 
Yet  there  was  ronnd  thee  such  a  dawn 

Of  light  ne'er  seen  before, 
As  fancy  never  could  have  drawvi, 

And  never  can 


POEMS  OF  JOHN  ANSTER. 


DIRGE    SONG. 

From  the  Irish. 

LIKE  the  oak  of  the  vale  was  thy  strength 

and  thy  height, 
Thy  foot  like  the  erne  of  the  mountain  in 

flight: 
Thy  arm  was  the  tempest  of  Loda's  fierce 

breath, 
Thy  blade,  like  the  blue  mist  of  Lego,  was 

death ! 

Alas,  how  soon  the  thin  cold  cloud 
The  hero's  loloody  limbs  must  shroud  ! 
I  see  thy  father,  full  of  days  ; 
For  thy  return  behold  him  gaze  ; 
The  hand,  that  rests  upon  the  spear, 
Trembles  in  feebleness  and  fear — 
lie  shudders,  and  his  bald,  gray  brow 
Is  shaking,  like  the  aspen  bough ; 
He  gazes,  till  his  dim  eyes  fail 
With  gazing  on  the  fancied  sail : 
Anxious  he  looks — what  sudden  streak 
Flits,  like  a  sunbeam,  o'er  his  cheek ! 
"Joy,  joy,  my  child,  it  is  the  bark, 
That  bounds  on  yonder  billow  dark!" 
His    child    looks    forth   with   straining 

eye, 

And  sees — the  light  cloud  sailing  by: 
H'1*  gray  head  shakes;    how  sad,  how 

weak 
That  sigh  !  how  sorrowful  that  cheek  I 

flis  bride  irom  her  slumbers  will  waken  and 

weep, 
But  when  shall  the  hero  arouse  him  from 

sleep  ? 
The  yell  of  the  stag-hound — the  clash  of  the 

spear, 
May  ring  o'er  his  tomb — but  the  dead  cannot 

hear. 
Once  he  wielded  the  sword,  once  he  cheer'd 

to  the  hound, 


But  his  pleasures  are  past,  and  his  slumber 

is  sound : 
Await    not   his    coming,   ye    sons    of   the 

chase, 
Day  dawns  !  but  it  nerves  not  the  dead  for 

the  race ; 
Await    not    his    coming,   ye    sons    of   the 

spear, 
The  war-song  ye  sing — but  the  dead  will  not 

hear. 

Oh !  blessing  be  with  him  who  sleeps  in  the 

grave, 
The  leader  of  Lochlin  !  the  young  and  the 

brave ! 
On  earth  didst  thou  scatter  the  strength  of 

our  foes, 

Then  blessing  be  thine,  in  thy  cloud  of  repose  I 
Like  the  oak  of  the  vale  was  thy  strength- 

and  thy  might, 
Thy  foot,  like  the  erne  of  the  mountain  in 

flight ; 
Thy  arm  was  the  tempest  of  Loda's  licrcc 

breath, 
Thy  blade,  like  the  blue  mibt  of  Lego,  wa§ 

death. 


THE  HAKP. 

CLARA,  hast  thou  not  often  seen,  and  smiled, 

A  rosy  child, 

Deeming  that  none  were  near, 
Touch  with  a  trembling  hand 

Some  fine- toned  instrument ; 
Then  gaze,  with  sparkling  eye,  as  on  her 

ear 

The  murmurs  died,  like  gales,  that  having 
fann'd 

Soft  summer  flowers,  sink  s 


676 


POEMS  OF  JOHN  AXSTKl:. 


Half  {'earing,  still  she  lingers, 

Till  o'er  the  strings  again  she  flings, 

Less  tremblingly,  her  fingers! — 
But  if  a  stranger  eye 
The  timid  sport  should  spy, 
Oh !  then,  with  pulses  wild, 
This  rosy  child 
Will  throb,  and  fly, 

Turn  pale  and  tremble,  trem'ble  and  turn  red, 

And  in  thy  bosom  hide  her  head. 

Even  thus  the  harp  to  me 

Hath  been  a  plaything  strange, 
A  thing  of  fear,  of  wonder,  and  of  glee ; 

Yet  would  I  not  exchange 
This  light  harp's    simple  gear  for   all  that 

man  holds  dear ; 

And  should  the  stranger's  ear  its  tones  re- 
gardless hear, 

It  still  is  sweet  to  thee  ! 


THE  EVERLASTING  ROSE. 

EMBLEM  of  hope!  enchanted  flower, 

Still  breathe  around  thy  faint  perfume, 
Still  smile  amid  the  wintry  hour, 

And  boast,  even  now,  a  spring-tide  bloom : 
Thine  is,  methinks,  a  pleasant  dream, 

Lone  lingerer  in  the  icy  vale, 
Of  smiles  that  hail'd  the  morning  beam, 

And  sighs  more  sweet  for  evening's  gale ! 

Still  are  thy  green  leaves  whispering 

Low  sounds  to  fancy's  ear,  that  tell 
Of  mornings  when  the  wild-bee's  wing 

Shook  dew-drops  from  thy  sparkling  cell ! 
With  thee  the  graceful  lily  vied, 

As  summer  breezes  waved  her  head ; 
And  now  the  snow-drop  at  thy  side 

Meekly  contrasts  thy  cheerful  red. 

Well  dost  thou  know  each  varying  voice 

That  wakes  the  seasons,  sad  or  gay ; 
The  summer  thrush  bids  thee  rejoice, 

And  wintry  robin's  dearer  lay. 
Sweet  flower!  how  happy  dost  thou  seem, 

'Mid  parching  heat,  'mid  nipping  frost ! 
While  gathering  beauty  from  each  beam, 

No  hue,  no  grace,  of  thine  is  lost  1 


Thus  hope,  'mid  life's  severest  days, 

Still  soothes,  still  smiles  away  dt-spair; 
Alike  she  lives  in  pleasure's  rays, 

And  cold  affliction's  winter  air  : 
Charmer  alike  in  lordly  bower 

And  in  the  hermit's  cell,  she  glows ; 
The  poet's  and  the  lover's  flower,    . 

The  bosom's  everlasting  rose ! 


IF  I  MIGHT  CHOOSE. 

IF   I  might   choose   where   my  tired  liml»a 

shall  lie 
When  my  task  here  is  done,  the  oak's  green 

crest 

Shall  rise  above  my  grave — a  little  mound, 
Raised  in  some  cheerful  village  cemetery. 
And    I  could  wish,  that,  with  unceasing 

sound, 

A  lonely  mountain  rill  was  murmuring  by- 
In  music — through  the  long  soft  twilight 

hours. 

And  let  the  hand  of  her,  whom  I  love  best, 
Plant  round  the  bright  green  grave  those 

fragrant  flowers 
In  whose   deep  bells  the  wild-bee  loves  to 

rest; 

And  should  the  robin  from  some  neighbor- 
ing tree 

Pour  his  enchanted  song — oh  !  softly  tread, 
For  sure,  if  aught  of  earth  can  soothe  the 

dead, 
He  still  must  love  that  pensive  melody  1 


OH !  IF,  AS  ARABS  FANCY. 

OH  !    if,  as  Arabs  fancy,  the  traces  on  thy 

brow 
Were   symbols   of  thy  future  state,  and   I 

could  read  them  now, 
Almost  without  a  fear  would  I  explore  the 

mystic  chart, 
Believing    that   the   world   were    weak    to 

darken  such  a  heart. 


POEMS  OF  JOHN  ANSTEK. 


G77 


As  yet  to  thy  untroubled  soul,  as  yet  to  thy 

young  eyes, 
The  skies  above  are  very  heaven — the  earth 

is  paradise  ; 
The   birds   that   glance   in  joyous  air — the 

flowers  that  happiest  be, 
They  toil  not,  neither  do  they  spin,  are  they 

not  types  of  thee  ? 

And    yet,  and  yet — beloved    child — to   thy 

enchanted  sight, 
Blest  art  the  present  is,  the  days  to  come  seem 

yet  more  bright, 


For   thine   is   hope,  and  thine  iB  love,  and 

thine  the  glorious  power 
That  gives  to  hope  its  fairy  light,  to  love  in 

richest  dower. 

For   me   that  twilight   time  is  past — those 

sunrise  colors  gone — 
The     prophecies     of    childhood — and     the 

promises  of  dawn  ; 
And  yet  what  is,  though  scarcely  heard,  will 

speak  of  what  has  been, 
While  love  assumes  a  gentler  tone,  and  hope 

a  calmer  mien 


A  POEM  BY  WILLIAM  CONGKEVE. 


A  CATHEDRAL. 


Almeria  meeting  her  husband  Alphonso,  whom  she  had  imagined  to  be  dead,  now  dipguisud  as  the  captive  O»mjn, 

at  the  tomb  of  his  father  Anselmo. 

Enter  Almeria  and  Leonora. 


Aim.  It   was   a   fancied   noise,  lor   all   is 
hush'd. 

Leon.  It  bore  the  accent  of  a  human  voice. 

Aim.  It  was  thy  fear,  or  else  some  tran- 
sient wind 
Whistling  through  hollows  of  this  vaulted 

o  o 

aisle. 

We'll  listen— 
J^eon.  Hark  ! 
Aim.   No,  all  is  hush'd,  and  still  as  death 

—'tis  dreadful ! 

How  reverend  is  the  face  of  this  tall  pile, 
Whose   ancient    pillars    rear    their    marble 

"Heads, 

To  bear  aloft  its  arch'd  and  ponderous  roof, 
By  its  own  weight  made  steadfast  and  im- 
movable, 

Looking  tranquillity  !     It  strikes  an  awe 
And  terror  on  my  aching  sight;  the  tombs 
And  monumental  caves  of  death  look  cold, 
And    shoot    a    chill  ness    to   my  trembling 

heart. 
Give   me  thy    hand,  and   let   me   hear  thy 

voice ; 
Nay,  quickly  speak  to  me,  and  let  me  hear 


Thy  voice — my  own   affrights  me  with    UB 

echoes. ' 
Tjeon.   Let  us  return  ;    the  horror  of  thia 

place, 

And  silence,  will  increase  your  melancholy. 
Aim.  It  may  my  fears,  but  cannot  add  to- 

that. 

No,  I  will  on :  show  me  Anselmo's  tomb, 
Lead  me  o'er  bones  and  skulls,  and  moulder- 
ing earth 

Of  human  bodies;  for  I'll  mix  with  them, 
Or  wind  me  in  the  shroud  of  some  pale  corptw 
Yet  green  in  earth,  rather  than  be  the  bride 
Of  Garcia's  more  detested  bed  :  that  thought 

O 

Exerts  my  spirits,  and  my  present  fears 
Are  lost  in  dread  of  greater  ill.     Then  show 

me, 

Lead  me,  for  I  am  bolder  grown :  lead  on 
Where  I  may  kneel,  and  pay  my  vows  again 
To  him,  to  Heavui,  and  my  Alphonso's  soul. 
Leon.  I   go;    but  Heaven  can   tell    with 

what  regret. 

1  Thin  ii>  the  pannage  that  Johnroo  Admired  i>o  much. 
"Coii-rri-vr."  ho  *nlil.  "hn-  ono  finer  p«»Mire  thmi  any  thai 
call  be-  found  In  Minl»<-fiH'nir  " 


POEMS  OF  JOHN  PHILPOT  CURRAN. 


OH!  SLEEP. 

OH  !  sleep,  awhile  thy  power  suspending, 

Weigh  not  my  eyelids  down  ; 
For  memory,  see !  with  eve  attending, 

Claims  a  moment  for  her  own. 
I  know  her  by  her  robe  of  mourning, 

I  know  her  by  her  faded  light, 
When  faithful,  with  the  gloom  returning, 

She  comes  to  bid  a  sad  good-night. 

Oh  !  let  me  here,  with  bosom  swelling, 

While  she  sighs  o'er  the  time  that's  past — 
Oh !  let  me  weep,  while  she  is  telling 

Of  joys  that  pine,  and  pangs  that  last. 
And  now,  oh  !  sleep,  while  grief  is  streaming, 

Let  thy  balm  sweet  peace  restore, 
While  fearful  hope,  through  tears  is  beaming, 

Soothe  to  rest,  that  wakes  no  more. 


THE  DESERTER'S  LAMENTATION. 

IF,  sadly  thinking, 
With  spirits  sinking, 
Could  more  than  drinking 

Our  griefs  compose — 
A  cure  for  sorrow, 
From  grief  I'd  borrow, 
And  hope  to-morrow 

Might  end  my  woes. 

But  since  in  wailing 
There's  naught  availing, 

n  o* 

For  death  unfailing 

Will  strik;  the  blow; 


Then  for  that  reason, 
And  for  a  season, 
Let  us  be  merry 

Before  we  go  ! 
A  way-worn  ranger, 
To  joy  a  stranger, 
Through  every  danger 

My  course  I've  run  : 
Now  death  befriending, 
His  last  aid  lending, 
My  griefs  are  ending, 

My  woes  are  done. 

No  more  a  rover, 
Or  hapless  lover, 
Those  cares  are  over — 

My  cup  runs  low ; 
Then,  for  that  reason, 
And  for  the  season, 
Let  us  be  merry 

Before  we  go. 


THE  MONKS  OF  THE  ORDER  OF 
ST.  PATRICK, 

COMMONLY  CALLED 

THE  MONKS  OF  THE  SCREW.1 

WHEN  St.  Patrick  this  order  establish'd, 
He  call'd  us  the  "  Monks  of  the  Screw  ;" 

Good  Rules  he  reveal'd  to  our  Abbot, 
To  guide  us  in  what  we  should  do ; 


1  This  celebrated  Society  was  partly  political  and  partly  coo 
vivial :   it  consisted  of  two  parts— profiled  and  Iny  brotbei* 


POEMS  OF  JOHN  PHILPOT  CURRAN. 


679 


But  first  he  replenish'd  our  fountain 
With  liquor  the  best  in  the  sky ; 

And  he  said,  on  the  word  of  a  saint, 
That  the  fountain  should  never  run  dry. 

Each  year,  when  your  octaves  approach, 

In  fall  chapter  convened  let  me  find  you ; 
And  when  to  the  Convent  you  come, 

Leave   your   favorite   temptation   behind 

you. 
And  be  not  a  glass  in  your  Convent, 

Unless  on  a  festival,  found  ; 
And,  this  rule  to  enforce,  I  ordain  it 

One  festival  all  the  year  round. 

My  brethren,  be  chaste,  till  you're  tempted  ; 
While  sober,  be  grave  and  discreet ; 


Aa  the  latter  had  no  privileges  except  that  of  commons  In  the 
refectory,  they  are  unnoticed  here. 

The  professed  (by  the  constitution)  consisted  of  members 
of  either  house  of  Parliament,  and  barrister?,  with  the  addi- 
tion from  the  other  learned  professions  of  any  numbers  not  ex- 
ceeding a  third  of  the  whole.  They  assembled  every  Saturday 
In  Convent  (in  St.  Kevin  Street,  Dublin),  during  term-time, 
and  commonly  held  a  chapter  before  commons,  at  which  the 
Abbot  presided,  or  in  his  (very  rare)  absence,  the  Prior,  or 
senior  officer  present.  Upon  such  occasions  all  the  members 
appeared  in  the  habit  of  the  order,  a  black  tabinet  domino. 
Temperance  and  Sobriety  always  prevailed. 

Mr.  Curran  (who  was  Prior  of  the  order)  being  asked  one 
day  to  sing  a  song,  after  commons,  said  he  would  give  them 
one  of  his  own,  and  sang  the  following,  which  was  adopted  at 
once  as  the  charter  song  of  the  Society,  and  was  called  "  The 
Monks  of  the  Screw." 

This  Society  consisted  of  66  members;  and  Mr.  Win.  Henry 
Curran,  In  the  Memoir  of  his  father,  adds,  "  most  of  them  dis- 
tinguished men."  We  think  it  worth  while  to  give  a  few  of 
their  names  and  titles.  Earl  of  Charlemont ;  Earl  of  Arran ; 
Earl  of  Mornington  (Duke  of  Wellington's  father);  Hussey 
Bnrgh,  Chief  Baron ;  Judge  Robert  Johnson ;  Henry  Grattan  ; 
John  Philpot  Curran  ;  Woolfe,  Lord  Eilwarden ;  Lord  Avon- 
more  ;  Rev.  Arthur  O'Leary  (Hon.).  The  Marquis  of  Town- 
eend  joined  the  Society  while  he  was  Viceroy  of  Ireland. 

That  the  festive  meetings  of  men  of  such  high  mark  must 
have  been  of  more  than  ordinary  brilliancy,  one  may  well  con- 
ceive, but  the  most  eloquent  evidence  of  that  fact  was  given 
by  Cnrran  in  a  touching  address  to  Lord  Avonmore,  while  sit- 
ting on  the  Judicial  bench ;  so  touching,  and  so  eloquent,  as 
well  as  happily  innstrative  of  Curran's  style,  that  it  IB  worth 
recording  :— 

"  This  soothing  hope  I  draw  from  the  dearest  and  tenderest 
recollection*  of  my  life— from  the  remembrance  of  those  attic 
nights,  and  Chose  refections  of  the  gods,  which  we  have  spent 
with  those  admired,  and  respected,  and  beloved  companions 
who  have  gone  before  us ;  over  whose  ashes  the  most  precious 
teare  of  Ireland  have  been  shed.  [Here  Lord  Avonmore  could 
not  refrain  from  bursting  Into  tears.]  Ye«,  my  good  Lord,  I 
see  you  do  not  forget  them.  I  see  their  sacred  forms  passing 
In  sad  review  before  your  memory.  I  see  your  pained  and 
softened  fancy  recalling  those  happy  meetings,  where  the  In- 
nocent enjoyment  of  social  mirth  became  expanded  into  the 
nobler  warmth  of  social  virtue,  and  the  horizon  of  the  board 
became  enlarged  into  the  horizon  of  man— where  the  swelling 
Heart  conceived  and  communicated  the  pure  and  generous 
purpose — where  my  slenderer  and  younger  taper  imbibed  1U 
borrowed  light  from  the  more  matured  and  redundant  fountain 


And  humble  your  bodies  with  fasting, 
As  oft  as  you've  nothing  to  eat. 

Yet,  in  honor  of  fasting,  one  lean  face 
Among  you  I'd  always  require  ; 

If  the  Abbot  should  please,  he  may  wear  tt, 
If  not,  let  it  come  to  the  Prior.* 

Come,  let  each  take  his  chalice,  my  brethren. 

And  with  due  devotion  prepare, 
With  hands  and  with  voices  uplii'ted, 

Our  hymn  to  conclude  with  a  prayer. 
May  this  chapter  oft  joyously  meet, 

And  this  gladsome  libation  renew, 
To  the  Saint,  and  the  Founder,  and  Abbot, 

And  Prior,  and  Monks  of  the  Screw ! 


of  yours.    Yes,  my  Lord,  we  can  remember  those  nights  with 
out  any  other  regret  than  that  they  can  never  more  return,  fa 

'  We  spent  them  not  in  toys,  or  lust,  or  wine, 
But  search  of  deep  philosophy, 
Wit,  eloquence,  and  poesy, 

Arts  which  I  loved,  for  they,  my  friend,  were  thine  1'  "- 

COWLET. 

Lord  Avonmore,  in  whose  breast  political  resentment  wai 
easily  subdued,  by  the  same  noble  tenderness  of  feeling  which 
distinguished  Mr.  Fox  upon  a  more  celebrated  occasion,  could 
not  withstand  this  appeal  to  his  heart.  At  this  period  (1801) 
there  was  a  suspension  of  intercourse  between  him  and  Mr. 
Cnrran ;  but  the  moment  the  court  rose,  his  Lords-hip  sent  for 
his  friend,  and  threw  himself  into  his  arms,  declaring  that 
unworthy  artifices  had  been  used  to  separate  them,  and  that 
they  should  never  succeed  in  future. 

And  now  for  an  instance  of  Mr.  Curran's  humor ;  and  as  it 
arises,  like  the  foregoing  gush  of  eloquence,  from  allusions 
to  "The  Monks  of  the  Screw,"  it  is  evident  that  Society  held 
a  very  cherished  place  in  his  memory.  Mr.  Cnrran  visited 
France  in  1787,  and  was  received  with  distinguished  welcome 
everywhere.  Among  such  receptions  was  one  at  a  Convent, 
thus  recorded.  "  He  was  met  at  the  gates  by  the  Abbot  and 
his  brethren  in  procession ;  the  keys  of  the  Convent  were 
presented  to  him,  and  his  arrival  hailed  in  a  Latin  oration, 
setting  forth  his  praise,  and  theli  gratitude  for  hi*  noble  pro- 
tection of  a  suffering  brother  of  their  Church  (alluding  to  hit 
legal  defence  of  a  Roman  Catholic  clergyman).  Their  Latin 
was  so  bad,  that  the  stranger  without  hesitation  replied  in  the 
same  language.  After  expressing  his  general  acknowledg- 
ment for  their  hospitality,  he  assured  them  that  nothing 
could  be  more  gratifying  to  him  than  to  reside  a  few  days 
among  them ;  that  he  should  fuel  himself  perfectly  at  home 
In  their  society ;  for  that  he  was  by  no  means  a  stranger  to  the 
habits  of  a  monastic  life,  being  himself  no  less  than  the  Prior 
of  an  order  In  his  own  country,  the  order  of  St.  Patrick,  or 
the  Monks  of  the  Screw.  Their  fame,  he  added,  might  not 
have  reached  the  Abbot's  ears,  but  he  would  undertake  to  as- 
sert for  them,  that,  though  the  brethren  of  other  orders  might 
be  more  celebrated  for  learning  how  to  die,  the  Monks  of 
the  Screw'  were,  as  yet,  unsurpassed  for  knowing  how  to 
live.  As,  however,  humility  was  their  great  tenet  and  uniform 
practice,  he  would  give  an  example  of  It  upon  the  present 
occasion,  and  Instead  of  accepting  all  the  keys  which  tne 
Abbot  so  liberally  offered,  would  merely  take  charge,  while 
he  stayed,  of  the  key  of  the  wine-cellar." 

Outran'*  Hft,  by  hi*  ton  Wm.  Henry  Curran. 

«  William  Doyle  (Master  in  Chancery),  the  Abbot,  had  s 
remarkably  large  full  bee.  Mr.  Curran's  was  the  very  reverse. 


680 


POEMS  OF  JOHN  PHILPOT  CURRAN. 


THE    GREEN    SPOT    THAT  BLOOMS 
O'ER  THE  DESERT  OF  LIFE. 

0'ERthedesertoflife,whereyou  vainly  pursued 
Those   phantoms    of   hope,   which    their 

promise  disown, 

Have  you  e'er  met  some  spirit,  divinely  endued, 
That  so  kindly  could  say,  you  don't  suffer 

alone  ? 
And,  however  your  fate  may  have  smiled,  or 

have  frown'd, 
Will  she  deign,  still,  to  share  as  the  friend 

or  the  wife? 
Then  make  her  the  pulse  of  your  heart ;  for 

you've  found 

The  green  spot  that  blooms  o'er  the  desert 
of  life. 


Does  she  love  to  recall  the  past  moments,  BO 

dear, 

When  the  sweet  pledge  of  faith  was  con- 
fidingly given, 
When  the  lip  spoke  the  voice   of  affection 

sincere, 
And  the  vow  was  exchanged,  and  recorded 

in  heaven  ? 
Does  she  wish  to  re-bind,  what  already  was 

bound, 
And  draw  closer  the  claim  of  the  friend 

and  the  wife  ? 
Then  make  her  the  pulse  of  your  heart ;  for 

you've  found 

The  green  spot  that  lilooms  o'er  the  desert 
of  life. 


POEMS  OF  DR.  WILLIAM  MAGINN. 


THE  SACK  OF  MAGDEBURGII.1 

WIIEN  the  breach  was  open  laid,  bold  AVO 
mounted  to  the  attack ; 

Five  times  the  assault  was  made, — four  times 
were  we  beaten  back. 

Many  a  gallant  comrade  fell,  in  the  desper- 
ate mele'e  there ; 

Spod  their  spirits  ill  or  well — know  I  not, 
nor  do  I  care. 

But   the   fifth  time,   up  we  strode  o'er  the 

dying  and  the  dead  ; 
Hot  the  western  sunbeam  glow'd,  sinking  in 

a  blaze  of  red. 
Redder  in  the  gory  way,  our  deep- plashing 

footsteps  sank, 
As  the  cry  of  "  Slay,  slay,  slay  !"    echoed 

fierce  from  rank  to  rank. 

And  we  slew,  and  slew,  and  slew — slew  them 

with  unpitying  sword: 
Negligently  could  we  do  the  commanding 

of  the  Lord  ? 


»  The  sack  of  thin  ill-toted  city  occurred  dnrlni;  the  Thirty 
Year*'  War.  The  partisans  of  the  Kefurnmuou  funned  a 
union  as  early  a*  nuts  ;  and  the  Catholics  in  opposition  estab- 
lished a  league  in  1609.  Here  wore  the  elements  of  an  inevi- 
table content,  and  in  1618  the  stru^lu  commenced.  For  30 
yearn,  Europe  wur>  the  battlefield  of  religion*  factions,  and 
Germany  wan  reduced  to  a  wildernrHn.  Kiie  and  sword  des- 
Dialed  it  from  end  to  end.  The  only  result  was  the  improve- 
ment of  the  art  of  war,  by  the  genii)*  of  (JuMavu*  Adolphue, 
and  the  terrible  warnim:  it  Hfl'onU  to  those  who  stir  up  the 
religion*  animosities  of  a  nation.— The  defence  of  Mugde- 
burgh  was  contlded  to  Christian  William  of  Brandenburg,  and 
the  gallant  Colonel  Falkenbcrg,  who  wan  cent  by  Gtiglavutt 
AdolpbuB  to  itr  Mipport.  The  inverting  army  of  the  League 
was  comniii  '--d  by  Tilly,  a  stern  i-oldier,  whose  boast  was 
that  he  never  tasted  wine,  never  lost  his  chastity,  nor  ever  suf- 
f.-ied  defeat.  Uustavus,  however,  conquered  him  ultimately  ; 
tut  he  had  no  occasion  to  retract  hi*  Ixwst,  for  he  fell  with  his 
defeat.  At  the  pack  of  Miiplelwrjju,  'J'illy  wan  before  the  city 
from  March,  10.11.  and  was  alxmt  to  mice  the  elcge.  in  expec- 
tation ol  GUMUVUH  to  its  assistance,  lint  lie  wn-  overruled  by 
the  flery  I'appenheim,  who  proposed  an  immediate  attack. 
Preparations  were  made  forthwith,  and  the  storming  com- 
menced. In  about  *tx  weekc  the  city  fell,  notwithstanding 
the  bravery  of  the  garrison,  and  It  U  estimated  that  upward* 
of  35.000  pel-sons  perished. 


Fled  the  coward — fought  the  brave, — wail'd 
the  mother,  wept  the  child, 

But  not  one  escaped  the  glaive,  man  who 
frown'd  or  babe  who  smiled. 

There  were  thrice  ten  thousand  men,  when 

the  morning  sun  arose  ; 
Lived   not  thrice  three  hundred  when  sunk 

that  sun  at  evening  close. 
Then  we  spread  the  wasting  flame,  fann'd  to 

fury  by  the  wind  ; 
Of  the  city,  but  the  name — nothing  more  is 

left  behind ! 

Hall  and  palace,  dome  and  tower,  lowly  shed 
and  soaring  spire, 

Fell  in  that  victorious  hour  which  consign'd 
the  town  to  fire. 

All  that  rose  at  cratiman's  call — to  its  pris- 
tine dust  had  gone, 

For,  inside  the  shatter'd  wall,  left  we  never 
stone  on  stone — 

For  it  burnt  not  till  it  gave  all  it  had  to  yield 
of  spoil ; 

Should  not  bravo  soldadoes  have  some  re- 
warding for  their  toil  ? 

What  the  villain  sons  of  trade  had  amass'd 
by  years  of  care, 

Prostrate  at  our  bidding  laid,  by  one  mo- 
ment won,  was  there. 

Then,  within    the  burning    town,  'mid    the 

steaming  heaps  of  dead, 
Chcer'd  by  sounds  of  hostile  moan,  did  we 

the  joyous  baiHpirt  spread. 
Laughing  loud  and  quaffing  long,  with  our 

glorious  labors  o'er ; 
To  the  sky  our  jocund  song,  told  (/*  city. 

was  no  more  I 


£82 


POEMS  OF  DR.  WILLIAM  MAGINN. 


THE  SOLDIER-BOY. 

I  GIVE  my  soldier-boy  a  blade, 

In  fair  Damascus  fashion'd  well ; 
Who  first  the  glittering  falchion  sway'd, 

Who  first  beneath  its  fury  fell, 
I  know  not,  but  I  hope  to  know 

That  for  no  mean  or  hireling  trade, 
To  guard  no  feeling  base  or  low, 

I  give  my  soldier-boy  a  blade. 

Cool,  calm,  and  clear,  the  lucid  flood 

In  which  its  tempering  work  was  done  ; 
As  calm,  as  clear,  as  cool  of  mood, 

Be  thou  whene'er  it  sees  the  sun. 
For  country's  claim,  at  honor's  call, 

For  outraged  friend,  insulted  maid, 
At  mercy's  voice  to  bid  it  fall, 

I  give  my  soldier-boy  a  blade. 

The  eye  which  mark'd  its  peerless  edge, 

The  hand  thatweigh'd  its  balanced  poise, 
Anvil  and  pincers,  forge  and  wedge, 

Are  gone  with  all  their  flame  and  noise — 
And  still  the  gleaming  sword  remains  : 

.  So,  when  in  dust  I  low  am  laid, 
Remember,  by  those  heartfelt  strains, 

I  gave  my  soldier-boy  a  blade. 


THE  BEATEN  BEGGARMAN. 

(From  the  Greek.) 

THERE  came  the  public  beggarmau,  who  all 

throughout  the  town 
Of  Ithaca,  upon  his  quest  for  alms,  begged 

up  and  down ; 
Huge  was  his   stomach,  without  cease  for 

meat  and  drink  craved  he ; 
No  strength,  no  force  his  body  had,  though 

vast  it  was  to  see. 

He  got  as  name  from  parent  dame,  Arnaeus, 

at  his  birth, 
But  Irus  was  the  nickname  given  by  gallants 

in  their  mirth ; 


For  he,  where'er  they  chose  to  send,  their 
speedy  errands  bore, 

And  now  he  thought  to  drive  away  Odys- 
seus from  his  door. 

"  Depart,  old  man  !  and  quit  the  porch,"  he 

cried,  with  insult  coarse, 
"  Else   quickly  by  the   foot  thou  shalt  be 

dragg'd  away  by  force : 
Dost  thou  not  see,  how  here  on  me  their 

eyes  are  turn'd  by  all, 
In  sign  to  bid  me  stay  no  more,  but  drag 

thee  from  the  hall? 

"  'Tis  only  shame  that  holds  me  back ;   so 

get  thee  up  and  go ! 
Or  ready  stand  with  hostile  hand  to  combat 

blow  for  blow." 
Odysseus   said,   as    stern    he    look'd,   with 

angry  glance,  "  My  friend, 
Nothing  of  wrong  in  deed  or  tongue  do  I  to 

thee  intend. 

"  I  grudge  not  whatsoe'er  is  given,  how  great 
may  be  the  dole, 

The  threshold  is  full  large  for  both ;  be  not  of 
envious  soul. 

It  seems  'tis  thine,  as  well  as  mine,  a  wan- 
derer's life  to  live, 

And  to  the  gods  alone  belongs  a  store  of 
wealth  to  give. 

"  But  do  not  dare  me  to  the  blow,  nor  rouse 

my  angry  mood ; — 
Old  as  I  am,  thy  breast  and  lips  might  stain 

my  hands  with  blood. 
To-morrow  free  I  then  from  thee  the  day  in 

peace  would  spend, 
For  nevermore  to  gain  these  walls  thy  beaten 

limbs  would  bend." 

"Heavens!  how  this  glutton  glibly  talks  .'" 

the  vagrant  Irus  cried ; 
"  Just  as  an  old  wife  loves  to  prate,  smoked 

at  the  chimney  side. 
If  I  should  smite  him,  from  his  mouth  the 

shatter'd  teeth  were  torn, 
As   from  the   jaws    of   plundering    swine, 

caught  rooting  up  the  corn. 


POEMS  OF  DR.  WILLIAM   MAGINX. 


683 


"  Come,  gird  thee   for  the  fight,  that,  they 

our  contest  may  behold, 
If  thou'lt  expose  to  younger  arms  thy  body 

frail  and  old." 
So   in  debate  engaged   they  sate  upon  the 

threshold  stone, 
Before  the  palace'  lofty  gate  wrangling  in 

angry  tone. 

Antonious   mark'd,  and    with   a   lausch  the 

0 

suitors  he  address'd : 
"  Never,  I  ween,  our  gates  have  seen  so  gay 

a  cause  of  jest ; 
Some   god,    intent  on   sport,  has   sent  this 

stranger  to  our  hall, 
And  he  and  Irus  mean  to  fight :  so  set  we  on 

the  brawl." 


Gay  laugh'd  the  guests  and  straight  arose, 

on  frolic  errand  bound, 
About  the  ragged   beggarman  a  ring  they 

made  around. 
Antonious   cries,  "A   fitting   prize   for   the 

combat  I  require, 
Paunches  of  goat  you  see  are  here  now  lying 

on  the  tire : 


"  This  dainty  food  all  full  of  blood,  and  fat 
of  savory  taste, 

Intended  for  our  evening's  meal  there  to  be 
cook'd  we  placed. 

Whichever  of  these  champions  bold  may 
chance  to  win  the  day, 

Be  he  allow'd  which  paunch  he  will  to 
choose  and  bear  away ; 

And  he  shall  at  our  board  henceforth  par- 
take our  genial  cheer, 

No  other  bcggarman  allow'd  the  table  to 
come  near." 


They  all  agreed,  and  then  upspoke  the  chief 

of  many  a  wile : 
"  Hard  is  it  when  ye  match  with  youth  age 

overrun  with  toil ; 
The  belly,  counsellor  of  ill,  constrains  me 

now  to  go, 
Sure  to  be  beaten  in  the  fight  with  many  a 

heavy  blow. 


"But  plight  your  troth  with    solemn  oath, 

that  none  will  raise  his  hand 
My  foe  to  help  with  aid  unfair,  while  I  before 

him  stand." 
They   took   the    covenant    it    had    pleased 

Odysseus  to  propose ; 
And  his  word  to  plight  the  sacred  might  of 

Teleraachus  arose. 

"If,"  he   exclaim'd,  "thy  spirit   bold,  and 

thy  courageous  heart, 
Should  urge  thee  from  the  palace  gate   to 

force  this  man  to  part, 
Thou    needst   not   fear  that   any  here  will 

strike  a  fraudful  blow ; 
Who  thus  would  dare  his  hand  to  rear  must 

fight  with  many  a  foe. 

"  Upon    me    falls   within    these    halls    the 

stranger's  help  to  be  ; 
Antonious  and  Eurymachus,  both  wise,  will 

join  with  me." 
All  gave  assent,  and  round  his  loins  his  rags 

Odysseus  tied ; 
Then  was  display'd  each  shoulder-blade  of 

ample  form  and  wide. 

His  shapely  thighs  of  massive  size  were  all  to 

sight  confess'd, 
So  were  his  arms  of  muscle  strong,  so  was 

his  brawny  breast ; 
Athene,  close  at  hand,  each  limb  to  nobler 

stature  swell'd ; 
In  much  amaze  did  the  suitors  gaze,  when 

they  his  form  beheld. 

"  Irus  un-Irused  now,"  they  said, "  will  catch 

his  sought-for  woe ; 
Judge  by  the  hips  which  from  his  rags  this 

old  man  strip] >M  can  show." 
And  Irus  trembled  in  his  soul ;  but  soon  the 

servants  came, 
Girt  him  by  force,  and  to  the  fight  dragg'd 

on  his  quivering  frame. 

There  as  he  shook  in  every  limb,  Antonious 

spoke  in  scorn  : 
"'Twere   better,  bullying  boaster,  fur,  that 

thou  hadst  ne'er  boon  born. 


G84 


POEMS  OF  DR.  WILLIAM  MAGINN. 


If  thus  thou  quake  and  trembling  shake, 
o'ercome  with  coward  fear, 

Of  meeting  with  this  ag'jd  man,  worn  down 
with  toil  severe., 

'I  warn   thee  thus,  and  shall  perform  full 

surely  what  I  say — 
If   conqueror  in   the   fight,   his    arm   shall 

chance  to  win  the  day, 
Epirus-ward  thou  hence  shalt  sail,  in  sable 

bark  consign'd 
To  charge  of  Echetus  the  king,  terror  of  all 

mankind. 

'  He'll  soon  deface  all  manly  trace  with  un- 
relenting steel, 

And  make  thy  sliced-ofF  nose  and  ears  for 
hungry  dogs  a  meal." 

He  spoke,  and  witli  those  threatening  words 
fill'd  Irus  with  fresh  dread  ; 

And  trembling  more  in  every  limb,  he  to  the 
midst  was  led. 

Both   raised   their  hands,  and   then   a  doubt 

passYl  through  Odysseus'  brain, 
Should  he  strike  him  so,  that  a  single  blow 

would  lay  him  with  the  slain, 
Or  stretch  him  with  a  gentler  touch  prostrate 

upon  the  ground: 
On  pondering  well  this  latter  course  the  wiser 

one  he  found. 

For  if  his  strength  was  fully  shown,  he  knew 

that  all  men's  eyes 
The  powerful  hero  would  detect,  despite  his 

mean  disguise. 
irus  the  king's  right  shoulder  hit,  then  he 

with  smashing  stroke 
Return'd  a  blow  beneath  the  ear,  arid  every 

bone  was  broke. 

Burst   from  his   mouth  the  gushing  blood; 

down  to  the  dust  he  dash'd, 
With    bellowing   howl,  and  in   the  fall  his 

teeth  to  pieces  crash'd. 


There  lay  he,  kicking  on  the  earth ;  mean- 
while the  suitors  proud, 

Lifting  their  hands  as  fit  to  die,  shouted  in 
laughter  loud. 


Odysseus  seized  him  by  the  foot,  and  dragged 

him  through  the  hall, 
To  porch  and  gate,  &nd  left  him  laid  against 

the  boundary  wall. 
He  placed  a  wand  within  his  hand,  and  said, 

"The  task  is  thine, 
There  seated  with  this  staff  to  drive  away 

the  dogs  and  swine  ; 


"But  on  the  stranger  and   the  poor  never 

again  presume 
To  act  as  lord  ;  else,  villain  base,  thine  may 

be  heavier  doom." 
So  saying,  o'er  his  back  he  flung  his  cloak 

to  tatters  rent, 
Then  bound  it  with  a  twisted  rope,  and  back 

to  his  seat  he  Avent. 


Back  to  the  threshold,  while  within  uprose 
the  laughter  gay, 

And  with  kind  words  was  hail'd  the  man 
who  conquer'd  in  the  fV;iy. 

"May  Zeus,  and  all  tliu  other  gods,  O 
stranger  !  grant  thee  still 

Whate'er  to  thee  most  choice  may  be,  what- 
ever suits  thy  will. 


"Thy  hand  has   chcck'd   the   beggar  bold, 

ne'er  to  return  again 
To  Ithaca,  for  straight  shall  he  be  sped  across 

the  main, 
Epirus-ward,  to   Echetus,   the  terror   of  all 

mankind." 

So   spoke  they,  and  the  king   received  the 
crlad  of  mind. 


POEMS  OF  CHARLES  GAVAN  DUFFY, 


THE  IRISH   RAPPAREES. 

A  PEASANT  BALLAD  OF   1691. 

RIGH  SHAM  us  he  has  gone  to  France  and 

left  his  crown  behind — 
111  luck  be  theirs,  both  day  and  night,  put 

rumiin'  in  his  mind  ! 
Lord  Lucan  followed  after,  with  his  Slashers 

brave  and  true, 
And  now  the  doleful  knell  is  raised — "  What 

will  poor  Ireland  do  ? 
What  must  poor  Ireland  do? 
Our  luck,"  they  say  "  has  gone  to  France — 

What  can  poor  Ireland  do?" 

0,  never  fear  for  Ireland,  for  she  has  so'gers 
still,  [on  the  hill, 

For  Rory's  boys  are  in  the  wood  and  Remy's 

And  never  had  poor  Ireland  more  loyal 
hearts  than  these — 

May  God  be  kind  and  good  to  them,  the 

faithful  Rapparees  ! 
The  fearless  Rapparees  I  [Rapparees  ! 

The  jewel  were  you,  Rory,  with  your  Irish 

Oh,  black's  your  heart,  Clan  Oliver,   and 

coulder  than  the  clay  ! 
Oh,  high's  your  head,  Clan  Sassenach,  since 

Sarsfield's  gone  away  !  [ag°> 

It's  little  love  you  bear  us,  for  sake  of  long 
But  hould  your  hand,  for  Ireland  still  can 

strike  a  deadly  blow — 
Can  strike  a  mortal  blow — 
Och  !    dhar-a-Clireebtk !    'tis  she  that   still 

could  strike  the  deadly  blow  ! 

The  Master's  bawn,  the  Master's  scat,  a 
svyly  bodayh  fills; 

The  Master's  son,  an  outlawed  man,  is  rid- 
ing on  the  hills. 

But  God  be  praised,  that  round  him  throng, 
as  thick  as  summer  bees, 

The  swords  that  guarded  Limerick  wall — his 
loyal  Rapparees ! 


His  lovin'  Rapparees  \ 

Who  dare   say  no  to  Rory  oge,  with  all  his 
Rapparees  ? 

Black  Billy  Grimes  of  Latnamard,  he  racked 

us  long  and  sore — 
God  rest  the  faithful  hearts  he  broke  ! — we'll 

never  see  them  more  ! 
But  I'll  go  bail  he'll  break  no  more,  while 

Turagh  has  gallows-trees. 
For  why? — he  met  one  lonesome  night,  the 

fearless  Rapparees ! 
The  angry  Rapparees ! 
They'll  never  sin  no  more,  my  boys,  who 

cross  the  Rapparee  ! 


THE   IRISH  CHIEFS. 

OH  !   to  have  lived  like  an   IRISH   CHIEF, 

Avhen  hearts  were  fresh  and  true, 
And  a  manly  thought,  like  a  pealing  bell, 
would    quicken    them    through    and 
through; 
And  the  seed  of  a  generous  hope  right  soon 

to  a  fiery  action  grew, 

And  men  would  have  scorn'd  to  talk  and 
talk,  and  never  a  deed  to  do  ! 
Oh  !  the  iron  grasp, 
And  the  kindly  clasp, 
And  the  laugh  so  fond  and  gay; 
And  the  roaring  board, 
And  the  ready  sword, 
Were  the  types  of  that  vanishM  day. 

Oh  !  to  have  lived  as  Brian  lived,  and  to  die 

as  Brian  died; 
His  land  to  win  with  the  sword,  and  smile. 

as  a  warrior  wins  his  bride. 
To  knit  its  force  in  a  kingly  host,  and  rule 

it  with  kingly  prido, 
And  still  in  the  girt  of  its  guardian  swords 

over  victor  fields  to  ride; 


686 


POEMS  OF  CHARLES  GAVAN  DUFFY. 


And  when  age  was  past, 

And  when  death  came  fast, 
To  look  with  a  soften'd  eye 

On  a  happy  race 

Who  had  loved  his  face, 
And  to  die  as  a  king  should  die ! 

Oh  !  to  have  lived  dear  Owen's  life — to  live 

for  a  solemn  end, 
To  strive  for  the  ruling  strength  and  skill 

God's  saints  to  the  Chosen  send ; 
And  to   come   at   length   with    that    holy 
strength,  the  bondage  of  fraud  to  rend, 
And  pour  the  light  of  God's  freedom  in  where 
Tyrants  and  Slaves  were  denn'd ; 
And  to  bear  the  brand, 
With  an  equal  hand, 
Like  a  soldier  of  Truth  and  Right, 
And,  oh  !  Saints,  to  die, 
While  our  flag  flew  high, 
Nor  to  look  on  its  fall  or  flight ! 

Oh !  to  have  lived  as  Grattan  lived,  in  the 

glow  of  his  manly  years, 
To  thunder  again  those  iron  words  that  thrill 

like  the  clash  of  spears; 
Once  more  to  blend  for  a  holy  end,  our  peas- 
ants, and  priests,  and  peers, 
Till  England  raged,  like  a  baffled  fiend,  at 
the  tramp  of  our  Volunteers  ! 
And,  oh !  best  of  all, 
Far  rather  to  fall 
(With  a  blesseder  fate  than  he) 
On  a  conquering  field, 
Than  one  right  to  yield, 
Of  the  Island  so  proud  and  free  ! 

Yet,  scorn  to  cry  on  the  days  of  old,  when 

hearts  were  fresh  and  true : 
If  hearts  be  weak,  oh  !  chiefly  then  the  Mis- 

sion'd  their  work  must  do. 
Nor  wants  our  day  its  own  fit  way,  the  want 

is  in  you  and  you  ; 

For  these  eyes  have  seen  as  kingly  a  King 
as  ever  dear  Erin  knew. 
And  with  Brian's  will, 
And  with  Owen's  skill, 
And  with  glorious  Grattan's  love, 
He  had  freed  us  soon — 
But  death  darken'd  his  noon, 
And  he  sits  with  the  saints  above. 


Oh  1  coiud  you  live  as   Davis   lived — kind 

Heaven  be  his  bed  ! 
With  an  eye  to  guide,  and  a  hand  to  rule, 

and  a  calm  and  kingly  head, 
And  a  heart  from  whence,  like  a  Holy  Well, 

the  soul  of  his  land  was  fed, 
No  need  to  cry  on  the  days  of  old  that  your 
holiest  hope  be  sped. 
Then  scorn  to  pray 
For  a  by-past  day — 
The  whine  of  the  sightless  dumb  ! 
To  the  true  and  wise 
Let  a  king  arise, 
And  a  holier  day  is  come  i 


INNISHOWEN. 

[Innishowen  (pronounced  Innishone)  is  a  wild  and  pictur 
esque  district  in  the  county  Donegal,  inhabited  chiefly  by  the 
descendants  of  the  Irish  clans,  permitted  tc  remain  in  U.<-5er 
after  the  plantation  of  James  I.  The  native  language,  and 
the  songs  and  legends  of  the  country,  are  as  universal  as  the 
people.  One  of  the  most  familiar  of  these  legends  is,  tLi.t  a 
troop  of  Hugh  O'Neill's  horse  lies  in  magic  sleep  in  a  cave 
under  the  hill  of  Aileach,  where  the  princes  of  the  country 
were  formerly  installed.  These  bold  troopers  only  wait  to 
have  the  spell  removed  to  rush  to  the  aid  of  their  country ; 
and  a  man  (says  the  legend)  who  wandered  accidentally  into  the 
cave,  found  them  lying  beside  their  horses,  fully  armed,  and 
holding  the  bridles  in  their  hands.  One  of  them  lifted  his 
head,  and  asked,  "  Is  the  time  come  ?"  and  when  he  received 
no  answer— for  the  intruder  was  too  muc'n  frightened  to  re- 
ply—dropped back  into  his  lethargy.  Some  of  the  old  folk 
consider  the  story  an  allegory,  and  interpret  it  as  they  desire.] 

GOD  bless  the  gray  mountains  of  dark  Done 

gal, 
God  bless  Royal  Aileach,  the  pride  of  them 

all; 
For  she  sits  evermore  like  a  queen  on  her 

throne, 
And  smiles  on  the  valleys  of  Green  Innis- 

howen. 
And    fair    are    the    vaiieys    of   Green 

Innishowen, 
And  hardy  the  fishers  that   call  them 

their  own — 
A  race  that  nor  traitor  nor  coward  have 

known 

Enjoy  the  fair  valleys  of  Green  Innis- 
howen. 

Oh !  simple  and  bold  are  the  bosoms  they  bear, 
Like  the  hills  that  with  silence  and  nature- 
they  share ; 


POEMS  OF  CHARLES  GAVAN  DUFFY. 


68- 


For  our  God,  who  hath  planted  their  home 

near  his  own, 
Breathed  His  spirit  abroad  upon  fair  Innis- 

howen. 
Then    praise    to   our  Father  for  wild 

Innishowen, 
Where  fiercely  forever  the  surges   are 

thrown — 
Nor  weather  nor  fortune  a  tempest  hath 

blown 
Could  shake  the  strong  bosoms  of  brave 

Innishowen. 

See  the  bountiful  Couldah'  careering  along^- 
A  type  of  their  manhood   so   stately   and 

strong — 

On  the  weary  forever  its  tide  is  bestown, 
So  they  share  with  the  stranger  in  fair  In- 
nishowen. 
God  guard  the  kind  homesteads  of  fair 

Inuishoweu, 
Which  manhood  and  virtue  have  chosen 

for  their  own  ; 
Not  long  shall  that  nation  in  slavery 

groan, 

That  rears  the  tall    peasants  of  fair 
Innishowen. 

Like  that  oak  of  St.  Bride  which  nor  Devil 

nor  Dane, 
Nor  Saxon  nor  Dutchman  could  rend  from 

her  fane, 
They  have  clung  by  the  creed  and  the  cause 

of  their  own 
Through  the   midnight   of  danger  in   true 

Innishowen. 

Then  shout  for  the  glories  of  old  Innis- 
howen, 
The  stronghold  that  foemen  have  never 

o'erthrown — 
The  soul  and  the  spirit,  the  blood  and 

the  bone, 

That  guard  the  green  valleys  of  true 
Innishowen. 

Nor  purer  of  old  was  the  tongue  of  the 

Gael, 
When  the  charging  aboo  made  the  foreigner 

quail ; 


•  The  Coaldah,  or  'Culdaff,  U  the  chiel  rirer  In  the  Innls- 
•owen  mountains. 


Than  it  gladdens  the  stranger  in  *rclcomc'tt 

soft  tone, 

In   the  home-loving  cabins  of  kind  Innis- 
howen. 

Oh !  flourish,  ye  homesteads    of  kind 
Innishowen, 

Where  seeds  of  a  people's  redemption 
are  sown ; 

Right  soon  shall  the  fruit  of  that  sowing 
have  grown, 

To  bless  the  kind  homesteads  of  green 
Innishowen. 

When  they  tell  us  the  tale  of  a  spell-stricken 

band 

All  entranced,  with  their  bridles  and  broad- 
swords in  hand, 
Who  await  but  the  word  to  give  Erin  her 

own, 
They   can   read   you   that   riddle  in  proud 

Innishowen. 
Hurrah    for    the    Spaemen*    of   proud 

Innishowen ! — 

Long  live  the  wild  Seers  of  stout  Innis- 
howen ! — 
May  Mary,  our  mother,  be  deaf  to  tbeir 

moan 

Who   love   not   the   promise  of 
Innishowen  1 


THE  MUSTER  OF  THE  NORTH, 
1641. 

[The  Irish  Pale  resembled  the  borders  between  Scotland 
and  England  so  closely  in  its  general  character,  that  it  is  no 
extravagant  assumption  to  suppose  that  it  mast  have  given 
birth  to  a  host  of  poems  or  the  same  class  as  the  Border 
Ballads  collected  by  Sir  Walter  Scott  in  his  own  country. 
The  same  incessant  feuds,  the  same  daring  adventures,  tha 
same  deadly  hatred,  and  an  equally  poetic  people  to  sing  their 
own  achievement*,  existed  in  both  countries  ;  and  if  there  are 
few  remains  of  our  legendary  and  local  ballads,  the  disuse  of 
the  Irish  language  in  which  they  were  written,  and  the  neg- 
lect of  our  national  literature  since  the  Eli/abethan  war,  wll! 
account  for  their  loss  without  throwing  the  smallest  doubt  on 
their  former  existence.  In  fact,  they  may  be  deduced  as 
plainly  from  the  physical  and  intellectual  condition  of  the 
country,  without  any  other  evidence,  as  the  use  *»/  weapons 
for  war  or  castles  for  defence,  which  it  needs  no  ruins  and  no 
museums  to  establish.  If  they  are  as  completely  lost  as  the 
ballads  on  which  the  early  history  of  liome  was  founded,  they 


1  An  Ulster  and  Scotch  term  signifying  a  person  gifted  wltfc 
'  second  right"— a  prophet. 


688 


POEMS  OF  CHARLES  GAVAN  DUFFY. 


as  purely  existed;  and  we  have,  In  lieu  of  a  better,  that 
remedy  for  our  loss  which  Macaulay  has  so  successfully 
adopted  in  the  case  of  his  "  Lays  ot  Ancient  Rome"— to  sing 
for  our  ancestors  such  ballads  as  they  probably  sung  for 
themselves.  Historical  songs  and  ballads  are  the  best  nutri- 
ment for  the  nationality  and  public  spirit  of  a  country— the 
recollection  of  the  men  and  achievements  they  celebrate  act 
oc  its  youth  like  a  second  conscience— they  become  ashamed 
to  disgrace  a  land  that  was  the  mother  of  such  men.  The 
memory  of  Wallace  does  more  for  Scotland  than  t he  sermons. 
of  ten  Dr.  Chalmers,  and  Kosciusko  makes  every  Pole  respect- 
able throughout  the  world.  Scott's  own  legendary  ballads 
and  poems  did  a  thousand  times  more  for  Scotland  than  all  he 
ever  collected,  and  Burns's  "  Scots  wha  hae"  was  worth  a 
hundred  "  Minstrelsies  of  the  Border,"  in  its  national  influ- 
ence. The  present  ballad  is  founded  on  the  rising  of  Ulster 
in  1641,  at  the  commencement  of  the  ten  years'  war.  We  have 
always  denied  the  alleged  massacre  of  that  era,  and  the 
atrocious  calumnies  on  Sir  Phelim  O'Neill ;  but  that  the 
natives,  in  ejecting  the  English  from  their  towns  and  castles, 
committed  various  excesses  is  undeniable— as  is  equally  the 
bitter  provocation — in  the  plunder  of  their  properties  by 
James  I.,  and  the  long  persecution  that  ensued.  The  object 
of  the  ballad  is  not  to  excuse  these  excesses,  which  we  con- 
demn and  deplore,  but  to  give  a  vivid  picture  of  the  feelings 
of  an  outraged  people  in  the  first  madness  of  successful 
resistance.] 

JOY  !  joy !  the  day  is  come  at  last,  the  day 

of  hope  and  pride, 
And  see !    our  crackling  bonfires  light  old 

Bann's  rejoicing  tide, 
And  gladsome  bell,   and   bugle-horn   from 

Newry's  captured  Towers, 
Hark !  how  they  tell  the  Saxon  swine,  this 

land  is  ours,  is  OURS  ! 

Glory  to  God  !  my  eyes  have  seen  the  ran- 
somed fields  of  Down, 

My  ears  have  drunk  the  joyful  news,  "  Stout 
Phelim  hath  his  own." 

Oh !  may  they  see  and  hear  no  more,  Oh  ! 
may  they  rot  to  clay, 

When  they  forget  to  triumph  in  the  conquest 
of  to-day. 

Now,  now  we'll  teach  the  shameless  Scot  to 

purge  his  thievish  maw, 
Now,  now  the  Courts  may  fall  to  pray,  for 

Justice  is  the  Law, 
Now,  shall  the  Undertaker1  square,  for  once, 

his  loose  accounts, 
We'll  strike,  brave  boys,  a  fair  result,  from 

all  his  false  amounts. 

Come,  trample  down  their  robber  rule,  and 

smite  its  venal^  spawn, 
Their  foreign   laws,  their   foreign    church, 

their  ermine  and  their  lawn; 


1  The  Scotch  and  English  adventurers  planted  in  Ulster  by 
James  I.,  were  called  Undertakers. 


With  all  the  specious  fry  of  fraud  that  robb'd 

us  of  our  own, 
And  plant  our  ancient  laws  again  beneath 

our  lineal  throne. 

Our   standard   flies   o'er   fifty   towers,   o'er 

twice  ten  thousand  men, 
Down  have  we  pluck'd  the  pirate  Red,  never 

to  rise  agen ; 
The   Green   alone  shall   stream   above   our 

native  field  and  flood — 
The  spotless  Green,  save  where  its  folds  are 

geinm'd  with  Saxon  blood  ! 

Pity  !7  no,  no,  you  dare  not,  Priest — not  you 

our  Father  dare 
Preach  to  us  now  that  godless  creed — the 

murderer's  blood  to  spare ; 
To  spare  his  blood,  while  tombless  still  our 

slaughter'd  kin  implore 
"  Graves  and  revenge"   from  Gobbin-ClifFs 

and  Carrick's  bloody  shore  !s 

Pity!   could   we   "forget — forgive,"    if  we 

were  clods  of  clay, 
Our  martyr'd  priests,  our   banish'd   chiefs, 

our  race  in  dark  decay, 
And  worse  than  all — you  know  it,  Priest — 

the  daughters  of  our  land, 
With  wrongs  we  blush'd  to  name  until  the 

sword  was  in  our  hand  ! 

Pity  !  well,  if  you  needs  must  whine,  let  pity 

have  its  way, 
Pity  for  all  our  comrades  true,  far  from  our 

side  to-day ; 
The   prison-bound   who   rot   in  chains,   the 

faithful  dead  who  pour'd 
Their  blood  'neath  Temple's  lawless  axe  or 

Parson's  ruffian  sword. 

They  smote  us  with  the  swearer's  oath,  and 

with  the  murderer's  knife, 
We  in  the  open  field  will  fight,  fairly  for 

land  and  life ; 


*  Leland,  the  Protestant  historian,  states  that  the  Catholic 
Priests  '•'•labored  zealously  to  moderate  tlie  excesses  of  war /" 
and  frequently  protected  the  English  by  concealing  them  in 
their  places  of  worship,  and  even  under  their  altars. 

1  The  scene  of  the  massacre  of  the  unoffending  inhabit'uit* 
of  Island  Magee  by  the  garrison  of  Carrickfergus. 


POEMS  OF  CIIAULES  GAVAN  DUFFY. 


689 


But,  by  the  Dead  and  all  their  wrongs,  and 

by  our  hopes  to-day, 
One  of  us  twain  shall  fight  their  last,  or  be 

it  we  or  they — 

They  bann'd  our  faith,  they  bann'd  oui  lives, 

they  trod  us  into  earth, 
Until  our  very  patience   stirr'd    tl  eir  bitter 

hearts  to  mirth  ; 
Even  this  great  flame  that  wraps  them  now, 

not  we  but  they  have  bred, 
Yes,  this  is  their  own  work,  and  now,  TIISIR 

WORK  BE  ON  THEIR  HEAD. 

Nay,  Father,  tell  us  not  of  help  from  Lein- 

ster's  Norman  Peers, 
If  we  but  shape  our  holy  cause  to  match 

their  selfish  fears, — 
Helpless  and  hopeless  be  their  cause  who 

brook  a  vain  delay, 
Our    ship    is    launch'd,    our    flag's    afloat, 

whether  they  come  or  stay. 

I^et   Silken   Howth,  and  savage  Slane  still 

kiss  their  tyrant's  rod, 
And  pale  Dunsany  still   prefer  his  Master 

to  his  God, 
Little  we'd    miss    their   fathers'   sons,   the 

Marchmen  of  the  Pale, 
If  Irish  hearts  and  Irish  hands  had  Spanish 

blade  and  mail  ? 

Then,  let  them  stay  to  bow  and  fawn,  or 

fight  with  cunning  words ; 
I    fear    me    more    their   courtly   acts   than 

England's  hireling  swords, 
Nathless  their  creed  they  hate  us  still,  as  the 

Despoiler  hates, 
Could  they  love  us,  and  love  their  prey,  our 

kinsmen's  lost  estates  1 

Our  rude  array's  a  jagg6d  rock  to  smash  the 
spoiler's  power, 

Or  need  we  aid,  His  aid  we  have  who 
doom'd  this  gracious  hour ; 

Of  yore  he  led  his  Hebrew  host  to  peace 
through  strife  and  pain, 

And  us  he  leads  the  self-same  path,  the  self- 
same goal  to  gain. 


Down  from  the  sacred  hills  whereon  a  SAINT* 

communed  with  God, 
Up   from   the   vale  where  Bagnall'g  blood 

manured  the  reeking  sod, 
Out   from   the   stately    woods    of   Truagk, 

M'Kenna's  plunder'd  home, 
Like  Malin's  waves,  as  fierce  and  fast,  our 

faithful  clansmen  come. 

Then,  brethren,  on! — O'Neill's  dear  shade 

would  frown  to  see  you  pause — 
Our  banish'd  Hugh,  our  martyr'd  Hugh,  ia 

watching  o'er  your  cause — 
His  generous  error  lost  the  land — he  deem'd 

the  Norman  true  ; 
Oh  !  forward  !  friends,  it  must  not  lose  the 

land  again  in  you  ! 


THE  VOICE  OF  LABOR. 

A  CHANT  OP  THE  CITY  MEETINGS,  A.  D.  1848 

YE  who  despoil  the  sons  of  toil,  saw  ye  this 

sight  to-day, 

When  stalwart  trade  in  long   brigade,  be- 
yond a  king's  array, 
March'd  in   the  blessed   light    of  Heaven 

beneath  the  open  sky, 
Strong  in  the  might  of  sacred  RIGHT,  that 

none  dare  ask  them  why 
These  are  the  slaves,  the  needy  knaves,  ye 

spit  upon  with  scorn — 
The  spawn  of  earth,  of  nameless  birth,  and 

basely  bred  as  born  ; 
Yet  know,  ye  soft  and  silken  lords,  were  we 

the  thing  ye  say, 
Your   broad   domains,  your   cofferM  gains, 

your  lives  were  ours  to-day  1 

Measure  that  rank,  from  flank  to  flank;  'tis 

fifty  thousand  strong ; 
And   mark   you   here,   in    front    and    rear, 

brigades  as  deep  and  long  ; 
And  know  that  never  blade  of  foe,  or  Arran's 

deadly  breeze, 
Tried  by  assay  of  storm  or  fray  more  daunt 

less  hearts  than  these  ; 


1  St.   Patrick,  whose  favorite  retreat   *M  LecaJe,  In  the 
County  Down. 


GOO 


POEMS  OF  CHARLES  GAVAN  DUFFY. 


The  sinewy  smith,  little  he  recks  of  his  own 

child — the  sword ; 
The  men  of  gear,  think  you  they  fear  their 

handiwork — a  Lord  ? 
And  undismay'd,  yon   sons   of  trade  might 

see  the  battle's  front, 
Who   bravely  bore,  nor  bow'd   before   the 

deadlier  face  of  want. 

What  lack  we  here  of  show  or  form  that 
lures  your  slaves  to  death  ? 

Not  serried  bands,  nor  sinewy  hands,  nor 
music's  martial  breath  ; 

And  if  we  broke  the  bitter  yoke  our  suppli- 
ant race  endure, 

No  robbers  we — but  chivalry — the  Army  of 
the  Poor. 

Shame  on  ye  now,  ye  lordly  crew,  that  do 
your  betters  wrong — 

We  are  no  base  and  braggart  mob,  but  mer- 
ciful and  strong. 

Your  henchmen  vain,  your  vassal  train  would 
fly  our  first  defiance  ; 

In  us- — in  our  strong,  tranquil  breasts — 
abides  your  sole  reliance. 

Ay !  keep  them  all,  castle  and  hall,  coffers 
and  costly  jewels — 

Keep  your  vile  gain,  and  in  its  train  the  pas- 
sions that  it  fuels. 

We  envy  not  your  lordly  lot — its  bloom  or 
its  decayance : 

But  ye  have  that  we  claim  as  ours — our 
right  in  long  abeyance  : 

Leisure  to  live,  leisure  to  love,  leisure  to 
taste  our  freedom — 

O  !  suffering  poor,  O  !  patient  poor,  how  bit- 
terly you  need  them  ! 

"Ever  to  moil,  ever  to  toil,"  that  is  your 
social  charter, 

And  city  slave  or  peasant  serf,  the  TOILER  is 
its  martyr. 

Where  Frank  and  Tuscan  shed  their  sweat, 

the  goodly  crop  is  theirs — 
If  Norway's  toil  make  rich  the  soil,  she  eats 

the  fruit  she  rears — 
O'er  Maine's  green  sward  there  rules  no  lord, 

saving  the  Lord  on  high ; 
But  we  are  slaves  in  our  own  land — proud 

masters,  tell  us  why  ? 


The   German  burgher  and  his  men,  brother 

with  brothers  live, 
While   toil   must  wait   without  your  gate 

what  gracious  crusts  you  give. 
Long  in  your  sight,  for  our  own  right  we've 

bent,  and  still  we  bend  ; — 
Why   did  we   bow  ?    why  do   we   now  ? — 

proud  masters,  this  must  end. 

Perish  the  past — a  generous  laud  is  this  fair 

land  of  ours, 
And  enmity  may  no  man   see   between  itt 

Towns  and  Towers. 
Come,  join  our  bands — here  take  our  hands 

— now  shame  on  him  that  lingers, 
Merchant  or  Peer,  you  have  no  fear  from- 

labor's  blistered  fingers. 
Come,  join  at  last — perish  the  past — its  trai 

tors,  its  seceders — 
Proud  names  and  old,  frank  hearts  and  boltt 

come  join  and  be  our  Leaders  ; 
But  know,  ye   lords,  that  be  your  bword» 

with  us  or  with  our  Wronger, 
Heaven  be  our  guide,  for  we  shall  bide  thie 

lot  of  shame  no  longer ! 


THE  PATRIOT'S  BRIDE. 

O  !  GIVE  me  back  that  royal  dream 

My  fancy  wrought, 
When  I  have  seen  your  sunny  eyes 
Grow  moist  with  thought , 
And  fondly  hoped,  dear  Love,  your  heart 
from  mine 

Its  spell  had  caught ; 
And  laid  me  down  to  dream  that  dream 
divine, 

But  true  methought, 
Of  how  my  life's   long   task  would  be,  to 
make  yours  blessed  as  it  ought. 

To  learn  to  love  sweet  Nature  more 
For  your  sweet  sake, 

To  watch  with  you — dear  friend,  with 
you  1 — 

Its  wonders  break ; 


POEMS  OF  CHARLES  GAVAN  DUFFY. 


G91 


The  sparkling  Sprng  in  that  bright  face 
to  see 

Its  mirror  make — 

On  summer  morns  to  hear  the  sweet 
birds  sing 

By  linn  and  lake ; 

And   know  your  voice,  your   magic  voice, 
could  still  a  grander  musut  wake! 

On  some  old  shell-strewn  rock  to  sit 

In  Autumn  eves, 
Where  gray  Killiney  cools  the  torrid  air 

Hot  Autumn  weaves : 
Or  by  that  Holy  Well  in  mountain  lone, 

Where  Faith  believes 
(Fain  would  I  believe)  its  secret,  darling 
wish 

True  love  achieves. 

Yet,  O  !  its  Saint  was  not  more  pure  than 
she  to  whom  my  fond  heart  cleaves. 

Te  see  the  dank  mid-winter  night 

Pass  like  a  noon, 
Sultry  with  thought  from  minds  that  teem'd, 

And  glow'd  like  June  : 
Whereto  would  pass  in  sculp'd  and  pic- 
tured train 

Art's  magic  boon  ; 

And  Music  thrill  with  many  a  haughty 
strain 

Ai.'d  dear  old  tune, 

Till   hearts  grew  sad  to  hear  the  destined 
hour  to  part  had  come  so  soon. 

To   wake    the    old   weird    world    that 
sleeps 

In  Irish  lore  ; 
The  strains  sweet  foreign  Spenser  sung 

By  Mulla's  shore; 

Dear  Curran's  airy  thoughts,  like  purple 
birds 

That  shine  and  soar; 
Tone's  fiery  hopes,  and  all  the  deathless 
vows 

That  Grattan  swore ; 

Hie  songs  that  once  our  own  dear  Davis 
sung — ah,  me !  to  sing  no  more. 

To  search  with  mother-love  the  gifts 
Our  land  can  boast — 


Soft  Erna's  isles,  Neagh's  wooded  slope*, 

Clare's  iron  coast ; 

Kildare,  whose  legions  gray  our  bosom 
stir 

With  fay  and  ghost ; 
Gray    Monroe,   green    Antrim,   purple 
Glenmalur — 

Lene's  fairy  host ; 

With  raids  to  many  a  foreign  land  to  learn 
to  love  dear  Ireland  most. 

And  all  those  proud  old  victor-fields 

We  tlirill  to  name  ; 

Whose    memories    are   the    stars   that 
light 

Long  nights  O'"  shame; 
The   Cairn,  the    Dun,   the    Rath,  the 
Tower,  the  Keep, 

That  still  proclaim 

In   chronicles   of  clay  and  stone,  how 
true,  how  deep, 

Was  Eire's  fame. 

O  !  we  shall  see  them  all,  with  her,  that  dear, 
dear  friend  we  two  have  loved  the  same.. 

Yet  ah  !  how  truer,  tend'rer  still 

Methought  did  seem 
That  scene  of  tranquil  joy,  that  happy 
home, 

By  Dodder's  stream ; 
The  morning  smile,  that  grew  a  fiied 
star, 

With  love-lit  beam, 

The  ringing  laugh,  lock'd   hands,  and 
all  the  far 

And  shining  stream 

Of  daily  love,  that  made  our  daily  life  diviner 
than  a  dream. 

For    still    to    me,   dear    Friend,   dear 
Love, 

Or  both — dear  Wife, 
Your  image  comes  with  serious  thoughts, 

But  tender,  rife ; 
No  idle  plaything  to  caress  or  chide 

In  sport  or  strife ; 

But  my  best  chosen  friend,  companion, 
guide, 

To  walk  through  life, 

Link'd   hand   in   hand,  two    equal,   loving 
friends,  true  husband  and  true  wife. 


692 


POEMS  OF  CHAKLES  GAVAN  DUF*\. 


SWEET  SIBYL. 

My  Love  is  as  fresh  as  the  morning  sky, 
A'ly  Love  is  as  soft  as  the  summer  air, 
My  Love  is  as  true  as  the  Saints  on  high, 
And  never  was  saint  so  fair  ! 

O,  glad  is  my  heart  when  I  name  her 

name, 

For  it  sounds  like  a  song  to  me — 
I'll  love  you,  it  sings,  nor  heed  their 

blame, 
For  you  love  me,  Astor  Machree  ! 

Sweet  Sibyl !  sweet  Sibyl  !  my  heart  is  wild 
With  the  fairy  spell  that  her  eyes  have 

lit; 

1  sit  in  a  dream  where  my  Love  has  smiled — 
1  kiss  where  her  name  is  writ ! 

O,  darling,  I  fly  like  a  dreamy  boy ; 
The  toil  that  is  joy  to  the  strong 

and  true, 
The  life  that  the  brave  for  their  land 

employ, 
I  squander  in  dreams  of  you. 

The  face  of  m"  Love  has  the  chanceful  lisjht 

rf  O  O 

That  gladdens  the  sparkling  sky  of  spring  ; 
The  voice  of  my  Love  is  a  strange  delight, 
As  when  birds  in  the  May-time  sing. 

0,  hope  of  my  heart  1  O,  light  of  my 

life! 
O,  come  to  me,  darling,  with  peace 

and  rest ! 
O,  come  like  the  Summer,  my  own 

sweet  wife, 
To  your  home  in  my  longing  breast ! 

Be  bless'd  with  the  home  sweet  Sibyl  will 

sway, 
With  the  glance  of  her  soft  and  queenly 

eyes  ; 

D  I  happy  the  love  young  Sibyl  ^rill  pay 
With  the  bre»<£  of  her  tender  sighs. 

That  hoai*:  ~JL  the  hope  of  my  waking 

dreams — 

That  love  fills  my  eye  with  pride — 
There's  light  in  their  glance,  there's 

joy  in  their  beams, 
When   I  think  of  my  own  young 
bride. 


A  LAY  SERMON. 

BROTHER,  do  you  love  your  brother? 

Brother,  are  you  all  you  seem  ? 
Do  you  live  for  more  than  living  ? 

lias  your  Life  a  law,  and  scheme  ? 
Are  you  prompt  to  bear  its  duties, 

As  a  brave  man  may  beseem  ? 

Brother,  shun  the  mist  exhaling 
From  the  fen  of  pride  and  doubt, 

Neither  seek  the  house  of  bondage 
Walling  straiten'd  souls  about ; 

Bats  !  who  from  their  narrow  spy-hole. 
Cannot  see  a  world  without. 

Anchor  in  no  stagnant  shallow — 
Trust  the  wide  and  wondrous  sea, 

Where  the  tides  are  fresh  forever, 
And  the  mighty  currents  free ; 

There,  perchance,  O  !  young  Columbus 
Your  New  World  of  truth  may  be. 

Favor  will  not  make  deserving — 
(Can  the  sunshine  brighten  clay?) 

Slowly  must  it  grow  to  blossom, 
Fed  by  labor  and  delay, 

And  the  fairest  bud  of  promise 
Bears  the  taint  of  quick  decay. 

You  must  strive  for  better  guerdons  ; 

Strive  to  be  the  thing  you'd  seem  ; 
Be  the  thing  that  God  hath  made  you, 

Channel  for  no  borrow'd  stream  ; 
He  hath  lent  you  mind  and  conscience  ; 

See  you  travel  in  their  beam  ! 

See  you  scale  life's  misty  highlands 
By  this  light  of  living  truth  ! 

And  with  bosom  braced  for  labor, 
Breast  them  in  your  manly  youth  ; 

So  when  age  and  care  have  found  you, 
Shall  your  downward  path  be  smooth. 

Fear  not,  on  that  rugged  highway, 
Life  may  want  its  lawful  zest : 

Sunny  glens  are  in  the  mountain, 
Where  the  weary  feet  may  rest, 

Cool'd  in  streams  that  gush  forever 
From  a  loving  mother's  breast. 


1'OEMS  OF  CHARLES  GAVAN  DUFFY. 


093 


"Simple  heart  and  simple  pleasures," 
So  they  write  life's  golden  rule; 

Honor  won  by  supple  baseness, 
State  that  crowns  a  canker'd  fool, 

Gleam  as  gleam  the  gold  and  purple 
On  a  hot  and  rancid  pool. 

Weai  no  show  of  wit  or  science, 

But  the  gems  you've  won,  and  weighM  ; 

Thefts,  like  ivy  on  a  ruin, 

Make  the  rifts  they  seem  to  shade : 

Are  you  not  a  thief  and  beggar 
In  the  rarest  spoils  array'd  ? 

Shadows  deck  a  sunny  landscape, 
Making  brighter  all  the  bright : 

So,  my  brother  !  care  and  danger 
On  a  loving  nature  light, 

Bringing  all  its  latent  beauties 
Out  upon  the  common  sight. 

Love  the  things  that  God  created, 
Make  your  brother's  need  your  care  ; 

Scorn  and  hate  repel  God's  blessings, 
But  where  love  is,  they  are  there  ; 

As  the  moonbeams  light  the  waters, 
Leaving  rock  and  sand-bank  bare. 

Thus,  my  brother,  grow  and  flourish, 

Fearing  none  and  loving  all ; 
For  the  true  man  needs  no  patron, 

lie  shall  climb  and  never  crawl : 
Two  things  fashion  their  own  channel — 

The  strong  man  and  the  waterfall. 


O'DONNELL  AND  THE   FAIR   FITZ- 
GERALD. 

A  FAWN  that  flies  with  sudden  spring, 

A  wild-bird  fluttering  on  the  wing, 

A  passing  gleam  of  April  sun, 

She  flash'd  upon  me,  and  was  gone  ! 

No  chance  did  that  dear  face  restore, 

Nor  then — nor  now — nor  evermore. 

But  sure,  I  see  her  in  rny  dreams, 

With  eyes  where  love's  first  dawning  beams  ; 


And  tones,  like  Irish  Music,  say — 
"  You  ask  to  love  me,  and  you  may  ;.M 
And  so  I  know  she  will  be  mine, 
That  rose  of  princely  Gcraldine. 

A  voice  that  thrills  with  modest  doubtr 
A  tale  of  love  can  ill  pour  out ; 
But,  oh  !  when  love  wore  manly  guise, 
And  warrior  feats  woke  woman's  sighs — 
With  Irish  sword,  on  Irish  soil. 
I  might  have  won  that  kingly  spoil. 
But  then,  perchance,  the  Desmond  race 
Had  deem'd  to  mate  with  mine  disgrace ; 
For  mine's  that  strain  of  native  blood 
That  last  the  Norman  lance  withstood  ; 
Ancl  still  when  mountain  war  was  waged 
Their  sparths  among  the  Normans  raged, 
And  burst  through  many  a  serried  lino 
Of  Lacy,  Burke,  and  Geraldine. 

And  yet  methinks  in  battle  press, 

My  love,  I  could  not  love  you  los>  , 

For,  oh  !  'twere  sweet  brave  deeds  to  do 

For  our  old,  sainted  land,  and  you  ! 

To  sweep  a  storm,  through  Barrensmore, 

With  Docwra's  scatter'd  ranks  before, 

Like  chaff  upon  our  northern  blast ; 

Nor    rest    till     Bann's    broad    wares    »/« 

pass'd, 

Till  Inbhar  sees  our  flashing  line, 
Till  Darhar's  lordly  towers  are  mine, 
And  backward  borne,  as  seal  and  sign. 
The  fairest  maid  of  Gcraldine. 

But,  Holy  Bride,1  how  sweeter  still 

A  hunted  chief  on  Faughart  hill, 

With  all  the  raging  Pale  behind, 

So  sweet,  so  strange  a  foe  to  find  ! 

Soft  love  to  plant  where  terror  sprung, 

With  honey  speech  of  Irish  tongue ; 

Again  to  dare  Clan-Gcralt's  swords 

For  hope  of  some  sweet,  stolen  wordn. 

Till  many  a  danger  pass'd  and  gone, 

My  suit  has  sped,  my  Bride  is  won — 

She's    proud    Clan-ConnelPs    Queen,    and 

mine, 
Young  Gcraldine,  of  Goraldine. 


81.  Bride,  or  Hrtrfd. 


691 


POEMS  OF  CHARLES  GAVAN  DTTFFY. 


But  sure  that  time  is  dead  and  gone 
When  worth  alone  such  love  had  won, 
For  hearts  are  cold,  and  hands  are  bought, 
And  faith,  and  lore,  and  love  are  naught  ? 
Ah  !  trust  me,  no  !   The  pure  and  true 
The  genial  past  may  still  renew ; 
Still  love  as  then  ;  and  still  no  less 
Strong  hearts  shall  snatch  a  brave  success 


And  to  their  end  right  onward  go, 

As  Erna's  tide  to  Assaroe.1 

Ob  !  Saints  may  strive  -for  Martyr's  crown. 

And  warrior  watch  by  leaguer'd  town, 

But  poor  is  all  their  toil  to  mine, 

'Till  won's  my  Bride — my  Geraldine ! 


A  w*t*rflUl!n  Tj»conB«ll,  the  O'DonneiTe  «watT. 


POEMS  OF  WILLIAM  CARLETON. 


SIR  TURLOLTGH,  OR  THE  CHURCH- 
YARD BRIDE.1 

THE  bride  she  bound  her  golden  hair — 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy ! 
And  her  step  was  light  as  the  breezy  air 
When  it  bends  the  morning  flowers  so  fair, 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

And  oh,  but  her  eyes  they  danced  so  bright, 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy ! 
As  nhe  long'd  for  the  dawn  of  to-morrow's 

light, 
Her  bridal  vows  of  love  to  plight, 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 


1  In  the  churchyard  of  Erigle  Truagb,  in  the  barony  of  Trn- 
agh,  county  Monaghan,  there  is  sa!d  to  be  a  Spirit  which 
appears  to  persons  whose  families  are  there  interred.  Its 
appearance,  which  is  generally  made  in  the  following  manner, 
is  uniformly  fatal,  being  an  omen  of  death  to  those  who  are 
*o  unhappy  aa  to  meet  with  it.  When  a  funeral  takes  place, 
it  watches  the  person  who  remains  last  in  the  graveyard,  over 
whom  it  possess  a  fascinating  influence.  If  the  loifver  be  a 
young  man,  it  takes  the  shape  of  a  beautiful  female,  inspires 
him  with  a  chsnued  passion,  and  exacts  a  promise  to  meet  in 
the  churchyard  ou  a  mouth  from  that  day  ;  this  promise  is 
•ealed  by  a  kiss,  which  communicates  a  deadly  taint  to  the  in- 
dividual who  receives  it.  It  then  disappears,  and  no  sooner 
does  the  young  man  quit  the  churchyard,  than  he  remembers 
the  history  of  the  spectre— which  is  well  known  In  the  parish 
— sinks  into  despair,  dies,  and  is  buried  in  the  place  of 
appointment  on  the  day  when  the  promise  was  to  have  Iven 
fulfilled.  If,  on  the  contrary,  it  appears  to  a  female,  it  as- 
sumes the  form  of  a  young  man  of  exceeding  elegance  and 
beauty.  Some  years  ago  I  was  shown  the  grave  of  a  young 
person  about  eighteen  years  of  age,  who  was  t>aid  to  have  fallen 
a  victim  to  it:  and  It  is  not  more  than  ten  months  since  a 
man  in  the  same  parish  declared  that  he  gave  the  promise  and 
the  fatal  kiss,  and  consequently  looked  upon  himself  as  lost. 
He  took  a  fever,  died,  and  was  buried  on  the  day  appointed 
for  the  meeting,  which  was,  exactly  a  month  from  that  of  the 
Interview.  There  are  several  cases  of  the  same  kind  men- 
tioned, but  the  two  now  alluded  to  are  the  only  one*  that  came 
within  my  personal  knowledge.  It  appears,  however,  that  the 
•pectre  does  not  confine  its  operations  to  the  churchyard,  as 
there  have  bceL  instances  mentioned  of  its  appearance  at 
weddings  and  dunces,  where  it  never  failed  to  secure  Its  vic- 
tims by  dancing  them  into  pi  surilic  fevers.  I  am  unable  to  cay 
whether  this  is  a  strictly  local  superstition,  or  whether  It  IB 
considered  peculiar  to  other  churctyurds  In  Ireland,  or  else- 
where. In  its  female  shape  It  somewhat  resembles  the  Elle 
Scandinavia;  but  I  am  acquainted  with  no  account 


The  bridegroom  is  come  with  youthful  brow, 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy  ! 
To  receive  from  his  Eva  her  virgin  vow ; 
"  Why  tarries  the  bride  of  my  bosom  now  !** 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

A  cry !  a  cry  ! — 'twas  her  maidens  spoke, 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy ! 
"Your  bride  is  asleep — she  has  not  awoke; 
And  the  sleep  she  sleeps  will  be  never  broke," 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

Sir  Turlough  sank  down  with  a  heavy  moan, 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy  ! 

And  his  cheek  became  like  the  marble  stone— 
"  l  Mi,  the  pulse  of  my  heart  is  forever  gone  ln 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

The  keen1  is  loud,  it  comes  again, 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy  ! 
And  rises  sad  from  the  funeral-train, 
As  in  sorrow  it  winds  along  the  plain, 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeovj. 


of  fairies  or  apparitions  in  which  the  sex  la  said  to  be  changed, 
except  in  that  of  the  devil  himself.  The  country  people  say 
it  is  Death. 

1  The  Irish  cry,  or  walling  for  the  dead ;  properly  written 
6'ooi/t«,  and  pronounced  as  if  written  keen.'  Speaking  of  this 
practice,  which  still  prevails  in  many  parts  of  Ireland,  the  Kev. 
A.  HOPS,  rector  of  Unngiven,  in  his  statistical  survey  of  that 
parish,  observes  that  "  however  it  Hiay  offend  the  judgment 
or  shock  our  present  refinement,  Its  affecting  cadences  will 
continue  to  find  admirers  wherever  what  is  truly  sad  and  plain- 
tive can  be  relished  or  understood."  It  is  also  thus  noticed  in 
the  "Traits  and  Stories  of  the  Irish  Peasantry :"— "  I  have 
often.  Indeed  always,  felt  that  there  is  something  exceedingly 
touching  In  the  Irish  cry;  In  fact,  that  It  breathes  the  very 
spirit  of  wild  and  natural  sorrow.  The  Irish  peasantry, 
whenever  a  death  takes  place,  are  exceedingly  happy  In  seiz- 
ing apon  any  contingent  circiimM.tncr*  that  may  occur,  and 
making  them  subservient  to  the  excitement  of  grief  for  the  de- 
parted, or  the  exaltation  and  praii-e  of  his  character  and  vir- 
tues. My  entrance  win  a  proof  of  this;  for  1  had  scarcely 
advanced  to  the  middle  of  the  tlour.  when  my  intimacy  wllfc 
the  deceased,  our  Ixiyt-h  sports,  mid  even  our  quarrels,  wer« 
adverted  to  with  a  natural  eloquence  and  patho*.  that.  In  sptu 
of  my  firmness,  occasioned  me  to  feel  the  prevailing  sorrow 
They  spoke,  or  chanted,  mournfully,  in  Irish  :  but  tn«  sw» 


GOG 


POEMS  OF  WILLIAM  CARLETOX. 


And  oh,  but  the  plumes  of  white  were  fair, 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy  ! 

When  they  fl  utter' d  all  mournful  in  the  air, 
As  rose  the  hymn  of  the  requiem  prayer,1 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

There  is  a  voice  that  but  one  can  hear, 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy ! 
And  it  softly  pours  from  behind  the  bier, 
Its  note  of  death  on  Sir  Turlough's  ear, 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

The  keen  is  loud,  but  that  voice  is  low, 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy  ! 
And  it  eings  its  song  of  sorrow  slow, 
And  names  young  Turlough's  name  with  woe, 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

Now  the  grave  is  closed,  and  the  mass  is  said, 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy  ! 
And  the  bride  she  sleeps  in  her  lonely  bed, 
The  fairest  corpse  among  the  dead,* 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

The  wreaths  of  virgin -white  are  laid, 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy ! 
By  virgin  hands,  o'er  the  spotless  maid  ; 
And  the  flowers  are  strewn,  but  they  soon 
will  fade 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

"  Oh  !  go  not  yet — not  yet  away, 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy ! 
Let  us  feel  that  life  is  near  our  clay," 
The  long-departed  seem  to  say, 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 


•tarce  of  what  they  said  was  as  follows :— '  O,  mavonrneen  1 
you're  lying  low  this  mornin'  of  sorrow  I  lyin<*  low  are  you, 
»nd  does  not  know  who  it  is  (alluding  to  mo)  that  is  etaiidin' 
OTer  yon,  weepin'  for  the  days  you've  spent  together  in  your 
youth  I  It's  yourself,  acushla  agus  asthorf  tnachree,  (the  pule e 
»nd  beloved  of  my  heart,)  that  would  stretch  out  the  right  hand 
warmly  to  welcome  him  to  the  place  of  his  birth,  where  you 
had  both  been  so  often  happy  about  the  green  hills  and  valleys 
with  each  other!'  They  then  passed  on  to  an  enumeration  of  his 
virtues  as  a  father,  a  husband,  sou,  and  brother— specified  his 
worth  as  he  stood  related  to  society  in  general,  and  his  kind- 
ness as  a  neighbor  and  a  friend." 

1  It  ip  usual  in  the  North  of  Ireland  to  celebrate  mass  for 
the  dead  in  some  green  field  between  the  house  in  which  the 
deceased  lived  and  the  graveyard.  For  this  the  shelter  of  a 
rrove  is  usually  selected,  and  the  appearance  of  the  ceremony 
;«  highly  picturesque  and  solemn. 

'  Another  expression  peculiarly  Irish,  "What  a  purty 
corpse !"— "  How  well  she  becomes  death  I"  "  You  wouldn't 
meet  a  pnrtier  corpse  of  a  summer's  day  t"  "She  bean?  the 
change  well  1"  are  all  phrases  quite  common  in  --Ages  of  death 
unong  the  peasantry' 


But  the  tramp   and  the  voices   of  life  are 
gone, 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy 
And  beneath  each  cold  forgotten  stone, 
The  mouldering  dead  sleep  all  alone, 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

But  who  is  he  who  lingereth  yet  ? 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy ! 
The  fresh  green  sod  with  his  tears  is  wet, 
And  his  heart  in  the  bridal  grave  is  set, 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Kille^vy. 

Oh,  who  but  Sir  Turlough,  the  young  and 
brave, 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy ! 
Should  bend  him  o'er  that  bridal  grave, 
And  to  his  death-bound  Eva  rave, 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy  T 

"Weep  not — weep  not,"  said  a  lady  fair, 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy ! 
"  Should  youth  and  valor  thus  despair, 
And  pour  their  vows  to  the  empty  air  ?" 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

There's  charmed  music  upon  her  tongue, 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy  ! 

Such  beauty,  bright,  and  warm,  and  young, 
Was  never  seen  the  maids  among, 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

A  laughing  light,  a  tender  grace, 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy ! 
Sparkled  in  beauty  around  her  face, 
That  grief  from  mortal  heart  might  c'hase, 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

"  The  maid  for  whom  thy  salt  tears  fall, 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy  ! 
Thy  grief  or  love  can  ne'er  recall  ; 
She  rests  beneath  that  grassy  pall, 

By  the  bonuie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

"  My  heart  it  strangely  cleaves  to  thee, 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy ! 
And  now  that  thy  plighted  love  is  free, 
Give  its  unbroken  pledge  to  me, 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy." 


POEMS  OF  WILLIAM  CARLETON. 


GOT 


The  charm  is  strong  upon  'furlough's  eyej 

Killeevy,  O  Killcevy! 
His  faithless  tears  are  already  dry, 
And  his  yielding  heart  has  ceased  to  sigh, 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

14  To  thee,"  the  charm6d  chief  replied, 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy  ! 
"  I  pledge  that  love  o'er  my  buried  bride  ; 
Oh  !  come,  and  in  Turlough's  hall  abide," 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

Again  the  funeral  voice  came  o'er 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy  ! 
The  passing  breeze,  as  it  wail'd  before, 
And  streams  of  mournful  music  bore, 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

"  If  I  to  thy  youthful  heart  am  dear, 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy ! 
One  month  from  hence  thou  wilt  meet  me 

here, 
Where  lay  thy  bridal,  Eva's  bier," 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

He  press'd  her  lips  as  the  words  were  spoken, 

Killoevy,  O  Killeevy  ! 
And    his    banshee's1    wail — now    far    and 

broken — 
Murmur' d  "  Death,"  as  he  gave  the  token, 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killcevy. 

"  Adieu  !  adieu  !"  said  this  lady  bright, 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy  ! 
And  she  slowly  pass'd  like  a  thing  of  light 
Or  a  morning  cloud  from  Sir  Turlough's  sight, 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

Now  Sir  Turlough  has  death  in  every  vein, 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy  ! 
And   there's   fear   and   grief  o'er  his   wide 

domain, 
And  gold  for  those  who  will  calm  his  brain, 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killcevy. 


•  "Woman  of  the  hill."— Treating  of  the  fnperMiiinn*  of 
the  Irish,  Miae  Balfour  cayi>,  "  What  rank  the  banthtt  Imlili-  In 
th«  ccaleof  cpirttnal  Iwiitif*.  it  ii>  not  rnfy  to  determine  ;  l>ui 
her  lavorite  occupation  cecini1  to  be  that  of  font-Hint;  thudciiih 
of  the  different  Itraixhc*  of  the  families  over  which  sin-  \«-<- 
tided,  by  the  most  pluintlvc  trie*.  Every  family  nail  formerly 
'.t«  banshee,  but  the  belief  In  her  existence  1*  now  fan  fading 
uvur.  and  in  a  few  more  yearn  *he  will  only  be  reincniUcrrd 
tn  the  gloried  record*  of  her  marvcllonn  doings  In  day*  lou^ 
ilnce  crone  by." 


"  Come  haste  thee,  leech,  right  swiftly  ride, 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy  ! 
Sir  Turlough   the  brave,  Green  Truagba's 

pride, 
Has   pledged    his   love   to   the   churchyard 

bride," 
By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy 

The  leech  groan'd  loud,  "  Come  tell  me  thit 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy  ! 
By  all  thy  hopes  of  weal  and  bliss, 
Has  Sir  Turlough  given  the  fatal  kiss  ?" 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

"The  banshee's  cry  is  loud  and  long, 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy  ! 
At  eve  she  weeps  her  funeral-song, 
And  it  floats  on  the  twilight  breeze  along," 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

"  Then  the  fatal  kiss  is  given  ; — the  last 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy  ! 
Of  Turlough's  race  and  name  is  past, 
His  doom  is  seal'd,  his  die  is  cast," 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

"  Leech,  say  not  that  thy  skill  is  vain  ; 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy  ! 
Oh,  calm  the  power  of  his  frenzied  brain, 
And  half  his  lands  thou  shalt  retain," 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

The  leech  has  fail'd,  and  the  hoary  priest, 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy! 
With  pious  shrift  his  soul  released, 
And  the  smoke  is  high  of  his  funeral- feast, 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

The  shaixtchies  now  are  assembled  all 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy  ! 

And  the  gongs  of  praise  in  Sir  Turlough's  hall, 
To  the  sorrowing  harp's  dark  music,  fall, 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

And  there  is  trophy,  banner,  and  plume, 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy  I 
And   the  pomp   of  death,  with  its  darkest 

gloom, 
O'ershadows  the  Irish  chieftain's  tomb, 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 


(508 


POEMS  OF  WILLIAM  CARLETON. 


The  month  is  closed,  ami   Green  Truagha's 
pride, 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy  ! 
Is  married  to  death — and,  side  by  side, 
lie  slumbers  now  with  his  churchyard  bride, 

By  the  bonnve  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 


A  SIGH  FOR  KNOCKMANY. 

TAKE,  proud  ambition,  take  thy  fill 

Of  pleasures  won  through  toil  or  crime  ; 
Go,  learning,  climb  thy  rugged  hill, 

And  give  thy  name  to  future  time  • 
Philosophy,  be  keen  to  see 

Whate'er  is  just,  or  false,  or  vain, 
Take  each  thy  meed,  but,  oh  !  give  me 

To  range  my  mountain  glens  again. 

Pure  was  the  breeze  that  fann'd  my  cheek, 
As  o'er  Knockmany's  brow  I  went  • 


When  every  lonely  dell  could  speak 

In  airy  music,  vision  sent : 
False  world,  1  hate  thy  cares  and  thee, 

I  hate  the  treacherous  haunts  of  men  ; 
Give  back  my  early  heart  to  me, 

Give  back  to  me  my  mountain  gler 

How  light  my  youthful  visions  shone, 

When  spann'd  by  fancy's  radiant  form  1 
But  now  her  glittering  bow  is  gone, 

And  leaves  me  but  the  cloud  and  storm. 
With  wasted  form,  and  cheek  all  pale — 

With  heart  long  scarr'd  by  grief  and  pain  , 
Dunroe,  I'll  seek  thy  native  gale, 

I'll  tread  my  mountain  glens  again. 

Thy  brer/e  once  more  may  fan  my  blood, 

Thy  valleys  all  are  lovely  still ; 
And  I  may  stand,  where  oft  I  stood, 

In  lonely  musings  on  thy  hill. 
But  ah!  the  spell  is  gone  ; — no  art, 

In  crowded  town  or  native  plain, 
Can  teach  a  crush'd  and  breaking  heart 

To  pipe  the  song  of  youth  again. 


POEMS  OF   EDWARD   WALSH. 


A   MUNSTER  KEEN. 

ON  Monday  morning,  the  flowers  were  gayly 
springing, 

The  skylark's  hymn  in  middle  air  was  sing- 
ing, 

When,  grief  of  griefs  !  my  wedded  husband 
left  me, 

And  since  that  hour  of  hope  and  health  be- 
reft me. 

Ulla  gulla,  gulla  g'one  !  &C.1 

Above  the  board,  where  thou  art  low  re- 
clining, 

o  * 

Have  parish  priests  and  horsemen  high  been 

dining, 
And  wine  and  usquebaugh,  while  they  were 

able, 
They  quaff'd  with  thee — the  soul  of  all  the 

table. 

Ulla  gulla,  gulla  g'one !  &c. 

Why  didst  thou  die?    Could  wedded  wife 

adore  thee 
With  purer  love  than  that  my  bosom  bore 

thee? 
Thy  children's  cheeks  were  peaches  ripe  and 

mellow, 
And  threads  of  gold,  their  tresses  long  and 

yellow. 

Ulla  gulla,  gulla  g'one !  &c. 

In  vain  for  me  are  pregnant  heifers  lowing ; 
In  vain  for  me  are  yellow  harvests  growing; 


>  The  keener  ilooe  elngfl  the  extpmpor*  iltath-nong;   the 
bnrdfii  of  the  olla^ono,  or  churu*.  i«  taken  up  by  all  the 

>uuii  ••  iirrn'ii t. 


Or  thy  nine  gifts  of  love  in  beauty  bloom- 
ing— 

Tears  blind  my  eyes,  and  grief  my  .heart  • 
consuming ! 

Ulia  gulla,  gulla  g'oue  !  <fcc. 

Pity  her  plaints  whose  wailing  voice  is  bro- 
ken, 

Whose  finger  holds  our  early  wedding  token, 

The  torrents  of  whose  tears   have  drain'd 
their  fountain, 

Whose  piled-up  grief  on  grief  is  past  re- 
counting. 

Ulla  gulla,  gulla  g'one !  &c. 

I  still  might  hope,  did  I  not  thus  behold  thee, 
That  high  Knockferin's  airy  peak  might  hold 

thee, 

Or  Crohan's  fairy  halls,  or  Corrin's  towers, 
Or  Lene's  bright  caves,  or  Cleana's  bowers.1 
Ulla  gulla,  gulla  g'one  !  «fcc. 

But,  O !  my  black  despair,  when  thou  wert 

dying ! 
O'er  thee  no  tear  was  wept,  no  heart  was 

sighing — 
No  breath  of  prayer  did  waft  thy  soul  to 

glory ; 
But  lonely  thou  didst  lie,  all  maim'd  and 


gory 


Ulla  gulla,  gulla  g'one !  &c. 


0 1  may  your  dove-like  soul,  on  whitest 
pinions, 

Pursue  her  upward  flight  to  God's  domin- 
ions, 

1  i'lare*  celebrated  In  fairy  '.opocrapb? 


700 


POEMS   OF   EDWARD   WALSH. 


Where  saints'  and  martyrs'  hands  shall  gifts 

provide  thee — 
And,  O,  my  grief  I    that  I  am   not  beside 

thee ! 

Ulla  gulla,  gulla  g'one  !  &c. 


BATTLE   OF   CREDRAN.     (1257.) 

[A  brilliant  battle  was  fought  by  Geoffrey  O'Donnell,  Lord 
Of  Tirconnell,  against  the  Lord  Justice  of  Ireland,  Maurice 
Fitzgerald,  and  the  English  of  Connaught,  at  Credran  CilK, 
Roseede,  in  the  territory  of  Carburry,  north  of  Sligo,  in  de- 
ftence  of  his  principality.  A  fierce  and  terrible  conflict  took 
place,  in^vhich  bodies  were  hacked,  heroes  disabled,  and  the 
strength  of  both  sides  exhausted.  The  men  of  Tirconnell 
maintained  their  ground,  and  completely  overthrew  the  Eng- 
lish forces  in  the  engagement,  and  defeated  them  with  great 
slaughter ;  but  Geoffrey  himself  was  severely  wounded,  hav- 
ing encountened  in  the  fight  Maurice  Fitzgerald,  in  single 
combat,  in  which  they  mortally  'vounded  each  other. — Annals 
Of  the  Four  Masters.] 

FROM   the   glens  of  his   fathers   O'Donnell 

comes  forth, 
With  all  Cinel-Conall,1   fierce  septs  of  the 

North — 

O'Boyle  and  O'Daly,  O'Dugan,  and  they 
That  own,  by  the  wild  waves,  O'Doherty's 

sway. 

Clan  Connor,  brave  sons  of  the  diadem'd 

Niall, 
Has  pour'd  the  tall  clansmen  from  mountain 

and  vale — 

M'Sweeny's  sharp  axes,  to  battle  oft  bore, 
Flash  bright  in  the  sunlight  by  high  Duna- 

more. 

Through    Inis-Mac-Durin,'  through  Derry's 

dark  brakes, 
Glen  tocher  of  tempests,  Slieve-snacht  of  the 

lakes, 
Bundoran  of  dark  spells,  Loch-Swilly's  rich 

glen, 
The  red  deer  rush  wild  at  the  war-shout  of 

men  ! 


1  Clnel-Ctmall.—The  descendant?  of  Conall-Gnlban,  the  con 
of  Niall  of  tin-  Nine  Hostages,  Monarch  of  Ireland  in  the  fourth 
century.  The  principality  was  named  Tir  Chonalle,  or  Tyr- 
connell.  which  included  the  county  Donegal,  and  ite  chiefs 
were  the  O'D»nnell». 

'  Districts  in  Donegal. 


0 1    why   through    Tir-Conall,   from    Cuil- 

dubh's  dark  steep, 
To  SamerV  green  border  the  tierce  masses 

sweep, 
Living  torrents  o'er-leaping  their  own  river 

shore, 
In   the   red   sea  of  battle  to   mingle  their 

roar? 

Stretch  thy  vision  far  southward,  and  *eok 

for  reply 
Where  blaze  of  the  hamlets  glares  red  on 

the  sky — 
Where  the  shrieks  of  the  hopeless  rise  high 

to  their  God — 
Where  the  foot  of  the  Sassenach  spoiler  has 

trod  ! 

Sweeping  on  like  a  tempest,  the  Gall-Oglach* 

stern 
Contends  for  the  van  with  the  swift-footed 

kern — 
There's  blood  for  that  burning,  and  joy  for 

that  wail — 
The    avenger   is   hot  on   the    spoiler's   red 

trail ! 

The  Saxon  hath  gathered  on  Credran's  far 

heights, 
His  groves  of  long  lances,  the  flower  of  his 

knights — 
His  awful   cross-bowmen,  whose   long   iron 

hail 
Finds  through   Cota*   and  Sciath,  the  bare 

heart  of  the  Gael  I 

The  long  lance  is  brittle — the  mai!6d  ranks 
reel 

Where  the  Gall-Oglach's  axe  hews  the  har- 
ness of  steel ; 

And  truer  to  its  aim  in  the  breast  of  a  foe- 
man, 

Is  the  pike  of  a  Kern  than  the  shaft  of  a 
bowman. 


3  ftmnfr.—Thv  illicit-lit  name  of  Loch  Earne. 

4  Gall-Off/ach  or  G<tl/o/vgla*x.—'r\\e   heavy-armed  foot  »oi 
'ier.    Kern  or  Ceithernach. — The  light-armed  soldier. 

6   Cota.—  The  saffron-dyed  shirt  of  the  kern,  consisting  of 
many  yards  of  yellow  linen   tfirkly   plai'ed.     S^iai*..— TT»« 
I   wicker  shield,  an  its  name  imports. 


POEMS   OF  EDWARD   WALSH. 


701 


One  prayer  to  St.  Columb1 — the  battle-steel 

clashes — 
The    tide   of   fierce    conflict    tumultuously 

dashes ; 
Surging  on  ward,  high -heaving  its  billow  of 

blood, 
While  war-shout  and  death-groan  swell  high 

o'er  the  flood ! 

As  meets  the  wild  billows  the  deep-centred 

rock, 
Met  glorious  Clan-Conall  the  fierce  Saxon's, 

shock ; 
As  the  wrath  of  the  clouds  flash'd  the  axe 

of  Clan-Conell, 
Till  the  Saxon  lay  strewn  'neath  the  might 

of  O'Donneil ! 

One  warrior  alone  holds  the  wide  bloody 
field, 

With  barbed  black  charger  and  long  lance 
and  shield — 

Grim,  savage,  and  gory  he  meets  their  ad- 
vance, 

His  broad  shield  uplifting,  and  couching  his 
lance. 

Then  forth  to  the  van  of  that  fierce  rushing 

throng 
Rode  a  chieftain  of  tall  spear  and  battle-axe 

strong ; 
His  Jlracca,*  and  yeochal,  and  cochaFs  red 

fold, 
And  war-horse's  housings,  were  radiant  in 

gold! 

Say  who  in  this  chief  spurring  forth  to  the 

fray, 
The  wave  of  whose  spear  holds  yon  arm6d 

array  ? 


»  St.  Oolum,  or  Ctilwu-CUle,  t/u  dove  of  the  Church.—  The 
patron  saint  of  Tyrconnell,  descended  from  Cunall  Qulban. 

1  llraccu. — So  called,  from  being  striped  with  various  colors, 
was  the  tight-fitting  Truis.  It  covered  the  ankles,  legs,  and 
tnlghs,  rlciug  as  high  as  the  loins,  and  fitted  so  close  to  the 
limbs  as  to  discover  every  mnscle  and  motion  of  the  part* 
which  It  covered.  Gtochal.— The  jacket  made  of  gilded 
leather,  and  which  was  sometimes  embroidered  with  silk. 
t'ocfial.—A  son  of  cloak  with  a  large  bunging  collar  of  differ- 
ent colors  This  garment  reached  to  the  middle  of  the  thigh, 
and  was  fringed  with  a  border  like  shagged  hair,  and  bring 
brought  over  the  shoulders,  was  fastened  on  the  breast  by  a 
clasp,  bnckle,  or  brooch  of  silver  or  gold.  In  battle,  they 
wrapi>ed  the  Cochal  several  time*  round  the  left  arm  a*  a 
ihleld.--Ho/Jxr'«  Drus  and  Armor  of  thr  /H*Ji. 


And  he  who  stands  scorning  the   ihousandr 

that  sweep, 
An  army  of  wolves  over  shepherdless  sheep  ? 

The  shield  of  his  nation,  brave  Geoffrey 
O'Donneil 

(Clar-Fodhla's  firm  prop  is  the  proud  race 
ofConall)' 

And  Maurice  Fitzgerald,  the  scorner  of  dan- 
ger, 

The  scourge  of  the  Gael,  and  the  strength 
of  the  stranger. 

The  launch'd  epear  hath  torn  through  target 

and  mail  — 
The  couch'd  lance  hath  borne  to  his  cropper 

the  Gael — 
The  steeds  driven  backward   all   helplessly 

reel; 
But  the  lance  that  lies  broken  hath  blood  on 

its  steel ! 

And  now,  fierce  O'Donneil,  thy   battle-axe 

wield — 
The  broadsword  is  shiver'd,  and  cloven  the 

shield, 
The  keen  steel  sweeps  griding  through  proud 

crest  and  crown — 
Clar-Fodhla  hath  triumph'd — the  Saxon  is 

down  ! 


MARGREAD   NI   CIIEALLEADH. 

[This  ballad  is  founded  on  the  story  of  Daniel  O'Kecffe,  an 
outlaw,  famous  in  the  traditions  of  the  County  of  Cork,  where 
his  name  Is  still  associated  with  scvenil  localities.  It  is  re- 
lated tnatO'KccnVs  beautiful  raistresK,  Margaret  Kelly  (Mair- 
gread  nl  ChenlUadh),  tempted  by  a  laruc  reward,  undertook 
to  deliver  him  into  the  hands  of  the  Knglisb  soldiers;  hut 
O'Keefle  having  discovered  In  her  possession  a  document  re- 
vealing her  perfidy.  In  a  frenzy  of  indignation  stabbed  her  to 
the  heart  with  his  sklan.  lie  lived  in  the  time  of  William  III., 
%nd  is  represented  to  have  been  a  gentleman  and  a  poet.] 

AT  the  dance  in  the  village 
Thy  white  foot  was  fleetest;' 
Thy  voice  'mid  the  concert 
Of  maidens  was  sweetest ; 

1  This  is  the  translation  of  the  first  Hue  cf  a  poem  of  two 
hundred  and  forty-eight  verses,  written  by  Ftrgal  oj;  Mar  mo 
Obaird  oo  Domlnick  O'Donneil,  In  the  year  1005.  The  orttf 

nal  lino  (ft— 

"Ualbhta  K.Kjhln  full  riiuimlU. "-(>•«>«(«••  /Haft 


702 


POEMS  OF  EDWARD   WALSH. 


The  swell  of  thy  white  breast 
Made  rich  lovers  follow ; 
And  thy  raven  hair  bound  them, 
Young  Mairgread  ni  Chealleadh, 

Thy  neck  was,  lost  maid ! 
Than  the  ceanaban1  whiter ; 
And  the  glow  of  thy  cheek 
Than  the  monadan*  brighter; 
But  Death's  chain  hath  bound  thee, 
Thine  eye's  glazed  and  hollow 
That  shone  like  a  Sun-burst, 
Young  Mairgread  ni  Chealleadh, 

No  more  shall  mine  ear  drink 

Thy  melody  swelling ; 

Nor  thy  beamy  eye  brighten 

The  outlaw's  dark  dwelling; 

Or  thy  soft  heaving  bosom 

My  destiny  hallow, 

When  thine  arms  twine  around  me, 

Young  Mairgread  ni  Chealleadh. 

O  O 

The  moss  couch  I  brought  thee 
To-day  from  the  mountain, 
Has  drank  the  last  drop 
Of  thy  young  heart's  red  fountain  ; 
For  this  good  skian  beside  me 
Struck  deep  and  rung  hollow 
In  thy  bosom  of  treason, 
Young  Mairgread  ni  Chealleadh. 

With  strings  of  rich  pearls 
Thy  white  neck  was  laden, 
And  thy  fingers  with  spoils 
Of  the  Sassenach  maiden : 
Such  rich  silks  enrobed  not 
The  proud  dames  of  Mallow — 
Such  pure  gold  they  wore  not 
As  Mairgread  ni  Chealleadh. 

Alas !  that  my  loved  one 
Her  outlaw  would  injure — 
Alas !  that  he  e'er  proved 
Her  treason's  avenger ! 


1  A  plant  found  in  bogs,  the  top  of  which  bears  a  substance 
resembling  cotton,  and  as  white  as  snow.  Pronounced  Cfln- 
tvftn. 

'  The  monadan  is  a  red  berry  that  is  found  on  wild  marsh* 
mountains.  It  grows  on  an  humble  creeping  plant. 


That  this  right  hand  should  make  thee 
A  bed  cold  and  hollow, 
When  in  Death's  sleep  it  laid  thee, 
Young  Mairgread  ni  Chealleadh  I 

Arid  while  to  this  lone  cave 
My  deep  grief  I'm  venting, 
The  Saxon's  keen  bandog 
My  footsteps  is  scenting  : 
But  true  men  await  me 
Afar  in  Duh  allow. 
Farewell,  cave  of  slaughter, 
And  Mairgread  ni  Chealleadh. 


O'DONOVAN'S  DAUGHTER. 

ONE  midsummer's  eve,  when  the  Bel-nies 

were  lighted, 
And  the  bag-piper's  tone  call'd  the  maidens 

delighted, 

I  join'd  a  gay  group  by  the  Araglin's  water, 
And  danced  till  the  dawn  with  O'Donovan's 

Daughter. 

Have  you  seen  the  ripe  monadan  glisten  in 
Kerry  ? 

Have  you  mark'd  on  the  Galteys  the  black 
whortle-berry, 

Or  ceanaban  wave  by  the  wells  of  Black- 
water  ? — 

They're  the  cheek,  eye,  and  neck  of  O'Dono- 
van's Daughter ! 

Have  you  seen  a  gay  kidling  on  Claragh's 
round  mountain  ? 

The  swan's  arching  glory  on  Sheeling's  blue 
fountain  ? 

Heard  a  weird  woman  chant  what  the  fairy 
choir  taught  her  ? 

They've  the  step,  grace,  and  tone  of  O'Dono- 
van's Daughter! 

Have  you  mark'd  in  its  flight  the  black  wing 

of  the  raven  ? 
The  rose-buds  that  breathe  in  the  summer 

breeze  waven  ? 


POEMS  OF  EDWARD  WALSH. 


703 


The  pearls  that  lie  hid  under  Lene's  magic 

water  ? 
They're  the  teeth,  lip,  and  hair  of  O'Dono- 

van's  Daughter ! 

Ere  the  Bel-fire  was  dimm'd,  or  the  dancers 
departed, 

I  taught  her  a  song  of  some  maid  broken- 
hearted : 

And  that  group,  and  that  dance,  and  that 
love-song  I  taught  her 

Haunt  my  slumbers  at  night  with  O'Dono- 
van's  Daughter. 

God  grant  'tis  no  fay  from  Cnoc-Firinn  that 

wooes  me, 
God  grant  'tis  not  Cliodhna  the  queen  that 

pursues  me, 
That  ray  soul  lost  and  lone  has  no  witchery 

wrought  her, 
While  I  dream  of  dark  groves  and  O'Dono- 

van's  Daughter ! 

If,  spell-bound,  I  pine  with  an  airy  disorder, 
Saint  Gobnate  has  sway  over  Musgry's  wide 

border ; 
She'll  scare  from  my  couch,  when  with  prayer 

I've  besought  her, 
That   bright   airy  sprite  like   O'Donovan's 

Daughter. 


BR1GIIIDIN   BAN   MO  STORE. 

[Brighldln  ban  mo  star  Is  In  English  fair  young  bride,  or 
Bridget  my  treasure..  The  proper  sound  of  this  phrase  IB  not 
easily  found  by  the  mere  English-speaking  Irish.  It  IB  aB  If 
written,  " ftree.-dtieen-baion'mu-ftfiore."  The  proper  name 
Brighit,  or  Bride,  signifies  a  fiery  dart,  and  was  the  name  of 
be  goddess  of  poetry  In  the  Pagan  days  of  Ireland.] 

I  AM  a  wand'ring  minstrel  man, 

And  Love  my  only  theme, 
I've  stray'd  beside  the  pleasant  Bann, 

And  eke  the  Shannon's  stream ; 
I've  piped  and  play'd  to  wife  and  maid 

By  Harrow,  Suir,  and  Nore, 
But  never  met  a  maiden  yet 

Like  Brighidin  Ban  Mo  Store. 


My  girl  hath  ringlets  rich  and  rare, 

By  Nature's  lingers  wove — 
Loch-Carra's  s\v;in  is  not  so  fair 

As  is  her  breast  of  Love ; 
And  when  she  moves,  in  Sunday  sheen, 

Beyond  our  cottage  door, 
I'd  scorn  the  high-born  Saxon  queen 

For  Brighidin  Ban  Mo  Store. 

It  is  not  that  thy  smile  is  sweet, 

And  soft  thy  voice  of  song — 
It  is  not  that  thou  fleest  to  meet 

My  comings  lone  and  long ; 
But  that  doth  rest  beneath  thy  breast 

A  heart  of  purest  core, 
Whose  pulse  is  known  to  me  alone, 

My  Brighidin  Ban  Mo  Store. 


MO  CRAOIBHIN   CNO.1 

MY  heart  is  far  from  Liffey's  tide 

And  Dublin  town ; 
It  strays  beyond  the  Southern  side 

Of  Cnoc-Maol-Donn,1 
Where  Cappoquin*  hath  woodlands  green, 

Where  Amhan-MhorV  waters  flow, 
Where  dwells  unsung,  unsought,  unseen, 

Mo  craoibhin  cno  ! 
Low  clustering  in  her  leafy  screen, 

Mo  craoibhin  cno  I 

The  high-bred  dames  of  Dublin  town 

Are  rich  and  fair, 
With  wavy  plume,  and  silken  gown, 

And  stately  air; 

Can  plumes  compare  thy  dark  brown  hair? 
Can  silks  thv  neck  of  snow? 


1  Mo  craoiti'iin  cno  literally  mean*  my  dufttr  qf  nttU ;  but  It 
figuratively  signifies  my  nut-i/ron-n  maid.  It  is  pronounced 
J/o  Crttvin  Kno. 

1  ftioc  moot  Donn—Tht  Brmon  bare  hiU.  A  lofty  mountain 
between  the  county  of  Tlpperary  and  that  of  Waterford,  com- 
manding a  glorious  prospect  of  unrivalled  scenery. 

•  Cappoquin.  A  romantically  situated  town  on  the  H)«rk- 
watcr,  in  the  county  of  Waterford.  The  Inch  name  denote* 
the  htad  of  th«  tribe  <tf  Conn. 

4  AmJian-mAor—  Tht  Great  River.  The  Blark water,  which 
flows  Into  the  sea  at  Youghal.  The  Irish  uame  li  uU«r*d  \t 
two  coancln  Oan-  For*. 


TUi 


POEMS   OF  EDWARD    WALSH. 


Or  measured  pace,  mine  artless  grace, 

Mo  craoibhin  cno  I 
When  harebells  scarcely  show  thy  trace, 

Mo  craoibhin  cno  ! 


I've  heard  the  songs  by  Lif  ^-y's  wave 

That  maidens  sung — 
They  sung  their  land  the  Saxon's  slave, 

In  Saxon  tongue — 
Oh  !  bring  me  here  that  Gaelic  dear 

Which  cursed  the  Saxon  foe, 
When  thou  didst  charm  my  raptured  ear, 

Mo  craoibhin  cno  ! 
And  none  but  God's  good  angels  near, 

Mo  craoibhin  cno  ! 


I've  wander'd  by  the  rolling  Lee  ! 

And  Lene's  green  bowers — 
I've  seen  the  Shannon's  wide-spread  sea, 

And  Limerick's  towers — 
And  Liffey's  tide,  where  halls  of  pride 

Frown  o'er  the  flood  below ; 
My  wild  heart  strays  to  Amhan-mhor's  side, 

Mo  craoibhin  cno  ! 
With  love  and  thee  for  aye  to  hide, 

Mo  craoibhin  cno  ! 


AILEEN  THE   HUNTRESS. 


[The  incident  related  in  the  following  ballad  happened 
about  the  year  1731.  Aileen,  or  Ellen,  was  daughter  of  M'Car- 
de  of  Clidane,  an  estate  originally  bestowed  upon  this  respect- 
able branch  of  the  family  of  M'Cartie  More,  by  James  the 
seventh  Earl  of  Desmond,  and  which,  passing  t>afu  through 
the  confiscations  of  Elizabeth,  Cromwell,  and  William,  re- 
mained in  their  possession  until  the  beginning  of  the  present 
century.  Aileen,  who  is  celebrated  in  the  traditions  of  the 
people  for  her  love  of  hunting,  was  the  wife  of  James  O'Con- 
nor, of  Cluaki-Tairbh,  grandson  of  David,  the  founder  of  the 
Siol-t  Da,  a  well-known  sept  at  this  day  in  Kerry.  This  David 
•was  grandson  to  Thomas  MacTeige  O'Connor,  of  Ahalahanna, 
head  of  the  second  house  of  O'Connor  Kerry,  who,  forfeiting 
ai  1666,  escaped  destruction  by  taking  shelter  among  his  rela- 
tions, the  Nagles  of  Mouanimy.] 


FAIR  Aileen   M'Cartie,   O'Connor's   young 

bride, 
Forsakes  her  chaste  pillow  with  matronly 

pride, 


And  calls  forth  her  maidens  (their  number 

was  nine) 
To  the  bawn  of  her  mansion,  a-milking  the 

kine. 
They  came  at   her   bidding,  in   kirtle  and 

gown, 
And   braided   hair,  jetty,  and   golden,  and 

brown, 
And  form  like  the  palm-tree,  and  step  like 

the  fawn, 
And  bloom  like  the  wild  rose  that  circled 

the  bawn. 


As  the  Guebre's  round  tower  o'er  the  fane 

of  Ardfert — 
As  the  white  hin'i  of  Brandon  by  young  roes 

begirt — 
As  the  moon  in  her  glory  'mid  bright  stars 

outhung — 

Stood  Aileen  M'Cartie  her  maidens  among. 
Beneath   the  rich   kerchief,  which   matrons 

may  wear, 

Stray'd  ringleted  tresses  of  beautiful  hair ; 
They  waved  on  her  fair  neck,  as  darkly  as 

though 
'Twere  the  raven's  wing  shining  o'er  Man- 

gerton's  snow  ! 


A  circlet  of  pearls  o'er  her  white   bosom 

!ay, 

Erst  worn  by  thy  proud  Queen,  O'Connor 
the  gay,1 

And  now  to  the  beautiful  Aileen  come 
down, 

The  rarest  that  ever  shed  light  in  the 
Laune.1 

The  many-fringed  falluinn*  that  floated  be- 
hind, 

Gave  its  hues  to  the  sun-light,  its  folds  to 
the  wind — 

The  brooch  that  refrain'd  it,  some  forefather 
bold 

Had  torn  from  a  sea-kino-  in  battle-field  old  ' 


1  O'Connor,  em-named  "  Sugach"  or  the  Gay,  was  a  cele- 
brated chief  of  this  race,  who  flourished  in  the  fifteenth  cen- 
tury. 

8  The  river  Laune  flows  from  the  Lakes  of  Killarney.  u»-i 
the  celebrated  Kerry  Pearls  are  found  in  its  wat«>r* 

»  FaUuinn.— The  Irish  mantle. 


POEMS   OF    EDWARD    WALSH. 


705 


Around  her  went  bounding  two  wolf-dogs 

of  speed, 
So  tall   in   their  stature,  so   pure   in   their 

breed  ; 
While  the  maidens  awake  to  the  new-milk's 

soft  fall, 
A   song   of  O'Connor  in    Carraig's    proud 

hall. 
As  the  milk  came  outpouring,  and  the  song 

came  outsung, 
O'er  the  wall  'mid  the  maidens  a  red  deer 

outsprung — 
Then  cheer'd  the  fair  lady — then  rush'd  the 

mad  hound — 
And  away  with  the  wild  stag  in  air-lifted 

bound ! 


The  gem-fasten'd  fattuinn  is  dash'd  on  the 

ba-vn — 
One  spring  o'er  the  tall  fence — and  Aileen 

is  gone ! 
But  morning's   roused  echoes   to  the  deep 

dells  proclaim 
The  course  of  that  wild  stag,  the  dogs,  and 

the  dame ! 

By  Cluain  Tairbh's  green  border,  o'er  moor- 
land and  height, 
The  red  deer  shapes  downward  the  rush  of 

his  flight — 

In  sun-light  his  antlers  ail-gloriously  flash, 
And  onward  the  wolf-dogs  and  fair  huntress 

dash! 


By  Sliabh-Mis  now  winding  (rare  hunting  I 

ween !) 
He    gains    the    dark    valley    of  Scota    the 

queen1 
Who    found    in    ite    bosom    a    cairn-lifted 

grave, 
When  Sliabh-Mis  first  flow'd  with  the  blood 

of  the  brave ! 


1  The  first  battle  fought  between  the  M  Montana  and  the 
Tuathu  de  Danans  for  the  empire  of  Ireland  was  at  Sliabh-Mis, 
in  Kerry.  In  which  Scota,  an  Egyptian  princess,  and  the  relict 
of  Melefius,  was  plain.  A  valley  on  the  north  side  of  Sliabh- 
Mir,  called  Glean  Scolthln,  or  the  vale  of  Scota,  in  said  to 
be  the  place  of  her  interment.  The  ancient  chronicles  as- 
eert  that  this  battle  was  fought  1200  yean  before  the  Chris- 
tian era. 


By  Coill-CuaighV  green  shelter,  the  hollow 
rocks  ring — 

Coill-Cuaigh,  of  the  cuckoo's  first  song  in  the 
spring, 

Coill-Cuaigh  of  the  tall  oak  and  gale-scent- 
ing spray — 

GOD'S  curse  on  the  tyrants  that  wrought  thy 
decay ! 


Now   Maing's   lovely  border   is   gloriously 

won, 
Now  the  towers  of  tne  island"  gleam  bright 

in  the  sun, 
And  now  Ceall-an  AmanachV  portals  are 

pass'd, 
Where  headless  the  Desmond  found  refuge 

at  last ! 
By   Ard-na   greach*   mountain,  and   Avon 

more's  :  ead, 
To  the  Earl's  proud   pavilion  the  j^antinj^ 

deer  fled — 

Where  Desmond's  tall  clansmen  spread  ban- 
ners of  pride, 
And  rush'd  to  the  battle,  and  gloriousl  y  died ! 


The   huntress   is   coming,  slow,  breathless, 

and  pale, 
Her  raven  locks  streaming  all  wild  in  the 

gale; 
She  stops — and  the  breezes  bring  iolm  to 

her  brow — 
But  wolf-dog  and  wild  deer,  oh  !  \*here  are 

they  now? 
On  R&idhlan-Tigh-an-Earla,  by  Avonmore*s 

well, 
His  bounding  heart  broken,  the  hunted  deer 

fell, 


»  OoUl-Cvalgh— the  Wood  of  the  Cuckoo,— *o  called  fron 
being  the  favorite  haunt  of  the  bird  of  summer,  is  now  a  bleak 
desolate  moor.  The  axe  of  the  stranger  laid  Its  honors  low. 

•  "  Castle  Island"  or  the  "  Island  of  Kerry,"— the  stronghold 
of  the  Fitzgeralds. 

4  It  was  in  this  churchyard  that  the  headless  rcma.us  of  the 
unfortunate  Gerald,  the  16th  Earl  of  Desmond,  were  privately 
interred.  The  head  was  can-fully  pickled,  and  sent  over  to 
the  English  queen,  who  bad  it  fixed  on  London  bridge.  This 
mighty  chieftain  possessed  more  than  570,000  acres  of  land, 
and  had  a  train  of  5(10  gentlemen  of  his  own  name  and  race. 
At  the  source  of  the  Blackwater,  where  he  sought  ref .ice  from 
his  Inexorable  foet>.  Is  a  mountain  called  "  Reidhlkii-Tigh-un- 
Earla,"  or  "The  Plain  ot  the  Earl's  House."  lie  w&c  slain 
near  Castle  Island  on  llth  November,  1383. 

•  Ard  na  grvaeh,— the  height  of  the  spoils  or  armies. 


706 


POEMS   OF   EDWARD   WALSH. 


And  o'er  him  the  brave  hounds  all  gallantly 

died, 
In  death  still  victorious — their  fangs  in  his 

side. 

'Tis  evening — the  breezes  beat  cold  on  her 
breast, 

And  Aileen  must  seek  her  far  home  in  the 
west : 

Yet  weeping,  she  lingers  where  the  mist- 
wreaths  are  chill, 


O'er  the  red  deer  and  tall  dogs  that  lie  on 

the  hill! 
Whose  harp  at  the  banquet  told  distant  and 

wide, 
This  feat  of  fair  Aileen,  O'Connor's  young 

bride? 
O'Daly's — whose  guerdon    tradition    hath 

told, 
Was  a  purple-crown'd  wine-cup  of  beautiful 

gold! 


POEMS  OF  ROBERT  DWYER  JOYCE, 


FORGET  ME  NOT. 
(FROM  "BLANID.") 

"  THE  East  Wind  sprang  into  a  lovely  place, 
And  cried,  '  I'll  slay  the  flowers  and  leave 

no  trace 

Of  all  their  blooming  in  this  happy  spot! ' 
And,  as  before  his  breath  the  sweet  flowers 

died, 
One  little  bright-eyed  blossom  moaned  and 

cried, 
'  0  woods!  forget  me  not!   forget  me  not! 

"  *  0  woods  of  waving  trees!  0  living  streams! 
In  all  your  noontide  joys  and  starry  dreams, 

Let  me,  for  love,  let  me  be  unforgot! 
0  birds  that  sing  your  carols  while  I  die, 
0  list  to  me!  0  hear  my  piteous  cry! 

Forget  me  not!  alas!  forget  me  not!' 

"And  the  Gods  heard  her  plaint  and  swept 

away 
The  bitter-fanged,  strong  East  Wind  from 

his  prey, 
And  smiled  upon  the  flower  and  changed 

her  lot, 

So  now  that,  as  we  mark  her  azure  leaf, 
We  think  of  life  and  love  and  parting  grief, 
And  sigh,   '  Forget  me   not!    forget  me 

not!'" 


THE  DOVES. 

(FROM   "BLAMD.") 

"  MY  little  blue  doves  were  born, 
Were  born  in  the  windy  March, 
Up  in  the  tapering  larch 

That  laughs  in  the  light  of  morn: 

O,  so  high  o'er  the  nie;ulmv! 
0,  so  high  o'er  the  glen ! 

And  they  sit  in  the  leafy  shadow, 
The  joy  and  delight  of  men, 


Cooing,  with  voices  flowing 

In  melody  soft  and  sweet, 
Their  necks  with  the  rainbow  glowing, 

And  the  pink  on  their  silver  feet. 

"  My  little  doves  lived  together, 

Unweeting  of  woe  and  pain, 

Through  the  days  of  the  winds  and  rain 
And  the  sunny  and  fragrant  weather; 
And  the  lark  sang  o'er  them  in  heaven, 

And  the  linnet  from  banks  of  flowers, 
And  the  robin  chanted  at  even, 

And  the  thrush  in  the  morning  hours 
Carolled  to  cheer  their  wooing, 

And  the  blackbird  merry  and  bold 
Answered  their  cooing,  cooing 

Out  from  the  windy  wold. 

"  When  the  daisy  its  eye  uncloses, 
And  the  cowslip  glistens  with  dew, 
And  the  hyacinth  pure  and  blue 

And  the  lilies  and  pearl -bright  roses 

Prink  themselves  in  the  splendor 
Of  the  delicate  white-foot  Dawn, 

'  Mid  the  flowers  and  the  fragrance  tender 
My  little  dove's  heart  was  thawn 

With  love  by  the  cooing,  cooing 
Of  the  gentle  mate  at  her  side, 

And  they  married  in  midst  of  their  wooing, 
My  bridegroom  and  woodland  bride!" 


WHAT  IS  THIS  LOVE? 

(FROM  "BLAXID.") 

WHAT  is  this  love, — this  love  that  makes 

My  heart's  warm  pulses  quiver? 
They  say  it  is  the  power  that  wakes 
The  hyacinth  'mid  hazel  brakes, 
The  lilies  by  the  river, 


708 


POEMS   OF   ROBERT   DWYER  JOYCE. 


And  that  same  tiling  that  bids  the  dove 
Sit  in  the  pine-tree  high  above, 

Its  sweetheart  wooing; 
But  oh!  alas!  whate'er  it  be, 
And  howsoe'er  it  comes  to  me, 

It  comes  for  my  undoing! 

The  lily  of  the  river  side 

By  its  sweet  mate  reposes 
Through  autumn  moons  and  winter-tide, 
To  wake  in  love  and  beauty's  pride 

When  comes  the  time  of  roses; 
And  in  the  springing  of  the  year 
The  doves'  sweet  voices  you  will  hear 

Their  vows  renewing; 
But  oh!  alas!  whate'er  love  be, 
And  howsoe'er  it  comes  to  me, 

It  comes  for  my  undoing! 


THE  BLACKSMITH  OF  LIMERICK, 
i. 

HE  grasped  his  ponderous  hammer,  he  could 
not  stand  it  more, 

To  hear  the  bombshells  bursting,  and  thun- 
dering battle's  roar; 

He  said,  "  The  breach  they're  mounting,  the 
Dutchman's  murdering  crew — 

I'll  try  my  hammer  on  their  heads,  and  see 
what  that  can  do! 

u. 

*'  Now,  swarthy  Ned  and  Moran,  make  up 

that  iron  well, 
'Tis  Sarsfield's  horse  that  wants  the  shoes, 

so  mind  not  shot  or  shell." 
"Ah,  sure,"  cried  both,  "  the  horse  can  wait 

—for  Sarsfield's  on  the  wall, 
And  where  you  go,  we'll  follow,  with  you  to 

stand  or  fall!" 

in. 

The   blacksmith   raised   his  hammer,   and 

rushed  into  the  street, 
His  'prentice  boys  behind  him,  the  ruthless 

foe  to  meet — 


High  on  the  breach  of  Limerick,  with  daunt- 
less hearts  they  stood, 

Where  bombshells  burst,  and  shot  fell  thick, 
and  redly  ran  the  blood. 

IV. 

"  Now  look  you,  brown-haired  Moran,  and 

mark  you,  swarthy  Ned, 
This  day  we'll  prove  the  thickness  of  many 

a  Dutchman's  head! 
Hurrah!    upon   their   bloody  path   they're 

mounting  gallantly; 
And  now  the  first  that  tops  the  breach,  leave 

him  to  this  and  me ! " 

v. 

The  first  that  gained  the  rampart,  he  was  a 
captain  brave, — 

A  captain  of  the  grenadiers,  with  blood- 
stained dirk  and  glaive; 

He  pointed,  and  he  parried,  but  it  was  all  in 
vain, 

For  fast  through  skull  and  helmet  the  ham- 
mer found  his  brain! 

VI. 

The  next  that  topped  the  rampart,  he  was  a 
colonel  bold, 

Bright,  through  the  dust  of  battle,  his  hel- 
met flashed  with  gold. 

"  Gold  is  no  match  for  iron,"  the  doughty 
blacksmith  said, 

As  with  that  ponderous  hammer  he  cracked 
his  foeman's  head. 

VII. 

"  Hurrah  for  gallant  Limerick! "  black  Ned 

and  Moran  cried, 
As  on  the  Dutchmen's  leaden  heads  their 

hammers  well  they  plied. 
A  bombshell  burst  between  them — one  fell 

without  a  groan, 
One  leaped  into  the  lurid  air,  and  down  the 

breach  was  thrown. 

VIII. 

"  Brave  smith!  brave  smith ! " cried  Sarsfield, 
"beware  the  treacherous  mine! 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS   DWYER  JOYCE. 


709 


Brave  smith!  brave  smith!  fall  backward,  or 
surely  death  is  thine!" 

The  smith  sprang  up  the  nun  part,  and  leaped 
the  blood-stained  wall, 

As  high  into  the  shuddering  air  went  foe- 
men,  breach,  and  all! 

IX. 

Up,  like  a  red  volcano,  they  thundered  wild 
and  high, — 

Spear,  gun,  and  shattered  standard,  and  foe- 
men  through  the  sky; 

And  dark  and  bloody  was  the  shower  that 
round  the  blacksmith  fell; — 

He  thought  upon  his  'prentice  boys — they 
were  avenged  well. 


On  foemen  and  defenders  a  silence  gathered 

down; 
'Twas  broken  by  a  triumph-shout  that  shook 

the  ancient  town, 
As  out  its  heroes  sallied,  and  bravely  charged 

and  slew, 
And  taught  King  William  and  his  men  what 

Irish  hearts  could  do! 


Down  rushed  the  swarthy  blacksmith  unto 

the  river  side; 
He  hammered  on  the  foe's  pontoon  to  sink 

it  in  the  tide; 
The  timber  it  was  tough  and  strong,  it  took 

no  crack  or  strain; 
"  Mavrone!    'twon't  break,"  the  blacksmith 

roared;  "  I'll  try  their  heads  again! " 

XII. 

Hi-  rushed  upon  the  flying  ranks — his  ham- 
mer ne'er  was  slack, 

For  in  through  blood  and  bone  it  crashed, 
through  helmet  and  through  jack; — 

He's  ta'en  a  Holland  captain,  beside  the  red 
pontoon, 

And  "  Wait  you  here,"  he  boldly  cries;  "  I'll 
send  you  back  full  soon! 

XIII. 

"Dost  see  this  gory  hammer?  It  cracked 
some  skulls  to-day, 


And  yours  'twill  crack  if  you  don't  stand 

and  list  to  what  I  say: — 
Here!   take  it  to  your  cursed  king,  and  tell 

him  softly  too, 
'Twould  be  acquainted  with  his  skull,  if  he 

were  here,  not  you !  " 

XIV. 

The  blacksmith  sought  his  smithy,  and  blew 

his  bellows  strong; 
He  shod  the  steed  of  Sarsfield,  but  o'er  it 

sang  no  song. 
"Ochone!    my  boys  are  dead,"   he  cried; 

"  their  loss  I'll  long  deplore, 
But  comfort's  in  my  heart — their  graves  are 

red  with  foreign  gore! " 


IN  LIFE'S  YOUNG  MORNING. 

TO    MY    WIFE. 

AIR— "TAe    Woods  in  Bloom." 

I. 

IN  life's  young  morning  I  quaffed  the  wine 

From  Love's  bright  bowl  as  it  sparkling 

came, 
And  it  warms  me  ever,  that  draught  divine. 

When  I  think  of  thee,  dearest,  or  name 

thy  name. 
The  night  may  fall,  and  the  winds  may  blow 

From  palace  gardens  or  place  of  tombs, 
Yet  I  dream  of  our  Love-time  long  ago 

Beneath  the  yellow  laburnum  blooms. 

ii. 

Gay  was  the  garden,  bright  shone  the  bower. 
Like  a  golden  tent  'neath  the   summer 

skies, 

The  sunbeams  glittered  on  leaf  and  flower. 
And  the  light  of  heaven  seemed  in  yonr 

eyes; 
The  night  may  fall,  and  the  winds  may  blow, 

But  a  gladness  ever  my  heart  assumes 

From  that  wine  of  love  quailed  long  ago 

Beneath  the  yellow  laburnum  blooms. 


710 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  DWYER  JOYCE. 


in. 

O'er  vale  and  forest  dark  falls  the  night, 
Yet  my  heart  goes  back  to  the  sun  and 

shine 
When  you  stood  in  the  glory  of  girlhood 

bright 
Neath  the  golden  blossoms,  your  hand  in 

mine; 

The  night  may  fall,  and  the  winds  may  blow, 
And  the  greenwoods  wither  'neath  winter 

glooms; 

Yet  it  lives  forever,  that  long  ago, 
Beneath  the  yellow  laburnum  blooms. 

IV. 

Through  the  misty  night  to  the  eye  and  ear 

Come  the  glitter  of  flowers  and  the  songs 

of  birds, — 
Come  thy  looks  of  fondness  to  me  so  dear, 

And  thy  witching  smiles  and  thy  loving 

words; 
The  night  may  fall  and  the  winds  may  blow, 

But  that  hour  forever  my  soul  illumes, — 
Our  golden  Love-time  long  ago, 

Beneath  the  yellow  laburnum  blooms. 


THE  CANNON. 

AIR— "Barrack  Hill.'' 
I. 

WE  are  a  loving  company 

Of  soldiers  brave  and  hearty; 
We  never  fought  for  golden  fee, 

For  faction,  or  for  party; 
The  will  to  make  old  Ireland  free, 
That  set  each  dauntless  man  on, 
And  banished  us  beyond  the  sea, 
With  our  brave  iron  cannon. 
And  here's  the  gallant  company 

That  fought  by  Boyne  and  Shannon, 
That  never  feared  an  enemy, 
With  our  brave  iron  cannon! 

ii. 

Come,  fill  me  up  a  pint  o'  wine, 
Until  'tis  brimming  o'er,  boys, 


Our  gun  is  set  in  proper  line, 

And  we  have  balls  galore,  boys; 
Now,  here's  a  health  to  good  Lord  Clare, 

Who'll  lead  us  on  to-morrow, 
When  through  the  foe  our  balls  will  tear, 
And  work  them  death  and  sorrow! 
And  here's  the  gallant  company 

That  always  forward  ran  on 
So  boldly  on  the  enemy, 
With  our  brave  iron  cannon! 

in. 
I've  brought  a  wreath  of  shamrocks  here, 

In  memory  of  our  own  land, — 
'Tis  withered  like  that  island  drear, — 

That  sorrowful  and  lone  land; 
I'll  hang  it  nigh  our  cannon's  mouth, 

To  whet  our  memories  fairly, 
And  there's  ro  flower  in  all  the  south 
Could  deck  that  gun  so  rarely. 
And  here's  the  gallant  company 

That  soon  shall  rush  each  man  on, 
And  plough  the  Saxon  enemy 
With  our  brave  iron  cannon! 

IV. 

At  Limerick  how  it  made  them  run, 
The  Dutchman  and  his  crew,  boys; 
'Twas  then  I  made  this  gallant  gun 

To  plough  them  through  and  through, 

boys; 
And  since  that  day  in  foreign  lands 

It  roared  triumphant  ever — 
It  blazed  away,  yet  here  it  stands, 
Where  foeman's  foot  shall  never! 
And  here's  the  gallant  company 

That  soon  shall  rush  each  man  on, 
And  break  and  strew  the  enemy 
With  our  brave  iron  cannon! 

v. 

'Tis  dinted  well  from  mouth  to  breech 

With  many  a  battle  furrow; 
A  fitting  sermon  it  will  preach 

At  Fontenoy  to-morrow. 
Then  never  let  your  spirits  sink, 

But  stand  around,  each  man  on 
This  foreign  slope,  and  we  will  drink 

One  brave  health  to  our  cannon! 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  DWYEH  JOYCE. 


'11 


Ami  here's  the  gallant  company 
That  soon  shall  rush  each  man  on, 

And  plough  the  Saxon  enemy 
With  our  brave  iron  cannon! 


THE  MOUNTAIN  ASH. 

AIR— "The  Green  Ash  7Y«,  "' 
I. 

THE  mountain  ash  blooms  in  the  wild, 
Or  droops  above  the  wandering  rill; 
You  ne'er  can  see 
A  fairer  tree, 

But  I  know  one  dear  maiden  mild 
With  witching  form  more  lovely  still. 

ii. 

The  mountain  ash  has  berries  fair, 
The  reddest  in  the  woodlands  green; 
Sweet  lips  I  know 
With  redder  glow 
Than  ever  lit  those  berries  rare — 
The  red  lips  of  my  bosom's  queen. 

in. 

The  mountain  ash  has  leaves  of  gold 

When  autumn  browns  the  steep  hill's  side; 
Of  locks  I  dream 
With  brighter  gleam 
Of  yellow  in  their  braid  and  fold 

Tlian  e'er  tinged  leaf  in  woodland  wide. 

IV. 

The  mountain  ash  in  winter  sear 

Stands  bravely  up  when  wild  winds  blow; 
So  love  shall  stand, 
Serene  and  bland, 
Between  me  and  my  Ellen  dear, 
A  fadeless  flower  in  weal  or  woe. 


BOKO, 

(FROM    "BLAMD.") 

"  0  WIND  of  the  west  that  bringest, 

O'er  wood  and  lea. 
Verfume  of  flowers  from  my  lady's  bowers 

And  a  strain  and  a  melody, — 


While  soft  'mid  the  bloom  thou  singest 
Thy  songs  of  laughter  and  sighs, 
Steal  in  where  my  darling  lies 

With  a  kiss  to  her  mouth  from  me! 

"  White  Rose,  when  at  morn  thou  twinest 

Her  lattice  fair, 
Wave  to  and  fro  in  the  fresh  sun's  glow 

Till  she  wakes  and  beholds  thee  there; — 
When  over  her  brow  thou  shinest, 

Then  whisper  from  me,  and  press 

On  her  dear  head  one  fond  caress, 
And  a  kiss  on  her  yellow  hair! 

"  O  Rose!  and  0  Wind  that  found  her 

'Mid  morning's  glee! 
While  the  noon  goes  by,  keep  ever  nigh 

With  your  beauty  and  melody; — 
With  your  smile  and  your  song  stay  round  her 

Till  she  closes  her  eyelids  bright; 

Then  give  her  a  sweet  Good-night 
And  a  kiss  on  the  lips  from  me ! " 


SONG  OF  THE  SUFFERER, 
(FROM  "BLANID.") 

EARTH,  air,  and  sun,  and  moon  and  star, 
Of  man's  strange  soul  but  mirrors  are, 
Bright  when  the  soul  is  bright,  and  dark 
As  now,  without  one  saving  spark, 
While  the  black  tides  of  sorrow  flow, 
And  I  am  suffering  and  I  know ! 

To  my  sad  eyes  that  sorrow  dims 
The  greenest  grass  the  swallow  skims, 
The  flowers  that  once  were  fair  to  me. 
The  meadow  and  the  blooming  tree, 
Dark  as  funereal  garments  grow, 
And  I  am  suffering,  and  I  know ! 

The  measured  sounds  of  dancing  feet, 
The  songs  of  wood-birds  wild  and  sweet, 
The  music  of  the  horn  and  flute, 
Of  the  gold  strings  of  harp  and  lute. 
Unheeded  all  shall  come  and  go, 
For  I  am  suffering,  and  I  know! 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  JEFFREY   ROCHE. 


No  kindly  counsel  of  a  friend 

With  soothing  balm  the  hurt  can  mend. 

I  walk  alone  in  grief,  and  make 

My  bitter  moan  for  her  dear  sake, 

For  loss  of  love  is  man's  worst  woe, 

And  I  am  suffering,  and  I  know ! 


Misery,  companion  dread, 
Thou  art  the  partner  of  my  bed. 
Soul  to  soul  will  you  and  I 
Ever  on  the  same  couch  lie, 
While  life's  bitter  waters  flow, 
And  I  am  suffering,  and  I  know! 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  JEFFREY  ROCHE. 


THE  V-A-S-E. 

From  the  madding  crowd  they  stand  apart, 
The  maidens  four  and  the  Work  of  Art; 

And  none  might  tell  from  sight  alone 
In  which  had  Culture  ripest  grown — 

The  Gotham  Million  fair  to  see, 
The  Philadelphia  Pedigree, 

The  Boston  Mind  of  azure  hue 

Or  the  soulful  Soul  from  Kalamazoo — 

For  all  loved  Art  in  a  seemly  way, 
With  an  earnest  soul  and  a  capital  A. 

******* 
Long  they  worshipped;  but  no  one  broke 
The  sacred  stillness,  until  up  spoke 
i 
The  Western  one  from  the  nameless  place, 

Who,  blushing,  said:  "  What  a  lovely  vase! " 

Over  three  faces  a  sad  smile  flew, 
And  they  edged  away  from  Kalamazoo. 

But  Gotham's  haughty  soul  was  stirred 

To  crush  the  stranger  with  one  small  word. 

Deftly  hiding  reproof  in  praise, 

She  cries:  "  'Tis,  indeed,  a  lovely  vaze! " 


But  brief  her  unworthy  triumph  when 
The  lofty  one  from  the  home  of  Penn, 

With  the  consciousness  of  two  grandpapas, 
Exclaims:  "  It  is  quite  a  lovely  vahs! " 

And  glances  around  with  an  anxious  thrill,. 
Awaiting  the  word  of  Beacon  Hill. 

But  the  Boston  maid  smiles  courteouslee 
And  gently  murmurs:  "  Oh,  pardon  me! 

I  did  not  catch  your  remark,  because 
I    was    so   entranced   with    that   charming 
vaws!" 

Dies  erit  prcegelida 
Sinistra  quum  Bostonia. 


ANDROMEDA. 

THEY  chained  her  fair  young  body  to  the 

cold  and  cruel  stone: 
The  beast  begot  of  sea  and  slime  had  marked 

her  for  his  own; 
The  callous  world  beheld  the  wrong,  and 

left  her  there  alone. 


POEMS  OF  .IAMKS  .1 KFFKEY  ROCHE. 


15ase  caitiffs  \vlio  belied  her,  false  kinsmen 
who  tk-nicil  lit')-, 

Ye  left  her  there  alone! 

My  Beautiful,  they  left  thee  in  thy  peril  and 

thy  pain: 
The  night  that  hath  no  morrow  was  brood- 

ing  on  the  main, 
But  lo!  a  light  is  breaking  of  hope  for  thee 

again. 
Ti.s  Perseus'  sword  a-flaming,  thy  dawn  of 

clay  proclaiming 

Across  the  western  main, 
0  Ireland!  0  my  country!  he  comes  to  break 

thy  chain. 


NETCHAIEFF. 

[Xetchaieff,  a  Russian  Nihilist,  was  condemned  to  prison 
for  life.  Deprived  of  writing  materials,  he  allowed  his 
finger-nail  to  grow  until  he  fashioned  it  into  a  pen.  With 
this  he  wrote,  in  his  blood,  on  the  margins  of  a  book,  the 
story  of  his  sufferings.  Almost  his  last  entry  was  a  note 
that  his  jailer  had  just  boarded  up  the  solitary  pane  which 
admitted  a  little  light  into  his  coll.  The  "  letter  written  in 
blood  "  was  smuggled  out  of  the  prison  and  published,  and 
Netchaieff  died  very  soon  after.  He  had  been  ten  years  in 


Xetehaieff  is  dead,  your  Majesty. 
You  knew  him  not,  he  was  a  common  hind; 
lie  lived  ten  years  in  hell,  and  then  he  died, 
To  seek  another  hell,  as  we  must  think, 
Since  he  was  rebel  to  your  Majesty. 

Ten  years!  The  time  is  long,  if  only  spent 
In  gilded  courts  and  palaces  like  thine. 
K'eu  courtiers,  courtesans,  and  gilded  moths 
That  flutter  round  a  throne  find  weary  hours 
And  days  of  ennui.     But  KetchaieiV 
Counted  the  minutes  through  ten  dragging 

yearjs 

Of  pain.    His  soul  was  God's,  his  Ixxly  man's, 
To  chain,  :md  maim,  and  kill;  and  lie  is  dead. 
Yet  something  left  ho  that  you  cannot  kill— 
The  story  of  his  hell,  writ  in  his  blood— 
Plebeian  blood,  base,  ruddy,  yet  in  hue 
And  substance  just  such  blood  as  once  we 

saw 
xin.ir  the  Kkatrinof sky  road — 


And  that  blood  was  your  sainted  sire's,  the 

same 
That  fills  your  veins  and  would  your  face 

suffuse, 
Did  ever  tyrant  know  the  way  to  blush. 

The  tale  ?     But  to  what  end  repeat 
A  thrice-told  tale  ?  Netchaieff  is  dead. 
Ten  thousand  others  live.     Go  view  their 

lives; 

See  the  wan  captive,  in  his  narrow  cell; 
Mark  the  shrunk  frame  and  shoulders  bowed 

and  bent; 
The  thin  hand  trembling,  shading  blinded 

eyes 
From    unaccustomed    light;    the    fettered 

limbs; 
The   shuffling  tread  and  furtive  look  and 

start. 
Bid  the  dank  walls  give  up  the  treasured 

groans, 
The  proud  lips  still  withheld  from  mortal 

ear; 

Ask  of  the  slimy  stones  what  they  have  seen, 
And  shrank  to  see,  polluted  with  the  blood 
Of  martyred  innocence — youth  linked  to  age 
And  both  to  death — the  matron  and  the 

maid 

Prey  to  the  slaver's  lust  and  driver's  whip, 
All  gladly  welcoming  the  silent  cell 
And  vermin's  company,  less  vile  than  man's. 
See  these  and  these  in  twice  a  score  of 

hells, 

And  faintly  guess  what  horrors  lie  behind 
That  you  can  never  see;  and  you  shall  guess 
Why  we  rejoice  that  Netchaieff  is  dead — 
Kings  cannot  harm  the  dead — 
Kings  cannot  harm  the  dead. 


A   SAILOK'S    YAIIX. 

(AS   NARRATED  BY  TI1K  SK(  (>M)  MATE  TO  ONB 
OP  THE  MARINES.) 


77//.v  /\  Hit'  fit  ft'  flint  /rft.t  foltl  to  nii\ 
/!>/  it  biffi'i-i'il  tnitl  ulititli-rt'il  XIDI  n  f  tin'  >• 
To  im  ami  m//  ///rv\//m/V,  Si  /tt.<  (Jrrt'n, 
Win'  ii  I  fir*  a  tinili-lfxK  yontiy  marine. 


"14 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  JEFFREY  ROCHE. 


Twas  the  good  ship  Gyascutus, 

All  in  the  China  seas; 
With  the  wind  a  lee,  and  the  capstan  free, 

To  catch  the  summer  breeze. 

''Twas  Captain  Porgie  on  the  deck, 
To  the  mate  in  the  mizzen  hatch, 

While  the  boatswain  bold,  in  the  forward  hold, 
Was  winding  his  larboard  watch. 

"  Oh,  how  does  our  good  ship  head  to-night  ? 

How  heads  our  gallant  craft  ?  " 
"Oh,  she  heads  to  the  E.  S.  W.  by  N., 

And  the  binnacle  lies  abaft." 

" Oh,  what  does  the  quadrant  indicate? 

And  how  does  the  sextant  stand  ?  " 
"Oh,  the   sextant's  down  to   the -freezing 
point, 

And  the  quadrant's. lost  a  hand." 

"  Oh,  and  if  the  quadrant's  lost  a  hand, 

And  the  sextant  falls  so  low. 
It's  our  body  and  bones  to  Davy  Jones 

This  night  are  bound  to  go. 

"Oh,  fly  aloft  to  the  garboard-strake, 

And  reef  the  spanker  boom, 
Bend  a  studding  sail  on  the  martingale, 

To  give  her  weather  room. 

"  Oh,  Boatswain,  down  in  the  for'ard  hold 

What  water  do  you  find  ?  " 
"  Four  foot  and  a  half  by  the  royal  gaff 

And  rather  more  behind. " 

"  Oh,  sailors,  collar  your  marline  spikes, 

And  each  belaying  pin; 
Come,  stir  your  stumps  to  spike  the  pumps. 

Or  more  will  be  coming  in." 

They  stirred  their  stumps,  they  spiked  the 
pumps, 

They  spliced  the  mizzen  brace; 
Aloft  and  alow  they  worked,  but  oh! 

The  water  gained  apace. 

They  bored  a  hole  below  her  line 

To  let  the  water  out, 
But  more  and  more  with  awful  roar 

The  water  in  did  spout. 


Then  up  spoke  the  cook  of  our  gallant  ship — 

And  he  was  a  lubber  brave — 
"  I've  several  wives  in  various  ports, 

And  my  life  I'd  like  to  save. " 

Then  up  spoke  the  captain  of  marines, 

Who  dearly  loved  his  prog: 
"  It's  awful  to  die,  and  it's  worse  to  be  dry, 

And  I  move  we  pipes  to  grog. " 

Oh,  then  'twas  the  gallant  second-mate 

As  stopped  them  sailors'  jaw, 
'Twas   the    second-mate   whose   hand    had 
weight 

In  laying  down  the  law. 

He  took  the  anchor  on  his  back, 

And  leapt  into  the  main; 
Through  foam  and  spray  he  clove  his  way, 

And  sunk  and  rose  again. 

Through  foam  and  spray  a  league  away 

The  anchor  stout  he  bore, 
Till,  safe  at  last,  he  made  it  fast, 

And  warped  the  ship  ashore. 

Taint  much  of  a  deed  to  talk  about, 

But  a  ticklish  thing  to  see, 
And  something  to  do,  if  I  say  it,  too, — 

For  that  second  mate  was  me! 

This  is  the  tale  that  was  told  to  me, 
By  that  modest  and  truthful  son  of  the  sea. 
And  I  envy  the  life  of  a  second  mate,       • 
Though  captains  curse  him  and  sailors  hate; 
For  he  ain't  like  some  of  the  swabs  I've  seen, 
As  would  go  and  lie  to  a  poor  marine. 


THE  CORPORAL'S  LETTER. 

WHEX  the  sword  is  sheathed  and  the  cannon 

lies 

Dumb  and  still  on  the  parapet, 
For  the  spider  to  weave  his  silken  net 
And  the  doves  to  nest  in  its  silent  mouth; 
When  the  manly  trade  declines  and  dies, 
And  hearts  shrink  up  in  ignoble  drouth, 
When  pitiful  peace  reigns  everywhere, 
What  is  left  for  old  Corporal  Pierre  ? 


I'OF.MS    OF   .IAMFS   .IF.FFIM-Y    KOCIIF. 


Naught  remains  for  an  honest  wight 
P.ut  to  write  for  bread,  as  the  poets  do, 
Beggarly  scrawls  for  paltry  sous. 
The  billet-doux  and  the  angry  dun 
To  the  writing-machine  are  all  as  one. 
What  matter  the  word  or  sentiment  ? 
If  the  fee  be  paid  he  is  well  content. 
To  have  heart  in  one's  trade,  ah!   one  must 
fight. 

"  M'sieu,  if  you  please,"  and  a  timid  hand 

Is  laid  on  the  soldier's  threadbare  sleeve. 

Pierre  was  bearish  that  day,  I  grieve 

To  say,  and  his  speech  was  curt, 

As  will  happen  when  want  or  old  wounds 

hurt — 

"  I  wish  you  to  write  a  letter,  please." 
"All  right.     Ten  sous."     But  the  little  boy 
Has  turned  away.     "  Morbleu!    AVell,  then 
You  haven't  the  money  ?  You  think  that  pen 
And  ink  and  paper  grow  on  the  trees  ? — 
Halt!    Can't  a  soldier  his  joke  enjoy 
But  you  must  flare  up  ?    I  understand. 

A  begging  letter,  of  course.     And  who 
Shall  be  favored  to-day  ?  Dictate—'  M'sieu' " 
"Pardon.  'Tis  not  '  M'sieu.'  Madame, 
La  Sainte  Vierge."     The  writer  stopped, 
And  the  pen   from  his  trembling  fingers 

dropped; 

The  desk  was  shut  with  an  angry  slam. 
"  Sapristi!  You  little  rascal,  you 
Would  jest  with  the  Holy  Virgin,  too?" 

But  the  child  was  weeping,  and  old  Pierre  ' 
Suppressed  his  wrath  and  indulged  a  stare. 
"  My  mother,  M'sieu,  she  sleeps  so  long, 
These  two  whole  days,  and  the  room  is  cold, 
And  she  will  not  awake.     It  is  very  wrong, 
I  know,  for  a  boy  to  be  afraid 
When  a  boy  is  as  many  as  five  years  old. 
But  I  was  so  hungry  and  when  I  prayed 
And  the  Virgin  did  not  come,  I  thought 
1 'ei-haps  if  I  sent  her  a  letter,  why"- 

He  paused,  but  old  Pierre  said  naught, 
There  was  something  new  in  the  old  man's 

throat, 
And  something  strange  in  the  old  man's  eye. 


At  length  he  took  up  his  pen  and  wrote. 
Long  it  took  him  to  write  and  fold 
And  seal  with  a  hand  that  was  far  from  bold; 
Then:    "Courage,  small  comrade,  wait  and 

see; 

Your  letter  is  mailed,  and  presently 
An  answer  will  come,  perhaps,  to  me. 

I  will  open  my  desk.     Behold  'tis  there! 
'  From  Heaven,'  it  says  '  A  M'sieu  Pierre.' 
You  do  not  read  ?    N'importe!     I  do. 
'Tis  a  letter  from  Heaven,  and  all  about  you, 
And,  what?  '  Mamma  is  in  Heaven,  too, 
And  her  little  boy  must  be  brave  and  good 
And  live  with  Pierre.'     That's  understood. 
While  Pierre  has  a  crust  or  sou  to  spare 
There's  enough  for  him  and  thee,  mon  cher. " 

Do  you  think  that  letter  came  from  above. 

Freighted  with  God's  and  a  mother's  love  ? 

The  child,  at  least,  believed  it  true, 

So  at  the  last  Pierre  did,  too, 

When  the  Heavenly  mail  came  once  again, 

To  a  grim  old  man  on  a  bed  of  pain, 

Whose  dying  eyes  alone  could  see, 

And  read  the  missive  joyfully: 

He  knew  the  Hand,  and  proudly  smiled, 

For  it  was  as  the  hand  of  a  little  child. 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  WORLD. 

TH  K  hands  of  the  King  are  soft  and  fair, 

They  never  knew  labor's  stain. 
The  hands  of  the  Robber  redly  wear 

The  bloody  brand  of  Cain. 
But  the  hands  of  the  Man  are  hard  and 
scarred 

With  the  scars  of  toil  and  pain 

The  slaves  of  Pilate  have  washed  his  hands 

As  white  as  a  King's  may  be. 
Barabbas  with  wrists  unfettered  stands, 

For  the  world  has  made  him  free. 
Hut  Thy  palms  toil-worn  by  nails  are  torn, 

0  Christ,  on  Calvary! 


'16 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  JEFFREY  ROCHE. 


FOR  THE  PEOPLE. 

WE  are  the  hewers  and  delvers  who  toil  for 
another's  gain, 

The  common  clods  and  the  rabble,  stunted 
of  brow  and  brain. 

What  do  we  want,  the  gleaners,  of  the  har- 
vest we  have  reaped  ? 

What  do  we  want,  the  neuters,  of  the  honey 
we  have  heaped  ? 

We  want  the  drones  to  be  driven  away  from 

our  golden  hoard; 
We  want  to  share  in  the  harvest;  we  want  to 

sit  at  the  board; 
We  want  what  sword  or  suffrage  has  never 

yet  won  for  man, 
The  fruits  of  his  toil,  God-promised,  when 

the  curse  of  toil  began. 

Ye  have  tried  the  sword  and  scepter,   the 

cross  and  the  sacred  word, 
In  all  the  years,  and  the  kingdom  is  not  yet 

here  of  the  Lord. 
Is   it   useless,  all   our   waiting?    Are  they 

fruitless,  all  our  prayers? 
Has  the  wheat,  while  men  were  sleeping, 

been  oversowed  with  tares  ? 

What  gain  is  it  to  the  people  that  a  God  laid 

down  his  life, 
If,  twenty  centuries  after,  His  world  be  a 

world  of  strife  ? 
If  the  serried  ranks  be  facing  each  other 

with  ruthless  eyes 
And   steel  in   their  hands,   what   profits  a 

Saviour's  sacrifice  ? 

Ye  have  tried,  and  failed  to  rule  us;  in  vain 

to  direct  have  tried. 
Not  wholly  the  fault  of  the  ruler;  not  utterly 

blind  the  guide. 


Mayhap  there  needs  not  a  ruler;  mayhap  we 

can  find  the  way. 
At  least  ye  have  ruled  to  ruin;   at  least  ye 

have  led  astray. 

What  matter  if  king  or  consul  or  president 

holds  the  rein, 
If  crime  and  poverty  ever  be  links  in  the 

bondman's  chain  ? 
What  careth  the  burden-bearer  that  Liberty 

packed  his  load, 
If  Hunger  presseth  behind  him  with  a  sharp 

and  ready  goad  ?     . 

There's  a  serf  whose  chains  are  of  paper; 

there's  a  king  with  a  parchment  crown ; 
There  are  robber  knights  and  brigands  in 

factory,  field  and  town. 
But  the  vassal  pays  his  tribute  to  a  lord  of 

wage  and  rent; 
And  the  baron's  toll  is  Shylock's,   with  a 

flesh-and-blood  per  cent. 

The  seamstress  bends  to  her  labor  all  night 

in  a  narrow  room; 
The  child,  defrauded  of  childhood,  tip-toes 

all  day  at  the  loom; 
The  soul  must  starve;  for  the  body  can  barely 

on  husks  be  fed; 
And  the  loaded  dice  of  a  gambler  settle  the 

price  of  bread. 

Ye  have  shorn  and  bound  the  Samson  and 
robbed  him  of  learning's  light; 

But  his  sluggish  brain  is  moving;  his  sinews 
have  all  their  might. 

Look  well  to  your  gates  of  Gaza,  your  privi- 
lege, pride  and  caste! 

The  Giant  is  blind  and  thinking,  and  his- 
locks  are  growing  fast. 


POEMS  OF  LOUISE  IMOGEN  GUINEY, 


GLOUCESTER  HARBOR. 

NORTH  from  the  beautiful  islands, 
North  from  the  headlands  and  highlands, 

The  long  sea-wall, 

The  white  ships  flee  with  the  swallow; 
The  day-beams  follow  and  follow, 

Glitter  and  fall. 

The  brown  ruddy  children  that  fear  not, 
Lean  over  the  quay,  and  they  hear  not 

Warnings  of  lips; 

For  their  hearts  go  a-sailing,  a-sailing. 
Out  from  the  wharves  and  the  wailing 

After  the  ships. 

Nothing  to  them  is  the  golden 
Curve  of  the  sands,  or  the  olden 

Haunt  of  the  town; 
Little  they  reck  of  the  peaceful 
Chiming  of  bells,  or  the  easeful 

Sport  on  the  down: 

The  orchards  no  longer  are  cherished; 
The  charm  of  the  meadow  has  perished: 

Dearer,  ay  me! 

The  solitude  vast  unbefriended, 
The  magical  voice  and  the  splendid 

Fierce  will  of  the  sea. 

Beyond  them,  by  ridges  and  narrows 
The  silver  prows  speed  like  the  arrows 

Sudden  juid  fair; 

Like  the  hoofs  of  Al  Borak  the  wondrous, 
Lost  in  the  blue  and  the  thund'rous 

Depths  of  the  air; 


On  to  the  central  Atlantic, 
Where  passionate,  hurrying,  frantic 
Elements  meet; 


To  the  play  and  the  calm  and  commotion 
Of  the  treacherous,  glorious  ocean, 
Cruel  and  sweet. 

In  the  hearts  of  the  children  forever 
She  fashions  their  growing  endeavor, 

The  pitiless  sea; 

Their  sires  in  her  caverns  she  stayeth, 
The  spirits  that  love  her  she  slayeth, 

And  laughs  in  her  glee. 

Woe,  woe,  for  the  old  fascination! 
The  women  make  deep  lamentation 

In  starts  and  in  slips; 
Here  always  is  hope  unavailing, 
Here  always  the  dreamers  are  sailing 

After  the  ships! 


PRIVATE  THEATRICALS. 

You  were  a  haughty  U'auty,  Polly, 

(That  was  in  tin-  play,) 
I  was  the  lover  melancholy; 

(That  was  in  the  play.) 
And  when  your  fan  and  you  receded, 
And  all  my  passion  lay  unheeded, 
If  still  with  tenderer  words  I  pleaded. 
That  was  in  the  play! 

I  met  my  rival  at  the  gateway, 
(That  was  in  the  play,) 
And  so  we  fought  a  duel  straightway: 

(That  was  in  the  play.) 
But  when  Jack  hurt  my  arm  unduly, 
And  you  rushed  over,  softened  newly, 
And  kissed  me,  Polly!  truly,  truly, 

\\    -  that  in  the  play? 


"18 


POEMS  OF  LOUISE   IMOGEN   GUINEY. 


BROTHER  BARTHOLOMEW. 

BROTHER  BARTHOLOMEW,  working-time, 
Would  fall  into  musing  and  drop  his  tools; 

Brother  Bartholomew  cared  for  rhyme 
More  than  for  theses  of  the  schools; 

And  sighed,  and  took  up  his  burden  so, 

Vowed  to  the  Muses,  for  weal  or  woe. 

At  matins  he  sat,  the  book  on  his  knees, 
But  his  thoughts  were  wandering  far  away; 

And  chanted  the  evening  litanies 

AVatching  the  roseate  skies  grow  gray, 

Watching  the  brightening  starry  host 

Flame  like  the  tongues  at  Pentecost. 

"A  foolish  dreamer,  and  nothing  more; 

The  idlest  fellow  a  cell  could  hold; " 
So  murmured  the  worthy  Isidor, 

Prior  of  ancient  Nithiswold; 
Yet  pitiful,  with  dispraise  content, 
Signed  never  the  culprit's  banishment. 

Meanwhile  Bartholomew  went  his  way 
And  patiently  wrote  in  his  sunny  cell; 

His  pen  fast  travelled  from  day  to  day; 
His  books  were  covered,  the  walls  as  well. 

"But  0  for  the  monk  that  I  miss,  instead 

Of  this  lazy  rhymer!"  the  Prior  said. 

Bartholomew  dying,  as  mortals  must, 
Not  unbelov'd  of  the  cowled  throng, 

Thereafter,  they  took  from  the  dark  and  dust 
Of  shelves  and  of  corners,  many  a  song 

That  cried  loud,  loud  to  the  farthest  day, 

How  a  bard  had  arisen — and  passed  away. 

Wonderful  verses!  fair  and  fine, 
Rich  in  the  old  Greek  loveliness; 

The  seer-like  vision,  half  divine; 
Pathos  and  merriment  in  excess: 

And  every  perfect  stanza  told 

Of  love  and  of  labor  manifold. 

The  King  came  out  and  stood  beside 
Bartholomew's  taper-lighted  bier, 

And  turning  to  his  lords,  he  sighed: 

"  How  worn  and  wearied  doth  he  appear, — 

Our  noble  poet, — now  he  is  dead! " 

"  0  tireless  worker! "  the  Prior  said. 


A   BALLAD  OF  METZ. 

LEON  went  to  the  wars,  true  soul  without  a 

stain; 
First  at  the  trumpet-call;  thy  son,  Lorraine! 

Never  a  mighty  host  thrilled  so  with  one 

desire; 
Never  a  past  crusade  lit  nobler  fire. 

And  he,  among  the  rest,  marched  gaily  in 

the  van,  — 
No  braver  blood  than  his  since  time  began. 

And  mild  and  fond  was  he,  and  sensitive  as 

a  leaf. 
Just  Heaven!   that  he  was  this,  is  half  my 

grief. 

We  followed  where  the  last  detachment  led 

away, 
At  Metz,  an  evil-starred  and  bitter  day; 

Some  of  us  had  been  hurt  in  the  first  hot 
assault, 

Yet  will  was  shaken  not,  nor  zeal  at  fault. 

/ 

We  hurried  on  to  the  front;   our  banners 

Avere  soiled  and  rent; 
Grim  riflemen,  gallants  all,  our  captain  sent. 

A  Prussian  lay  by  a  tree  rigid  as  ice,  and 

pale, 
Crawled  thither,  out  of  the  reach  of  battle- 

hail. 

His  cheek  was  hollow  and  white,  parched  was 

his  swollen  lip; 
Tho'  bullets  had  fastened  on  their   leaden 


Tho'  ever  he  gasped  and  called,  called  faintly 

from  the  rear, 
What  of  it?   And  all  in  scorn  I  closed  mine- 

ear. 

The  very  colors  he  wore,  they  burnt  and 

bruised  my  sight; 
The  greater  his  anguish,  so  was  my  delight. 

We  laughed  a  savage  laugh,  who  loved  our- 

land  too  well, 
Giving  its  enemies  hate  unspeakable: 


P<»KMs 


I.MO(iK\    (JUNKY. 


But  Li'on,  kind  heart,  poor  heart,  clutched 

me  around  the  arm : 
"  lie  faints  for  water! "  he  said;  "  it  were  no 

harm 

To  soothe  a  wounded  man  already  on  death's 

rack." 
He  seized  his  brimming  gourd,  and  hurried 

back. 

The  foeman  grasped  it  fiercely.     'Xeath  his 

wild  eye's  lid 
Something  coiled  like  a  snake,  glittered  and 

hid. 

He  raised  his  shattered  frame  up  from  the 

grassy  ground, 
And  drunk  with  the  loud,  mad  haste  of  a 

thirsty  hound. 

Leon  knelt  by  his  side,  one  hand  beneath 

his  head; 
Scarce  kinder  the  water  than  the  words  he 

said. 

He  rose  and  left  him,  stretched  at  length  on 

the  grassy  plot, 
The  viper-like  flame  in  his  eyes  remembered 

not. 

Leon  with  easy  gait  strode  on;  he  bared  his 

hair, 
Swinging  his  army  cap,  humming  an  air. 

Just  as  he  neared  the  troops,  there  by  the 

purpled  stream — 
Good  God!  a  sudden  snap,  and  a  lurid  gleam. 

I  wrenched  my  bandaged  arm  with  the  hor- 
ror of  the  start: 
I /on  was  low  at  my  feet,  shot  thro'  the  heart. 

Do  you  think  an  angel  told  whose  hands  the 

<li'c<l  had  done?  [one. 

To  the  Prussian  we  dashed  back,  mute,  every 


Do  you  think  we  stopped  to  curse,  or  wail- 
ing feebly,  stood  ? 

Do  you  think  we  spared  who  shed  his  friend's 
sweet  blood  ? 


Ha!   vengeance  on  the  fiend!  we  smote  him 

as  if  hired, 
I  most  of  them,  and  more  when  they  grew 

tired. 

I  saw  the  deep  eye  lose  its  dastard,  steely 

blue: 
I  saw  the  trait'rous  breast  pierced  thro'  and 

thro.' 

His  musket,   smoking  yet,   unhanded,  lay 

beside; 
Three   times   three    thousand    deaths  that 

Prussian  died. 

And  he,  our  lad,  our  dearest,  lies,  too,  upon 

the  plain: 
0  teach  no  more  Christ's  mercy,  thy  sons, 

Lorraine! 


THE  RIVAL  SINGERS. 

Two  marvellous  singers  of  old  had  the  city 

of  Florence,— 
She  that  is  loadstar  of  pilgrims,  Florence  the 

beautiful, — 

Who  sang  but  thro'  bitterest  envy  their  ex- 
quisite music, 
Each  for  o'ercoming  the  other,  as  fierce  as 

the  seraphs 
At  the  dread  battle  pro-mundane,  together 

down-wrestling. 
And  once  when  the  younger,  surpassing  the 

best  at  a  festival, 
Thrilled  the  impetuous  people,  0  singing  so 

rarely! 
That  up  on  their  shoulders  they  raised  him. 

and  carried  him  straightway 
Over  the  threshold,  'mid  ringing  of  belfries 

and  shouting, 
Till  into  his  pale  cheek  mounted  a  color  like 

morning 
(For  he  was  Saxon  in  blood)  that  made  more 

resplendent 
The  gold  of  his  huir  for  an  aureole  round  and 

above  him, 


720 


POEMS  OF  LOUISE   IMOGEN   GUINEY. 


Seeing  which,  called  his  adorers  aloud, thank- 
ing Heaven 
That  sent  down  an  angel  to  sing  for  them, 

taking  their  homage; — 
While  this  came  to  pass  in  the  city,  one 

marked  it,  and  harbored 
A  purpose  which  followed  endlessly  on,  like 

his  shadow. 

Therefore  at  night,  as  a  vine  that  aye  clam- 
bering stealthily 
Slips  by  the  stones  to  an  opening,  came  the 

assassin, 
And  left  the  deep  sleeper  by  moonlight,  the 

Saxon  hair  dabbled 
With  red,  and  the  brave  voice  smitten  to 

death  in  his  bosom. 
Now  this  was  the  end  of  the  hate  and  the 

striving  and  singing. 
But   the    Italian   thro'    Florence,    his    city 

familiar, 
Fared  happily  ever,  none  knowing  the  crime 

and  the  passion, 
AVinning  honor  and  guerdon  in  peaceful  and 

prosperous  decades, 
Supreme   over   all,   and   rejoiced   with   the 

cheers  and  the  clanging. 
Carissima !    what  ?    and    you    wonder    the 

world  did  not  loathe  him  ? 
Child,  he  lived  long,  and  was  lauded,  and 

died  very  famous. 


AN  EPITAPH  FOR  WENDELL 
PHILLIPS. 

OF  the  avengers  of  the  right, 

The  city's  race  magnificent, 

Here  sleeps  the  last,  his  splendid  light 

For  lives  oppressed  benignly  spent. 

All  scorn  he  dared,  all  sorrow  bore: 

Now  hang  your  bays  beside  his  door. 

WTho  shall  in  simple  state  endure 
Like  him,  thrice  incorruptible  ? 
Who  shame  his  valiant  voice  and  sure, 
The  strength  of  all  our  citadel  ? 
Or  turn  upon  tyrannic  men 
That  haughty,  holy  glance  again  ? 


Here  does  he  sleep;  and  hence  in  grief 

\Ve  heavily  looked  toward  the  sea, 

Nor  with  the  passion  of  belief 

Descried  one  other  such  as  he; 

Then  shattered  his  great  shield,  and  knew 

The  king  was  dead  !  the  kingdom,  too. 


THE  CALIPH  AND  THE  BEGGAR. 

SCOKNER  of  the  pleading  faces 
In  the  first  year  of  his  reign, 
From  the  lean  c*rowd  and  its  traces, 

Down  the  open  orchard-lane, 
Walked  young  Mahmoud  in  his  glory, 
In  his  pomp  and  his  disdain; 

And  above  all  oratory, 

Music's  sweetness,  ocean's  might, 

Fell  a  voice  from  branches  hoary: 

"  He  whose  heart  is  at  life's  height, 
Who  has  wisdom,  fame,  and  riches, 
Islam's  greatest,  dies  this  night." 

And  he  crossed  the  rampart-ditches 
Blinded,  and  confused,  and  slow, 
Till,  from  palace  nooks  and  niches 

Frowned  his  ghostly  sires  a-row, 
And  their  turrets  triple-jointed 
Shook  with  tempests  of  his  woe. 

Long  past  midnight,  disanointed, 
Prone  upon  his  breast  he  lay, 
Warring  on  that  hour  appointed. 

But  behold!  at  break  of  day, 
As  if  Heaven  itself  had  spoken, 
Blown  across  the  bannered  bay, 

Over  mart  and  mosque  outbroken, 
Came  the  silver,  solemn  chime 
For  some  parted  spirit's  token  ! 

Mahmoud,  with  free  breath  sublime 
Summoned  one  whose  snow-locks  heaving 
Made  the  vision  of  hoar  Time; 


POEMS  OF  KATHARINE  TYNAN. 


721 


Ami  the  rod  tides  of  thanksgiving 
On  his  brow,  he  rose  and  said: 
"  In  my  city  of  the  living 

Which,  proclaimed  of  bells,  is  dead?" 
And  the  graybeard  answered:  "  Master, 
One  who  yesternight  for  bread, 

At  thy  gateway's  bronze  pilaster, 
Begged  in  vain:  blind  Selim,  he, 
Victim  of  the  old  disaster." 

And  the  speaker  suddenly 

Looked  on  his  hard  lord  with  wonder, 

For  his  tears  were  strange  to  see. 

Then  again,  where  boughs  asunder 
Held  the  wavy  orchard  tent 
Sun-empurpled  clusters  under 

In  changed  mood  the  Caliph  went; 
And  anew  heard  sounds  upgather, 
<_ hidings  with  caressings  blent, 


As  the  voice  once  of  his  father: 

"  Haughty  heart !  not  thou  wert  wise, 

Rich,  beloved;  Selim  rather 

Islam's  prince  in  Allah's  eyes: 
Even  the  Meek,  in  his  great  station, 

Freehold  had  of  Paradise  ! " 

******* 

Lo  !  when  plague- winds'  desolation 
Pierced  Bassora's  burning  wall, 
Circled  with  a  kneeling  nation 

Whom  his  mercies  held  in  thrall, 
Died  the  Caliph,  whispering  tender 
Counsel  to  his  liegemen  tall: 

"  One  last  service,  children  !  render 
Me,  whose  pride  the  Lord  forgave; 
Not  by  our  supreme  Defender, 

Not  beside  the  holy  wave, 
Not  in  places  where  my  race  is 
Lay  me  I  but  in  Selim's  grave." 


POEMS  OF  KATHARINE  TYNAN, 


WAITING. 

IN  a  grey  cave,  where  comes  no  glimpse  of 

sky, 
Set  in  the  blue  hill's  heart  full  many  a 

mile, 

Having  the  dripping  stone  for  canopy, 
Missing  the   wind's  laugh  and   the  good 

sun's  smile, 
I,  Fionn,  with  all  my  sleeping  warriors  lie. 

In  the  great  outer  cave  our  horses  are, 
Carved  of  grey  stone,  with  heads  erect, 
amazed, 

46 


Purple  their  trappings,  gold  each  bolt  and 

bar, 
One  fore  foot  poised,  the  quivering  thin 

ears  raised  ; 
.Mcthinks  they  scent  the  battle  from  afar. 

A  frozen  hound  lies  by  each  warrior's  feet. 
Ah,   Bran,  my  jewel  !   Bran,  my  king  of 

hounds ! 
I  >(•»•{)  throated  art  thou,  mighty  flanked,  and 

fleet  : 

Dost    thou    remember  how    with    giant 

bounds  [heat? 

Did'st  chase  the  red  deer  in   the  noontide 


722 


POEMS  OF  KATHARINE  TYNAN. 


I  was  a  king  in  ages  long  ago, 

A  mighty  warrior,  and  a  seer  likewise, 
Still  mine  eyes  look  with  solemn  gaze  of  woe 

From  stony  lids  adown  the  centuries, 
And  in  my  frozen  heart  I  know,  I  know. 

A  giant  I,  of  a  primeval  race, 

These,  great-limbed,   bearing  helm  and 

shield  and  sword, 
My  good  knights  are,  and  each  still  awful 

face 
Will  one  day  wake  to  knowledge  at  a 

word — 

O'erhead   the  groaning   years    turn  round 
apace. 

Here  with  the  peaceful  dead  we  keep  our 

state  ;    . 
Some   day   a   cry   shall   ring  adown   the 

lands  : 
"The  hour  is  come,  the  hour  grown  large 

with  fate." 
He  knows  who  hath  the  centuries  in  His 

hands 
When  that  shall  be — till  then  we  watch  and 

wait. 

The  queens  that  loved  us,  whither  be  they 

gone, 
The  sweet,  large  women  with  the  hair  as 

gold, 
As  though  one  drew  long  threads  from  out 

the  sun  ? 

Ages  ago,  grown  tired,  and  very  cold, 
They  fell  asleep  beneath  the  daisies  wan. 

The  waving  woods  are  gone  that  once  we 

knew, 
And  towns  grown  grey  with  years  are  in 

their  place  ; 
A  little  lake,  as  innocent  and  blue 

As  my  queen's  eyes  were,  lifts  a  baby  face 
Where  once  my  palace  towers  were  fair  to 
view. 

The  fierce  old  gods  we  hailed  with  worship- 
ing, 

The  blind  old  gods,  waxed  mad  with  sin 
and  blood, 


Laid  down  their  godhead  as  an  idle  thing 
At  a  God's  feet,  whose  throne  was  but  a 

Rood, 
His   crown   wrought  thorns,   His  joy  long 

travailing. 

Here  in  the  gloom  I  see  it  all  again, 
As  ages  since  in  visions  mystical 

I  saw  the  swaying  crowds  of  fierce-eyed  men, 
And  heard  the  murmurs  in  the  judgment 
hall, 

0,  for  one  charge  of  my  dark  warriors  then  ! 

Nay,  if  He  willed,  His  Father  presently 
Twelve  star -girt   legions  unto   Him    had 

given. 

I  traced  the  blood-stained  path  to  Calvary, 
And   heard   far   off  the   angels   weep  in 

Heaven  ; 
Then  the  Rood's  arms  against  an  awful  sky. 

I  saw  Him  when  they  pierced  Him,  hands 

and  feet, 
And  one  came   by  and  smote  Him,  this 

new  King, 
So  pale  and  harmless,   on  the  tired  face, 

sweet ; 

He  was  so  lovely,  and  so  pitying, 
The  icy  heart  in  me  began  to  beat. 

Then  a  strong  cry — the  mountain  heaved 

and  swayed 
That  held  us  in  its  heart,  the  groaning 

world 

Was  reft  with  lightning,  and  in  ruins  laid, 
His  Father's  awful   hand   the  red  bolts 

hurled, 
And  He  was  dead — I  trembled,  sore  afraid. 

Then  I  upraised  myself  with  mighty  strain 
In  the  gloom,  I  heard   the   tumult  rage 

without, 

I  saw  those  large  dead  faces  glimmer  plain, 
The   life   just   stirred   within   them   and 

went  out, 
And  I  fell  back,  and  grew  to  stone  again. 

So  the  years  went — on  earth  how  fleet  they 

be,  [pace, 

Here  in  this  cave  their  feet  are  slow  of 


1'UK.MS   UK   KATHARINE  TYNAN. 


And  I  grow  old,  and  tired  exceedingly: 
I  would  the  sweet  earth  were  my  dwelling- 
place — 
Shamrocks  and  little  daisies  wrapping  me  ! 

There  I  should  lie,  and  feel  the  silence  sweet 
As  a  meadow  at  noon,  where  birds  sing 

in  the  trees; 
To  mine  ears  should  come  the  patter  of  little 

feet, 
And   baby  cries,  and   croon   of  summer 

seas, 

And   the   wind's  laughter   in    the    upland 
wheat. 

Meantime,  o'erhead  the  years  were  full  and 

bright, 
With  a  kind  sun,  and  gold  wide  fields  of 

corn  ; 
The  happy  children    sang  from   morn   to 

night, 
The  blessed  church  bells  rang,  new  arts 

were  born, 
Strong  towns  rose  up  and  glimmered  fair 

and  white. 

Once  came  a  wind  of  conflict,  fierce  as  hail, 
And  beat  about  my  brows:   on  the  east- 
ward shore, 
Where  never  since  the  Vikings' dark  ships 

sail, 

All  day  the  battle  raged  with  mighty  roar  ; 
At  night  the  victor's  fair  dead  face  was  pale. 

Ah!  the  dark  years  since  then,  the  anguished 

cry 
That  pierced  my  deaf  ears,  made  my  hard 

eyes  weep, 
From  Erin  wrestling  in  her  agony, 

\Vhile   we,    her   strongest,  in  a  helpless 

sleep 

Liy,  as  the  blood-stained  years  trailed  slowly 
by. 

iiid  often  in  those  years  the  East  was  drest 
In    phantom  fires,  that  mocked  the  dis- 
tant dawn, 

ien  Murkest    night — her  bravest  and   her 

lirst 


Were  led  to  die,  while   I   slept   dumbly 

on, 

With  the  whole  mountain's  weight  upon  my 
breast. 

Once  in  my  time,  it  chanced  a  peasant  hind 
Strayed  to  this  cave.     I  heard,  and  burst 

my  chain 
And  raised   my  awful  face  stone-dead  and 

blind, 
Cried,   "Is  it   time?"   and  so  fell  back 

again, 
I  heard  his  wild  cry  borne  adown  the  wind. 

Some    hearts    wait    with   us.      Owen    Roe 

O'Neill, 

The   kingliest   king  that  ever   went    un- 
crowned, 
Sleeps  in  his  panoply  of  gold  and  steel 

Keady  to  wake,  and  in  the  kindly  ground 
A  many  another's   death-wounds  close  am1 
heal. 

Great  Hugh  O'Neill,  far  off  in  purple  Rome, 
And   Hugh   O'Donnell,    in    their   stately 

tombs 
Lie,  with  their  grand  fair  faces  turned  to 

home  : 
Some  day  a  voice  will   ring  adown  the 

glooms, 
"  Arise,  ye  Princes,  for  the  hour  is  come  ! " 

And  these  will  rise,  and  we  will  wait  them, 

here, 

In  this  blue  hill-heart  in  fair  l)onegal: 
That  hour  shall  sound  the  clash  of   sword 

and  spear, 

The  steeds  shall  neigh  to  hear  their  mas- 
ters' call, 

And  the  hounds'  cry  shall  echo  shrill  and 
clear. 


None.—  This  poem  treats  of  A  legend  well  known  among 
the  peasantry  of  the  north  of  Ireland,  which  recount*  how 
a  hand  of  Irish  warriors  of  the  |>rimrviil  time  lit-  in  armour, 
and  frozen  in  u<lrathlv  sleep,  in  one  of  the  hill-caverns  of 
l>onegal  highlands,  there  to  await  the  hour  of  Ireland's 
redemption,  when  the\  will  come  forth  to  do  battle  fur 
her  under  the  leadership  of  the  giant  Finn.  The  legend 
further  prophesies  I  hat  m  the  hour  of  victory  the  phantom 
knights  and  their  leader  will  IK-  claimed  liy  I  teat  h.  from 
whom  thev  ha\e  iM'en  so  long  withheld,  that  they  will  re- 
ceive at  last  hurial  in  holy  earth,  and  that  the  li ill-cavern 
will  know  them  no  more. 


724 


POEMS   OF  KATHARINE  TYNAN. 


TWO  WAYFARERS. 

ONE  with  a  sudden  cry 
Crieth:  "  0  Lord  !  and  whence  is  this  to  me 
That  in  my  daily  pathway  I  should  see 

Even  Thee,  Lord,  coming  nigh, 

With  Thy  still  face  and  fair, 
And  the  divine  deep  sorrow  in  Thine  eyes, 
And  Thy  eternal  arms  stretched  loving- wise 

As  on  the  Cross  they  were  ? 

"  If  I  had  only  known 
How  I  should  meet  Thee  this  day  face  to 

face, 

I  had  made  all  my  life  a  praying-place 
For  this  hour's  sake  alone  : 
Now  am  I  poor  indeed 

I  who  have  gathered  all  things  most  forlorn, 
Pale    earthly   loves,    and    roses    wan    with 
thorn  ; — 

See  how  my  weak  hands  bleed  ! " 

ONE  bendefch  low,  and  saith  : 
*'Lo  !   My  hands  bleed  likewise,  and  I  am 

God. 

Oome,  heart  of  Mine  !   wilt  tread  the  path 
I  trod, 

The  desert  way  of  death  ? 
Come,  bleeding  hands  !  and  take 
My  thorns  that  bring  new  toil   and  weari- 
ness, 

Days  of  grey  pain,  and  nights  of  sore  dis- 
tress, 

Come  !  for  My  great  love's  sake. 

"Yet  if  thou  fearest  to  come, 
Speak  !  I  can  give  thee  fairest  earthly  things, 
Love,  and  sweet  peace  in  shelter  of  love's 
wings, 

By  pleasant  paths  of  home, 
And  thou  wilt  still  be  Mine. 
Choose  thou  thy  path  !  My  way  is  dark,  I 

know, 

Yet  through  the  moaning  wind,  and  rain, 
and  snow 

My  feet  should  go  with  thine." 

'One  groweth  wan  and  grey, 
Dieth  a  space  the  trembling  heart  in  him, 
Then  .he  doth  lift  his  weary  eyes  and  dim, 


With  ashen  lips  doth  say  : 
"  With  Thee  the  desert  sands  ! 
How  could  I  turn  from  Thee,  Thou  flower 

of  Pain  ! 

Or  trouble  Thee  with  weepings  loud  and 
vain 

And  wringing  of  the  hands  ? 

'  •'  If  the  rose  were  my  share, 
And  Thine  the  thorn,  how  could  I  lift  mine 

eyes 

One  day,  in  gold-green  fields  of  Paradise, 
To  Thine  eyes  dreamy  fair 
That  muse  on  Calvary  ? 
Under  the  sad  straight  brows  Thy  gaze  would 

say: 

'  Now,  heart !    in  what  dark  hour  of  night 
or  day 

Hast  thou  kept  watch  with  Me  ? ' ' 


AN  ANSWER. 

I  SAID,    "  The  year   hath   nothing  left  to 

bring," 

And  wearied  of  the  grey  November  skies, 
For  that  I  mourned  for  dead  and  vanished 

spring, 

And  rose-lit  summer's  flowery  argosies  ; 
For  that  I  yearned  for  golden  primrose  days, 
For  tender  skies,  for  thrush's  passionate 

strain, 

To  hear  again,  'mid  leafy  springtide  ways, 
The  sweet  small  footsteps  of  the  silvern 
rain. 

I  said,  "  The  glory  of  the  year  is  gone, 

The  very  sunlight  hath  a  tinge  forlorn, 
The  spectral  trees  loom,  desolate  and  wan, 

Of  their  late  regal  robes  bereft  and  shorn. 
Where  the  white  lilies  plumed  their  radiant 

heads, 
And    the    geranium    flashed  —  a    scarlet 

flame — 
Stretch  now  all  brown  and  bare  the  garden 

beds, 

Dead  are  all  fair  sweet  things  since  winter 
came. " 


POEMS  OF  KATHARINE  TYNAN. 


And  as  I  spake,  lo!  in  the  glimmering  West 

A  paly  streak  of  stormy  sunset  gold. 
And  near  me,  in  all  beauteous  colors  drest 
The  gentle  flower  that  fears  nor  frost  nor 

cold, 
The  brave  chrysanthemum;    there,  to  my 

heart, 
Said  I,  with  joy,  "  Though  'tis  not  always 

May, 

The  bounteous  mother  tires  not  of  her  part, 
Her  strong  white  hands  bear  gifts  for 
every  day." 


FRAANGELICO   AT  FIESOLE. 


HOME  through  the  pleasant  olive  woods  at 

even 

He  seest  the  patient  milk-white  oxen  go; 
Without  his  lattice  doves  wheel  to  and  fro, 
A  great  moon  climbs  the  wan  green  fields  of 

heaven. 
An  hour  since,   the   sun-veil   whereon  are 

graven 

Gold  bells  and  pomegranates  in  scarlet  show 
Parted,  and  lo!  the  city's  spires  of  snow 
Flushed  like  an  opal,  and  the  streets  gold 

paven ! 

Then  the  night's  purple  fell  and  hid  the  rest, 
And  this  monk's  eyes  filled  with  the  happy 

tears 

That  come  to  him  beholding  all  things  fair: 
A  bird's  flight  over  wan  skies  to  the  nest ; 
The  great  sad  eyes  of  beasts,  the  silk  wheat 

ears, 
Flowers,  or  the  gold  dust  on  a  baby's  hair. 

II. 

In  his  small  cell  he  hath  high  company,— 
Tin*  angels  make  it  their  abiding-place; 
Their  grave  eternal    eyes    'neath   brows   of 

grace 

Watch  hi  in  at  work,  their  great  wings  silently 
Wrap  him  around  with  peace;   and  it  may 

be 
That  looking  from  his  work  a  minute's  space, 


The  sudden  blue  eyes  of  an  angel's  face 
His  happy  startled  eyes  are  raised  to  see.  . 
Down  through   the   shadowy  corridor  they 

glide, 

Their  wings  auroral  trailing  soft  and  slow, 
Each  still  face  like  a  moon-lit  lily  in  June; 
They  kiss  with  fair  pale  lips  the  canvas  wide, 
Whereon   his   colours   like   dropped  jewels 

glow 
Against  a  gold  ground  pale  as  the  harvest 

moon. 


EASTERTIDE. 

To  me  sweet  Easter  cometh  fair  and  bright, 
Bringing  exceeding  joyaunce  and  delight, 
For  the  new   time  comes,  clothed  as  a 

bride, 

And  the  sad  grey  days  vanish  utterly  : 
Comes  the  young  Spring,  knee-deep  in  shin- 
ing flowers, 
And  the   old  earth   rejoiceth  through   the 

hours: 
She  hath  forgotten  her  fairest  ones  that 

died, 

When  the  fierce  winter  blighted  flower 
and  tree. 

Somewhere  while  small  glad  waters  croon  » 

song, 

And  a  soft  wind  is  captive  all  day  long, 
I  know  the  violet's  feet  are  lately  set, 
And   the   pale   primrose   star   of   hope 

hath  risen. 

About  the  land  the  grave  large  hills  are  blue. 
And  the  great  trees  grow  emerald  green  of 
hue. 

For  now  each  curled  babe-leaf  begins  to 

fret, 
Waking  and  stirring  in  its  cradle-prison. 

Now  from  our  slow  delicious  northern  spring. 

In  paschal  days  my  thoughts  are  wandering 

Unto  that  Orient  land,  bloom-bright  and 

warm: 

Where  the  dear  Jesus  walked  in  days  of 
old; 


726 


POEMS  OF  KATHARINE  TYNAN. 


I  think  all  things,  in  these  dim  mystic  days, 
Grew  fair  with  full  delight  before  his  face, 
Bloomed  the  grey  desert,  azure  grew  the 

storm, 

And  the  skies  shone  in  newer  rose  and 
gold. 

The  air  was  sweet  with  music  of  harp-strings, 

And  the  white  sudden  flash  of  angels'  wings, 

As  the  high  sentinels  passed  that  guarded 

Him. 
The  birds  sang  faint  for  rapture  in  the 

sky, 
The  small  meek  flowers  about  His  pathway 

lay 
flushed  with   desire  that  in  some  gracious 

day 
He  in  His  healing  hands  might  gather 

them, 

Or  that  beneath  His  feet  their  hearts 
might  lie. 


OLIVIA  AND  DICK  PRIMROSE. 

A  KUSTIC  maiden,  delicately  fair, 

With  sweet  mute  lips  and  eyes  serene  and 

mild, 

That  look  straight  sunward,  while  with  gen- 
tle air 

Clings  to  her  side  a  little  loving  child, 
Linking  a  chain  of  daisies;  this  is  all, 

And  yet  methinks  old  memories  bestir 
At  sight  of  this  maid-lily,  fair  and  tall, 

Sweet  as  the  rose  the  dainty  hands  of  her 
Enclose  in  careless  chains  and  happy  thrall. 

I  see  the- gentle  vicar,  old  and  kind, 

The  good  house-mother,  quick  to  blame 

arid  praise, 

All  the  quaint  story  rises  to  my  mind, 
The   meadow   bank    that    bloomed   with 

flowering  days: 
And  in  the  hay-field,  now  I  seem  to  see 

Olivia  stand  with  happy  downcast  eyes, 
Singing  with  simple  girlish  minstrelsy  ; 


While  o'er  the  ethereal  blue  of  summer 

skies 
Long  feathery  lines  of  cloud  float  restfully. 

***** 
He  sang   of   happy  homes,  who  home  had 

none, 
Of  sweet  hearth  joys  whose  way  was  lone 

and  bleak, 

And  oft  his  voice  rang  out  with  truest  tone 
When  wintry  winds  froze  tears  upon  his 

cheek. 

A  deathless  fount  of  joy  was  ever  springing 
From  out  his  bright  child-nature  pure  and 

sweet, 

Soft  comforting  and  surest  healing  bringing  ; 
And  when   earth's   sharpest   thorns   had 

pierced  his  feet 

His    way   was  gladdened   with   his   inward 
singing. 


THE   LARK'S  WAKING. 

0  PASSIONATE  heart !  before  the  day  is  born, 
When  the  faint  rose  of  dawn  a  shut  bud  lies, 
Dost  thou  not  wait,  hid  in  gold  spears  that 

rise 
Sweet    and   bejewelled   with    the    dews    of 

morn, 

Till  the  low  wind  of  daybreak  in  the  corn 
Moves  all  the   silken  ears  with  languorous 

sighs, 

And  the  fair  sun  rides  up  the  Eastern  skies, 
Clad  in  bright  robes  of  state  right  kingly 

worn  ? 
Then  dost  thou  cleave  the  air  on  rapturous 

wing, 
Where  the  far  east,  with  roseate  splendours 

fraught, 
Tells  that  no  more  can  night  enshroud  thy 

king, 

Or  the  pale  stars  his  empire  set  at  naught- 
Higher  and  higher,  till  the  clear  skies  ring 
With  the  wild  amorous  greeting  thou  hast 

brought. 


I'OK.MS   OF    KATHARIXK   TYNAN. 


CHARLES  LAMP.. 

DEAR  heart !  from  dim  Elizabethan  days 

Surely  thy  feet  strayed  to  our  garish  noon  ; 

Thou  shouldst  have  walked  beneath  a  yel- 
lowing moon, 

In  some  old  garden's  green  enchanted  ways, 

With  Herrick  and  Ben  Jon  son;  while  in 
praise 

Of  his  lady  trilled  the  nightingale's  full 
tune, — 

And  he  grown  still,  these  sang,  'neath  skies 
of  June, 

That  bent  to  hear,  catches  and  roundelays. 

In  fair  converse,  thou  might'st  have  wan- 
dered 

With  Burton's  self,  the  master  whose  rare 
thought 

Makes  Melancholy  glad  the  heart  like  wine  ; 

In  thy  earth -day,  those  high  compeers  were 
dead  ; 

How  pleasant  was  their  laughter,  had  they 
caught 

The  sallies  of  thy  humour,  quaint  and  fine  ! 


Ah  !    never    Autumn's    wealth    of    golden 

dowers, 

Atones  for  joy  that  all  the  fresh  June  fills, 
The  purple-hearted  solemn  passion-flowers, 
The  slender  shafts  of  moon-born  lilies  tall, 
The  most  fair  paleness  of  the  daffodils, 
The  cool  June  sky  which  beauty  sheds  o'er 

all. 


AUGUST  OR  JUNE. 

IN  the  rich  Autumn  weather, 
When  royal  August  visits  the  fair  land, 
Coming  with  pomp  and  coloured  pageantry, 
Flinging  around  him  with  a  lavish  hand, 
Gold  on  the  gorse  and  purple  on  the  heather, 
Across  the  land  as  far  as  eye  can  see, 
Under  his  tread  all  yellow  grows  the  wheat, 
All  purple  every  belt  of  perfumed  clover. 
Purple  and  gold,  fit  carpet  for  his  feet, 
This  harmony  of  colouring  and  light, 
And  all  the  happy  span-  he  passes  over. 
Grows  fruitful,  fair,  and  pleasant  to  the  sight . 

In  these  luxuriant  days, 

Have  we  no  sorrow  for  the  fair  June  hours 

\Ve  thought  so  sweet,  the  skies  we  denned 

so  blue, 

The  glad  young  world  so  prodigal  of  flowers, 
Of  form  most  perfect,  and  most  fair  of  Inn-;' 
ila\e  we  forgotten  all  the  leaf-hung  ways? 


FAINT-HEARTED. 

I  STAND  where  two  roads  part : 

Lord  !  art  Thou  with  me  in  the  shadows 

here? 

I  cannot  lift  my  heavy  eyes  to  see. 
Speak  to  me  if  Thou  art ! 

I  tremble,  and  my  heart  is  cold  with  fear  ; 
Dark  is  the  way  Thou  has  appointed  me. 

From  the  bright  face  of  day 

It  winds  far  down  a  valley  dark  as  death, 
And  shards  and  thorns  await  my  shrink- 
ing feet ; 
An  icy  mist  and  grey 

Comes    to  me,    chilling  me  with  awful 

breath  ; 

How  canst  Thou  say  Thy  yoke  is  light 
and  sweet  ? 

Nay,  these  are  pale  who  go 
Down  the  grey  shadows;   each  one,  tired 

and  worn, 
Bearing  a  cross  that  galleth   him  full 

sore; 
And  blood  of  this  doth  flow. 

And  that  one's  pallid  brows  are  rayed  with 

thorn, 

And  eyes  are  blind  with  weeping  ever- 
more. 

Still  they  press  onward  fast, 

And  the  shades  compass  them;    now.  far 

away, 

I  see  a  great  hill  shaped  like  Calvary  : 
Will  they  come  there  at  last  'J. 

A  reflex  from  some  far  fair  perfect  day 
Touches  the  high  clear  faces  goldenly. 


rss 


POEMS   OF  KATHARINE  TYNAN. 


Ah  !  yonder  path  is  fair, 

And  musical  with  many  singing  birds, 
Large  golden  fruit  and  rainbow-coloured 

flowers 
The  wayside  branches  bear  ; 

The  air  is  murmurous  with  sweet  love- 
words, 

And    hearts  are   singing  through   the 
happy  hours. 

Nay,  I  shall  look  no  more. 

Take  Thou  my  hands  between  Thy  firm 

fair  hands 
And  still  their  trembling,  and  I  shall 

not  weep. 
Some  day,  the  journey  o'er, 

My  feet  shall  tread  the  still  safe  evening- 
lands, 

Arid  Thou  canst  give  to  Thy  beloved, 
sleep. 

And  though  Thou  dost  not  speak, 

And   the   mists  hide  Thee,  now  I  know 

Thy  feet 
Will    tread    the    path    my   feet    walk 

wearily ; 
Some  day  the  veil  will  break, 

And  sudden  looking  up,  mine  eyes  shall 

meet 

Thine  eyes,  and  lo  !    Thine  arms  shall 
gather  me. 


THOKEAU  AT  WALDEN. 


A  LITTLE  log-hut  in  the  woodland  dim, 
A  still  lake,  like  a  bit  of  summer  sky, 
On  the  glad  heart  of  which  great  lilies  lie. 
"Ah!"   he  had  said,   "the  Naiads,  white 

of  limb." 
In  those  green  glooms  fair  shapes  did  come 

to  him, 

He  saw  a  Dryad's  sheeny  drapery 
Shimmer  at  dusk,  he  heard  Pan  pipe  hereby 
A  lusty  strain  to  fauns  and  satyrs  grim. 
For  that  he  was  fair  Nature's  leal  knight 


She  loved  him,  taught  him  all  her  gram- 
marye, 

All  the  quaint  secrets  of  her  magic  clime; 

He  heard  the  unborn  flowers'  springing 
footsteps  light, 

And  the  wind's  whisper  of  the  enchanted 
sea, 

And  the  birds  sing  of  love,  and  pairing- 
time. 

n. 

Seeking  this  sage  in  fair  fraternity 

Came  Hawthorne  here  and  Emerson,  I  know. 

0  happy  woods,  that  watched  them  to  and 

fro! 
Thrice  happy  woods,  that  hearkened  to  the 

three! 
Yet,  my   rare  Thoreau!   a   thought   comes 

to  me 

Of  one  sweet  soul  you  missed,  who  long  ago 
When    through   Assisi's   streets,  with   eyes 

aglow 

And  worn  meek  face,  and  lips  curved  ten- 
derly. 
So   for  God's  dumb  things  was  this  great 

heart  stirred, 

Called  he  the  happy  birds  his  sisters  sweet, 
The  fish  his  brethren,  blessed  them,  prayed 

with  them. 
Now,    my   sweet-hearted   Pagan !   had   you 

heard, 
You  would  have  wept  upon  his  wounded 

feet, 
And  craved  a  blessing  from  the  hands  of 

him. 


A  SAD  YEAR. 

1882. 

THE  last  month  being  come, 
December,  in  sad  guise  of  deathly  white, 
I  counted  with  sore  heart  the  sons  of  light 
Whose  wise  lips  had  grown  dumb 
Since  the  last  New  Year's  morn, 
And  thought  Death's  harvest  had  been  full 
and  wide, 


POEMS  OF  KATHARINE  TYNAN. 


Ami  fair  and  rich  the  grain  his  sweeping 
Had  gathered  to  the  barn.  [scythe 

Three  poets  died  in  Spring — 
We  wept  the  dear  dead  singer  of  the  West, 
Who  lay  with  sweet  wet  violets  on  his  breast 

When  leaves  were  bourgeoning; 

A  poet  spirit  fled 

From  Irish  shores,  in  Resurrection  days; 
And  England  twined  wan  immortelles  with 

For  one  beloved  grey  head.*  [hays 

And,  as  the  year  went  by,  [feast — 

Death  called  our  best  and   dearest  to  his 
Poet  and  artist,  ruler,  sage  and  priest, 

A  goodly  company. 

The  Spring's  flowers  waxed  pale, 
Summer  cast  rue  for  roses  in  her  path, 
And  the  lone  Autumn  brought  its  meed  of 

And  sad  was  Winter's  tale.  [death, 

And  so  my  heart  was  tired  [^in- 

Counting  the  loss,  and  knowing  not  the 
In  the  year's  cradles  many  a  babe  hath  lain; 

And  who  shall  be  inspired 

To  tell  our  hearts  that  weep 
What  gifts  the  sweet  small  hands  bring  far- 
off  years  ?  [tears 
We  know  but  this — that  "  they  who  sow  in 

In  shining  joy  shall  reap." 


A  SONG  OF  SUMMER. 

OH,  sweet  it  is  in  summer, 
When  leaves  are  fair  and  long, 
To  lie  amid  lush,  scented  grass, 
When-  gold  and  grey  the  shadows  pass, 
A  swift,  unresting  throng; 
And  hear  low  river  voices 
Sing  o'er  the  shining  sands, 
That  seem  a  glory  garb  to  wear 
Of  emerald  and  jacinth  rare, 
The  work  of  fairy  hands; 
And  see  afar  the  mountains,  heaven-kissed, 
Shine    through    the    white    rain's    silvery- 
sheeted  mist. 


*  Tin-  world  l..st  in  this  year  Longfellow,  D.  F.  McCarthy, 
and  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti. 


Oh,  fair  the  balmy  morning, 

When  gay  the  sun  doth  ride, 

And  white  plumes  sail  against  the  blue, 

And  all  the  land  is  fresh  with  dew, 

And  sweet  the  hay- fields  wide! 

Yet  fairer  windless  evening 

When  the  pale  vesper  star 

Parts  her  long  veil  of  dusky  hair, 

And  looks  with  gentle  eyes  and  fair 

From  palaces  afar, 

And  sings  the  nightingale  to  tranced  skies 

Of  love  and  pain  and  all  high  mysteries. 


A  BIRD'S  SONG. 

CHILL  was  the  air,  for  yet  the  year   was 

young,  [with  rain  ; 

Wan  was  the  sky,  the  clouds  were  fresh 

A  bird,  from  where  his  small,  soft  nest  was 

hung, 

Sang  very  joyously  a  tender  strain. 
For  he  had  seen,  near  where  a  giant  oak 
Stretched  out  its  Titan  branches,  strong 

and  sure, 

Close-sheltered,  in  a  quiet  moss-grown  nook, 
A  dainty  April  garden  liloom  secure. 

And  there  he  saw  the  sun-born  crocus,  tail. 
Shine  out  in  'broidered  bravery  of  gold : 

The  violet — no  longer  Winter's  thrall- 
Begin  her  purple  mantle  to  unfold. 

He  saw  the  primrose  star  rise  palely  fair 
From  where   the   mosses  thickly,  softly 
prow, 

And,  delicately  gleaming  in  the  air.    [snow. 
The  snowdrop's  fairy  robe  of  green  and 

And  oh!    with  sudden   flush   of    life  and 

heat, 

The    grey    March    world    for    him    was 

charmed  to  May:  [sweet. 

And  then  rang  out  in  bird-notes,  fresh  and 

A  jocund  carol  in  the  clear  cold  day. 
lie  heard   the  soft    wind  whisper  from  the 

\\Vst— 

The  promise  of  the  Summer's  blossoming: 
And  gleefully  he  sang  from  out  his  nest 
A  herald  welcome  to  the  coming  Spring. 


POEMS  OF  ARTHUR  O'SHAUGHNESSY, 

(WILLIAM  EDGAR.) 


ODE. 

WE  are  the  music  makers, 

And  we  are  the  dreamers  of  dreams, 
Wandering  by  lone  sea-breakers, 

And  sitting  by  desolate  streams; — 
World-losers  and  world -forsakers, 

On  whom  the  pale  moon  gleams  : 
Yet  we  are  the  movers  and  shakers 

Of  the  world  for  ever,  it  seems. 

With  wonderful  deathless  ditties 
We  build  up  the  world's  great  cities, 

And  out  of  a  fabulous  story 

We  fashion  an  empire's  glory  : 
•One  man  with  a  dream,  at  pleasure, 

Shall  go  forth  and  conquer  a  crown; 
And  three  with  a  new  song's  measure 

Can  trample  a  kingdom  down. 

We,  in  the  ages  lying 

In  the  buried  past  of  the  earth, 
Built  Nineveh  with  our  sighing, 

And  Babel  itself  in  our  mirth; 
And  o'erthrew  them  with  prophesying 

To  the  old  of  the  new  world's  worth; 
For  each  age  is  a  dream  that  is  dying, 

Or  one  that  is  coming  to  birth. 

A  breath  of  our  inspiration 
Is  the  life  of  each  generation; 

A  wondrous  thing  of  our  dreaming 

Unearthly,  impossible  seeming — 
The  soldier,  the  king,  and  the  peasant 

Are  working  together  in  one, 
Till  our  dream  shall  become  their  present, 

And  their  work  in  the  world  be  done. 

They  had  no  vision  amazing 
Of  the  goodly  house  they  are  raising: 
They  had  no  divine  foreshowing 
Of  the  laud  to  which  they  are  going; 


But  on  one  man's  soul  it  hath  broken, 

A  light  that  doth  not  depart ; 
And  his  look,  or  a  word  he  hath  spoken, 
.  Wrought  flame  in  another  man's  heart. 

And  therefore  to-day  is  thrilling 
With  a  past  day's  late  fulfilling; 

And  the  multitudes  are  enlisted 

In  the  faith  that  their  fathers  resisted, 
And,  scorning  the  dream  of  to-morrow, 

Are  bringing  to  pass,  as  they  may, 
In  the  world,  for  its  joy  or  its  sorrow, 

The  dream  that  was  scorned  yesterday. 

But  we,  with  our  dreaming  and  singing, 

Ceaseless  and  sorrowless  we! 
The  glory  about  us  clinging 

Of  the  glorious  futures  we  see: 
Our  souls  with  high  music  ringing, 

0  men  !  it  must  ever  be 
That  we  dwell,  in  our  dreaming  and  singing, 

A  little  apart  from  ye. 

For  we  are  afar  with  the  dawning 

And  the  suns  that  are  not  yet  high, 
And  out  of  the  infinite  morning 

Intrepid  you  hear  us  cry — 
How,  spite  of  your  human  scorning, 

Once  more  God's  future  draws  nigh, 
And  already  goes  forth  the  warning 

That  ye  of  the  past  must  die. 

Great  hail!  we  cry  to  the  comers 

From  the  dazzling  unknown  shore; 
Bring  iis  hither  your  sun  and  your  summers, 

And  renew  our  world  as  of  yore  ; 
You  shall  teach  us  your  song's  new  numbers, 

And  things  that  we  dreamed  not  before: 
Yea,  in  spite  of  a  dreamer  who  slumbers, 

And  a  singer  who  sings  no  more. 


I'OKMS  OF  ARTHUR  O'SII  AU(J  HNKSSV  (WILLIAM   KIXJAK). 


rsi 


SONG  OF  A  FELLOW-WORKER. 

I  FOUND  a  fellow-worker  when  I  deemed 

I  toiled  alone: 
My  toil  was  fashioning  thought  and  sound, 

and  his  was  hewing  stone; 
I  worked  in  the  palace  of  my  brain,  lie  in 

the  common  street, 
And  it  seemed  his  toil  was  great  and  hard, 

while  mine  was  great  and  sweet. 

I  said,  0  fellow- worker,  yea,  for  I  am  a 

worker  too, 
The  heart  nigh  fails  me  many  a  day,  but 

how  is  it  with  you  ? 
For  while  I  toil  great  tears  of  joy  will  some- 

t  lines  fill  my  eyes, 
And  when  I  form  my  perfect  work  it  lives 

and  never  dies. 

I  carve  the  marble  of  pure  thought  until 

the  thought  takes  form, 
Until  it  gleams  before  my  soul  and  makes 

the  world  grow  warm; 
Until  there  comes  the  glorious  voice  and 

words  that  seem  divine, 
And  the  music  readies  all  men's  hearts  and 

draws  them  into  mine. 

And  yet  for  days  it  seems  my  heart  shall 

blossom  never  more, 
And  the  burden  of  my  loneliness  lies  on  me 

very  sore: 
Therefore,  0  hewer  of  the  stones  that  pave 

base  human  ways, 
How  canst  thou  bear   the  years  till  death, 

made  of  such  thankless  days? 

Then  he  replied  :    Ere  silnrise,   when  the 

pale  lips  of  the  day 
Sent  forth   an   earnest  thrill   of   breath  at 

warmth  of  the  first  ray, 
A  great  thought  rose  within  me,  how,  while 

men  asleep  had  lain, 
The   thousand    labours   of    the    world    had 

grown  up  once  again. 

'I  he  sun  grew  on  the  world,  and  on  my  soul 

1 1 if  thought  grew  too — 
A  great  appalling  sun,  to  light  my  soul  the 

long  day  through. 


I  felt  the  world's  whole  burden  for  a  moment, 

then  began 
With    man's  gigantic  strength   to  do  the 

labour  of  one  man. 

I  went  forth  hastily,  and  lo!  I  met  a  hun- 
dred men, 

The  worker  with  the  chisel  and  the  worker 
with  the  pen — 

The  restless  toilers  after  good,  who  sow  and 
never  reap, 

And  one  who  maketh  music  for  their  souls 
that  may  not  sleep. 

Each  passed  me  with  a  dauntless  look,  and 

my  undaunted  eyes 
Were  almost  softened  as  they  passed  with 

tears  that  strove  to  rise 
At  sight  of  all  those  labours,  and  because 

that  every  one, 
Ay,  the  greatest,  would  be  greater  if  my 

little  were  undone. 

They  passed  me,  having  faith  in  me,  and  in 
our  several  ways,  [days: 

Together  we  began  to-day  as  on  the  other 

I  felt  their  mighty  hands  at  work,  and  as 
the  day  wore  through, 

Perhaps  they  felt  that  even  I  was  helping 
somewhat  too: 

Perhaps  they  felt,  as  with  those  liands  they 

lifted  mightily 
The  burden  once  more  laid  upon  the  world 

so  heavily, 
That  while  they  nobly  held  it  as  each  man 

can  do  and  bear, 
It  did  not  wholly  fall  my  side  as  though  no 

man  were  there. 

And  so  we  toil  together  many  a  day  from 

morn  till  night. 
I  in  the  lower  depths  of  life,  they  on  the 

lovely  height : 
For  though  the  eommon    stones  are  mine. 

and  they  have  lofty  cares, 
Their  work  begins  where  this  leaves  oil.  and 

mine  is  part  of  theirs. 

And  'tis  not  wholly  mine  or  theirs  I  think 
of  through  the  day. 


732  POEMS  OF  ARTHUR  O'SHAUGHNESSY  (WILLIAM  EUGAR). 


But  the  great  eternal  thing  we  make  to- 
gether. I  and  they; 

For  in  the  sunset  I  behold  a  city  that  Man 
owns, 

Made  fair  with  all  their  nobler  toil,  built  of 
my  common  stones. 

Then   noonward,   as  the   task   grows  light 

with  all  the  labour  done, 
The  single  thought  of  all  the  day  becomes 

a  joyous  one; 
For,   rising  in  my  heart  at  last,   where  it 

hath  lain  so  long, 
It  thrills  up  seeking  for  a  voice,  and  grows 

almost  a  song. 

But  when   the  evening  comes,  indeed,  the 

words  have  taken  wing, 
The  thought  sings  in  me  still,  but  I  am  all 

too  tired  to  sing; 
Therefore,  0  you,  my  friend,  who  serve  the 

world  with  minstrelsy, 
Among  our  fellow-workers'  songs  make  that 

one  song  for  me. 


A  PARABLE  OF  GOOD  DEEDS. 

A  WOMAN,  sweet,  but  humble  of  estate, 
Had  suddenly,  by  Providence  or  fate, 
Good  fortune  ;  for  a  rich  man  made  her  wife, 
And  raised  her  to  a  high  and  sumptuous 

life, 

With  gold  to  spare  and  pleasurable  things. 
Himself  being  great,  in  the  employ  of  kings, 
Earning  an  ample  wage  and  fair  reward, 
He  led  his  days  like  any  lord, 
That  made  him  rank  among  that  country's 

lords; 

But  little  pity  had  he  for  the  poor, 
Nor  cared  to  help  them  :   rather  from  his 

door 

Bidding  his  servants  drive  them  shamefully, 
Till  all  knew  better  than  from  such  as  he 
To  beg  for  food;   and  only  year  by  year 
Some    wanderer  out   of  other  lands   drew 

near 


His  hated  house.     Riches  corrode  the  heart 
That  hath  not  its  own  sweetness  set  apart. 
But    in    his  wife  no  inward    change   was 

wrought — 
Sweet   she   remained,   and  humble   in   her 

thought. 

And  lo!  one  day,  when,  at  the  king's  behest, 
This  man  was  gone,  there  came  and  asked 

for  rest 

A  certain  traveller,  sad  and  very  worn 
AVith   wayfaring,    whose   coat,    ragged   and 

torn 
By  rock  and  bramble,  showed  the  fashion 

strange 

Of  distant  countries  where  the  seasons  change 
A  different  way,  and  men  and  customs  too 
Are  strange;  and  though  the  woman  hardly 

knew 
His   manner   of   speech,    seeing   his   weary 

face, 

She  thought  of  toiling  kinsfolk  in  the  place 
Where  she  was  born,  and  knew  what  heavi- 
ness. 

It  was  to  fare  all  day  beneath  the  stress 
Of  burning  suns,  and  never  stay  to  slake 
The  bitter  thirst  or  lay  one  down  to  take 
A  needful  rest,  the  natural  due  of  toil ; 
So  she  dealt  kindly,  and  gave  wine  and  oil, 
And  bade  the  stranger  comfort  him  and  stay 
And  sleep  beneath  that  roof  upon  his  way: 
That  hour  the  sweetness  of  her  fettered  soul 
Was  like  the  stored-up  honey  of  a  whole 
Summer  in  one  rich  hive;   and  secretly 
She  wept  for  joy  to  think  that  she  might  be 
Helpful  to  one  in  need.     So  when  her  lord 
Returning  chided  her,  she  bore  his  word 
Meekly,  and  in  her  spirit  had  content. 

A  long  while  after  that,  a  poor  man,  bent 
And  weak   with   hunger,   wandered   there* 

and  prayed 

A  little  succour  for  God's  sake,  who  made 
The  rich  and  poor  alike,  and  every  man 
To  love  his  fellow.     But  the  servants  ran 
And   beat  him   from  the  house,  along  the 

lane, 
Back  to  the  common  road.     Ah  !  with  what 


She  saw  it,  but  durst  never  raise  her  voice 


POEMS  OF  ARTHUR  O'SHAT'criXHSSY  (WILLIAM  KDfJAR). 


733 


Against  her  husband's  rule!     Then  with  no 

noise 

She  went  out  from  the  house  into  the  street, 
And,  like  a  simple  serving- maid,  bought 

meat 

And  bread,  and  hurried  to  and  fro  to  find 
And  feed  the  starving  man.     That  day  the 

kind, 

Pitiful  heart  within  her  ached  full  sore, 
And  much  she  grieved,  thus  little  and  no 

more 

'Twas  hers  to  do  to  ease  so  great  a  woe, 
As  home  she  went  again,  that  none  might 

know. 

Then  at  another  time  it  chanced  tliat  one, 
AVliose  brother,  if  'twas  truth  he  told,  had 

run 

Into  the  den  of  robbers  unawares, 
And  lay  a  prisoner,  sought  that  house  of 

theirs, 
Having  fared   thus   and    thus   with    others 

first, 

To  gather  gold  enough  to  go  and  burst 
His  bonds.     And  lo!  her  husband  gave  him 

nought, 

But  bade  him  lie  again  to  those  he  caught 
With   such  a  shallow  tale.     But  she  was 

stirred 
Greatly   within;    and    rather    would    have 

erred, 

And  been  a  trickster's  dupe,  than  let  depart, 
Unhelped,  a  brother  with  a  bleeding  heart. 
And  so  when  none  was  nigh,  she  gathered 

all 
The  store  of  gifts  and  gold  that  she  could 

call 

1  ler  own,  and  gave  it  to  the  man.  Ah,  dear 
And  blissful  seemed  that  brother's  thanks 

to  hear. 

A  good  wife  with  her  husband  now  some 

span 
Of  years  she  dwelt,  and  had  one  fair  child 

born, 

And  life  grew  easier  to  her  every  morn  ; 
For  living  with  such  sweetness  day  by  day, 
The  hardest  heart  will  change,  and  put  a  win- 
Some  of  its  meanness.     So  it  did  not  fail 
But  that  her  husband  softened,  and  the  tale 


Of  poor  folks'  wrongs  would  strike  upon  his 

ear  [hear. 

With  a  new  sound  that  once  he  could  not 

At  length  he   died,  and   riches  with  him 
ceased;  [released 

The  king's  pay  came  no  more,  and  scarce 
From  greedy  creditors:  when  all  was  sold. 
The  woman  and  the  child  with  little  gold, 
A  meagre  sum  against  hard  want  and  shame, 
Went  forth,  to  find  the  land  from  whence. 

she  came. 

The  world  was  drear  to  them,  and  very  hard, 
E'en  as  to  others.     Luckless  or  ill-starred 
Their  wanderings  seemed.     One  day  their 

gold  was  spent, 

And  helpless,  in  a  sad  bewilderment, 
The  woman  sat  her  down  in  sore  distress 
In  the  lone  horror  of  the  wilderness. 

Then  the  child  cried  for  food,  and  soon 

again 
More  piteously  for  drink,  and  all  in  vain. 

And  the  poor  woman's  heart  of  love  was 

wrung 

With  agony;  all  hopelessly  she  hung 
Her  head  upon  her  breast,  and  said  "Ah  me! 
Life  is  no  longer,  child,  for  such  as  we  ; 
For  I  am  penniless,  and  men  give  nought 
To  those  tliat  cannot  buy! " 

Then  there  was  brought 
An  answer  in  her  ear  Avhich  said,  "  Not  so, 
But  thou  art  even  rich:  look  up  and  know !  " 

Therewith  she  looked  and  saw  three  persons, 

fair 

And  shining  as  God's  angels,  standing  there 
Beside  her  in  the  way. 

One  gave  the  child 
Drink  from  a  jewelled  cup;    one  held  high. 

piled 

With  richest  foods  and    fruit,  a  goodly  tray. 
And  bade  him  eat;  the  third  did  stoop  and  lay 
A  purse  upon  her  lap,  the  gold  in  which 
Sufficient  was  to  make  a  poor  man  rich. 
And    when   oVrwhelmed    with   joy.    and   in 

amaze, 


POEMS  OF  ARTHUR  O'SIIAUGHNESSY  (WILLIAM  EDGAR). 


Seeing  the  loveliness  beyond  all  praise 
Of  those  three  persons,  on  her  knees  she  sank 
To  worship  them  for  angels,  and  to  thank 
The  God  that  sent  them  to  her  in  her  need, 
They  said,  "0  woman,  kneel  not  to  us  in- 
deed, 
But  thank  thyself;    for  we  were   wrought 

by  thee, 

And  this  the  loveliness  that  thou  dost  see, 
Half  wondering,  is  thine  own,  the  very  light 
And  beauty  of  thy  soul,  for  just  so  bright 
We  are  as  thou  didst  make  us;   and  at  last 
Dost  thou  not  know  us  ?   is  all  memory  past 
Of  three  good  deeds  that  in  prosperity 
Thou  didst?    Those  three  good  deeds  of 
thine  are  we.'* 

And  then  they  walked  before  her,  and  she 

went 
And  found  her  home,   and  lived  in  great 

content. 


A  FALLEN  HERO. 

THEY  found  him  dead  upon  the  battle-field. 
One  said,  "A  hard  man,  and  with  scarce  a 

heart; 
There  lay  his  strength,  a  man  who  could  not 

yield. 

For,  after  all,  too  many,  playing  a  part 
Of  judge  or  warrior  in  the  Avorld,   strong- 
armed, 

Or  with  the  mental  sinews  stoutly  set 
To  the  far-reaching  thought,  have  faltered, 

charmed 
To  softness  and  half  purpose  when  they 

met 
The  sweet  appeal  of  individual  lives, 

Or  vanquished  by  the  look  of  wounded 

foes. 

This  man  was  iron.    Who  has  striven  strives 
Where  the  cause  leads  him;    where  that 
is,  who  knows  ? 

Content  with  partial  good  the  cooler  crowd, 

Using  its  heroes,  step  aside,  well  served, 
Waits  for  another;    and  the  applause,   so 
loud, 


So  general  once,  grows  fainter — more  re- 
served 
Around  his  steps  who,  holding  first  the  flag 

In  a  well-honoured  fight,  is  left  to  wage 
The  war  alone,  above  him  a  red  rag 

With  now  his  name  upon  it.     So,  'twas  a 

rage 
Urged  this  man  on;  good,  evil,  grew  but  in 

dreams, 
The   changeless   opposites;   and   to   com^ 

rades,  shamed 

Or  timely  fallen  away,  the  man  now  seems 
Well-nigh  the  contrary  of  the  thing  h& 
named. " 

Another  said,  "Ay,  seems  to  such  as  these 
WTho  fought  for  half  the  goal — the  goal 

was  good, 

Immense,  remote,  a  blessing  that  may  ease 
The   world    some   ages   hence;    half-way 

was  food, 

Content,  a  crumb  for  lesser  lives  to  gain  • 
He  gained  and  spurned  it  to  them.     For 

the  rest, 
The  future  man  may  count  his  death  not 

vain, 
Finding  him   in    Time's   strata,  as   with 

crest 
Frenzied  and  straining  jaws  and  limbs,  some 

old 

Imbedded  dragon  lies  defiant  still 
In  an  unfinished  fight.     If  such  pass  cold 
Mid  the  dwarfed  folk  whose  generations 

fill 

Their  striding  steps,  their  soul  is  all  the  sun 
Gilding  the  dawn  and  lengthening  out  the 

span 

Of  yet  unrisen  days,  when  men  may  run 
To  greater  heights  and  distances  of  man." 

A  third  said,  "  Yet  to  fall,  as  this  one  hath, 

Not  with  the  earlier  laurel  newly  earned, 

Nor  having  cleared  the  later  doubtful  path, 

But  with  a  red  sword  firmly  clutched  and 

turned 

Against  the  heart  of  his  time,  is  no  fair  fate. 

He  who  now  drives  a  hundred  men  to 

death  [hate 

Is  bound  to  show  the  thousand  saved;   else 


1'OKMS  OF  AKTIiril  O'SIIAUGIINKSSV  (WILLIAM  EDGAR). 


736 


And  scorn  will  quickly  blow  him  such  a 

breath 
No  flowers  will  grow  about  his  memory, 

No  goodly  praise  sit  well  upon  his  name. 

The  men,  who  for  his  shadow  could  not  see 

The  peaceful  sun  of  half  their  days,  cry 

shame 

Against  him;   lives  he  stinted  of  their  love, 
Denying   his    own,    lopping    the    tender 

boughs 
And  leaflets  that  the  trunk  might  rise  above 

Its  fellows,  spoil  the  glory  on  his  brows, 
Accuse  him  just  as  surely  with  their  tears 
And  ruin  as  with  words  that  seemed  too 
weak. 

"  Better,  perhaps,  out  of  the  hopes  and  fears 
That  round  the  generation's  life,  to  speak 
And  win  assent  of  every  lesser  man, 

Or,  fighting,  only  wrest  from  that  dark 

foe, 

The  Future,  jealous  holding  all  she  can 
For  hers  unborn,  some  moderate  trophy, 

no 

Abiding  portion;  dazzled,  men  will  praise, 
While  that  great  gift  the  dream-led  seeker 
strives  [raise 

To  gain  and  give  them,  scarcely  they  may 
Their  hearts  to  the  great  love  of  all  their 
lives." 

So  spake  they  round  one  fallen  in  a  fight, 
W hence  most  had  turned  away,  deeming 

the  good 

A  doubtful  one,  the  further  path  too  rife 
With  thrusts  across  the  common  ground, 

where  stood 
Friend  and  foe  mingled.    Half  praise,  almost 

blame 

One  and  another  uttered,  as  they  gazed 
Down  at  the  dead  set  face,  and  named  the 

name 
That   once   upon  their  foremost   banner 

biased, 

But  late  flashed  fitfully  on  distant  quest 
Strained   past  endurance.     Bitterness  still 

wrought 

Somewhat  within  their  hearts,  or  memory 
prest 


Maybe  upon  them  with  some  late  look 

fnmght 

With  passing  scorn,  and  these — the  feet  that 

rushed 
Onward,  too  reckless  of  weak  lives  that 

hide 
Along    the    wayside    of    the    world — had 

crushed. 

But  lo  1  a  woman  wrung  her  hands  and  cried,. 
"Ah,    my    beloved !    ah,    the    good,    the 

true  ! " 
And  clasped  him  lying  on  the  ground,  and 

kept 

Her  arms  about  him  there.    She  only  knew 
The  passion  of  the  man,  and  when  he  wept. 


BLACK  MARBLE. 

SICK  of  pale  European  beauties,  spoiled 

By  false  religions,  all  the  cant  of  priests 
And  mimic  virtues,  far  away  I  toiled 

In   lawless  lands,   with  savage  men   and 

beasfsi 

Across  the  bloom-hung  forest,  in  the  way 
Widened  by  lions  or  where  the  winding 

snake 
Had  pierced,  I  counted  not  each  night  and 

day, 
Till,  gazing  through  a  flower-encumbered 

brake, 
I  crouched  down  like  a  panther  watching 

prey- 
Black  Venus  stood  beside  a  sultry  lake. 

The  naked  negress  raised  on  high  her  arms. 
Round  as  palm-saplings;  onp-flfaapedeithei 

breast, 
Unchecked    by    needless    shames    or    cold 

alarms, 
Swelled,  like  a  burning  mountain,  with 

the  zest 

Of  inward  life,  and  lipped  itself  with  fire: 
Fashioned  to  crush  a  lover  or  a  foe, 

Her  pi-oiid  limbs  owned  their  strength,, 
her  waist  its  span, 


736 


POEMS  OF  KEY.    ABEAM  J.    RYAN. 


Her  fearless  form  its  faultless  curves.     And 

lo!— 

The  lion  and  the  serpent  and  the  man 
Watched  her  the  while  with  each  his  own 
desire. 


IN  THE  OLD  HOUSE. 

IN  the  old  house  where  we  dwelt 

No  care  had  come,  no  grief  we  knew, 
No  memory  of  the  Past  we  felt, 
No  doubt  assailed  ns  when  we  knelt ; 
It  is  not  so  in  the  new. 


In  the  old  house  where  we  grew 
From  childhood  up,  the  days  were  dreams, 
The  summers  had  unwonted  gleams, 

The  sun  a  warmer  radiance  threw 
Upon  the  stair.     Alas  !  it  seems 

All  different  in  the  new  ! 

Our  mother  still  could  sing  the  strain 

In  earlier  days  we  listened  to; 

The  white  threads  in  her  hair  were  few, 
She  seldom  sighed  or  suffered  pain. 
Oh,  for  the  old  house  back  again  ! 

It  is  not  so  in  the  new. 


POEMS  OF  REV,  ABRAM  J,  RYAN, 

"THE  POET-PRIEST  OF  THE  SOUTH." 


THE  CONQUERED  BANNER. 

FUEL  that  Banner,  for  'tis  weary; 
Round  its  staff  'tis  drooping  dreary; 

Furl  it,  fold  it,  it  is  best; 
For  there's  not  a  man  to  wave  it, 
And  there's  not  a  sword  to  save  it, 
And  there's  not  one  left  to  lave  it 
In  the  blood  which  heroes  gave  it; 
And  its  foes  now  scorn  and  brave  it; 

Furl  it,  hide  it — let  it  rest! 

Take  that  Banner  down!  'tis  tattered; 
Broken  is  its  staff  and  shattered  ; 
And  the  valiant  hosts  are  scattered 

Over  whom  it  floated  high. 
Oh!  'tis  hard  for  us  to  fold  it; 
Hard  to  think  there's  none  to  hold  it; 
Hard  tha.t  those  who  once  unrolled  it 

Now  must  furl  it  with  a  sigh. 


Furl  that  Banner!  furl  it  sadly! 
Once  ten  thousands  hailed  it  gladly, 
And  ten  thousands  wildly,  madly, 

Swore  it  should  forever  wave; 
Swore  that  foeman's  sword  should  never 
Hearts  like  theirs  entwined  dissever, 
Till  that  flag  should  float  forever 

O'er  their  freedom  or  their  grave! 

Furl  it !  for  the  hands  that  grasped  it, 
And  the  hearts  that  fondly  clasped  it, 

Cold  and  dead  are  lying  low; 
And  that  Banner — it  is  trailing! 
While  around  it  sounds  the  wailing 

Of  its  people  in  their  woe. 

For,  though  conquered,  they  adore  it ! 
Love  the  cold,  dead  hands  that  bore  it ! 
Weep  for  those  who  fell  before  it ! 


1'OKMS   OF   REV.    ABRAM  J.    RYAN. 


i37 


Pardon  tliose  who  trailed  and  tore  it ! 
But,  oh  !  wildly  they  deplore  it, 
Now  who  furl  and  fold  it  so. 

Furl  that  Banner!     True,  'tis  gory, 
Yet  'tis  wreathed  around  with  glory, 
And  'twill  live  in  song  and  story, 

Though  its  folds  are  in  the  dust: 
For  its  fame  on  brightest  pages, 
Penned  by  poets  and  by  sages, 
Shall  go  sounding  down  the  ages — 

Furl  its  folds  though  now  we  must. 

Furl  that  Banner,  softly,  slowly  ! 
Treat  it  gently — it  is  holy — 

For  it  droops  above  the  dead. 
Touch  it  not — unfold  it  never, 
JJet  it  droop  there,  furled  forever, 

For  its  people's  hopes  are  dead! 


SENTINEL  SONGS. 

WHEN  falls  the  soldier  brave, 

Dead  at  the  feet  of  wrong, 
The  poet  sings  and  guards  his  grave 

With  sentinels  of  song. 

Songs,  march!  he  gives  command, 

Keep  faithful  watch  and  true; 
The  living  and  dead  of  the  conquered  land 

I  hive  now  no  guards  save  you. 

Gray  ballads!  mark  ye  well! 

Thrice  holy  is  your  trust ! 
Go!  halt  by  the  fields  where  warriors  fell; 

Rest  arms!  and  guard  their  dust. 

List!  Songs!  your  watch  is  long, 

The  soldiers'  guard  was  brief  ; 
Whilst  right  is  right,  and  wrong  is  wrong, 

Ye  may  not  seek  relief. 

Go!  wearing  the  gray  of  grief  ! 

Go!  watch  o'er  the  dead  in  gray! 
Go!  guard  the  private  and  guard  the  chief, 

And  sentinel  their  clay! 
47 


And  the  songs,  in  stately  rhyme 
And  with  softly-sounding  tread, 

Go  forth,  to  watch  for  a  time — a  time — 
Where  sleep  the  Deathless  Dead. 

And  the  songs,  like  funeral  dirge, 

In  music  soft  and  low, 
Sing  round  the  graves,  whilst  hot  tears  surge 

From  hearts  that  are  homes  of  woe. 

What  tho'  no  sculptured  shaft 

Immortalize  each  brave? 
What  tho'  no  monument  epitaphed 

Be  built  above  each  grave  ? 

When  marble  wears  away 

And  monuments  are  dust, 
The  songs  that  guard  our  soldiers'  clay 

Will  still  fulfill  their  trust. 

With  lifted  head  and  steady  tread, 
Like  stars  that  guard  the  skies, 

Go  watch  each  bed  where  rest  the  dead, 
Brave  songs,  with  sleepless  eyes. 
*  *  *  * 

When  falls  the  cause  of  Right, 

The  poet  grasps  his  pen, 
And  in  gleaming  letters  of  living  light 

Transmits  the  truth  to  men. 

Go!  Songs!  he  says  who  sings; 

Go!  tell  the  world  this  tale; 
Bear  it  afar  on  your  tireless  wings; 

The  Right  will  yet  prevail. 

Songs!  sound  like  the  thunder's  breath! 

Boom  o'er  the  world  and  say: 
Brave  men  may  dit — Right  has  no  death! 

Truth  never  shall  pass  away! 

Go!  sing  thro'  a  nation's  sighs! 

Go!  sob  thro'  a  people's  tears! 
Sweep  the  horizons  of  all  the  skies, 

And  throb  through  a  thousand  years  I 

And  the  songs,  uith  brave,  sad  face, 

Go  proudly  down  their  way, 
Wailing  the  loss  of  a  conquered  race 

And  waiting  an  Easter-day. 


rss 


POEMS  OF   REV.    ABRAM  J.    RYAN. 


Away!  away!  like  the  birds, 

They  soar  in  their  flight  sublime; 

And  the  waving  wings  of  the  poet's  words 
Flash  down  to  the  end  of  time. 

When  the  flag  of  justice  fails, 
Ere  its  folds  have  yet  been  furled, 

The  poet  waves  its  folds  in  wails 
That  flutter  o'er  the  world. 


MARCH  OF  THE  DEATHLESS  DEAD. 

GATHER  the  sacred  dust 

Of  the  warriors  tried  and  true, 
"Who  bore  the  flag  of  a  Nation's  trust 
And  fell  in  a  cause,  though  lost,  still  just, 
And  died  for  me  and  you. 

Gather  them  one  and  all, 

From  the  private  to  the  chief, 
Come  they  from  hovel  or  princely  hall, 
They  fell  for  us,  and  for  them  should  fall 

The  tears  of  a  Nation's  grief. 

Gather  the  corpses  strewn 

O'er  many  a  battle  plain; 
From  many  a  grave  that  lies  so  lone, 
Without  a  name  and  without  a  stone, 

Gather  the  Southern  slain. 

We  care  not  whence  they  came 

Dear  in  their  lifeless  clay! 
Whether  unknown,  or  known  to  fame, 
Their  cause  and  country  still  the  same; 

They  died — and  wore  the  Gray. 

Wherever  the  brave  have  died, 

They  should  not  rest  apart; 
Living,  they  struggled  side  by  side, 
Why  should  the  hand  of  Death  divide 

A  single  heart  from  heart  ? 

Gather  their  scattered  clay, 

Wherever  it  may  rest; 
Just  as  they  inarched  to  the  bloody  fray, 
Just  as  they  fell  on  the  battle  day, 

Bury  them  breast  to  breast. 


The  f  oeman  need  not  dread 

This  gathering  of  the  brave; 
Without  sword  or  flag,  and  with  soundless 

tread, 
We  muster  once  more  our  deathless  dead, 

Out  of  each  lonely  grave. 

The  foeman  need  not  frown, 

They  all  are  powerless  now; 
We  gather  them  here  and  we  lay  them  down,. 
And  tears  and  prayers  are  the  only  crown 

We  bring  to  wreathe  each  brow. 

And  the  dead  thus  meet  the  dead, 

While  the  living  o'er  them  weep; 
And  the  men  by  Lee  and  Stonewall  led, 
And  the  hearts  that  once  together  bled,, 
Together  still  shall  sleep. 


SONG   OF  THE  MYSTIC. 

I  WALK  down  the  Valley  of  Silence — 
Down  the  dim,  voiceless  valley — alone ! 

And  I  hear  not  the  fall  of  a  footstep 
Around  me,  save  God's  and  my  own; 

And  the  hush  of  my  heart  is  as  holy 
As  hovers  where  angels  have  flown ! 

Long  ago  was  I  weary  of  voices 

Whose  music  my  heart  could  not  win;- 

Long  ago  was  I  weary  of  noises 

That  fretted  my  soul  with  their  din; 

Long  ago  was  I  weary  of  places 

Where  I  met  but  the  human— and  sin. 

I  walked  in  the  v/orld  with  the  worldly; 

I  craved  what  the  world  never  gave; 
And  I  said:  "  In  the  world  each  Ideal, 

That  shines  like  a  star  on  life's  wave, 
Is  wrecked  on  the  shores  of  the  Real, 

And  sleeps  like  a  dream  in  a  grave." 

And  still  did  I  pine  for  the  Perfect, 

And  still  found  the  False  with  the  True; 

I  sought  'mid  the  Human  for  Heaven, 
But  caught  a  mei*e  glimpse  of  its  Blue: 

And  I  wept  when  the  clouds  of  the  Mortal 
Veiled  even  that  glimpse  from  my  view. 


POEMS  OF   REV.  ABRAM  J.  RYAN. 


739 


And  I  toiled  on,  heart-tired  of  the  Human; 

And  I  moaned  'mid  the  mazes  of  men; 
Till  I  knelt,  long  ago,  at  an  altar 

And  I  heard  a  voice  call  me  : — since  then 
I  walk  down  the  Valley  of  Silence 

That  lies  far  beyond  mortal  ken. 

Do  yon  ask  what  I  found  in  the  Valley  ? 

'Tis  my  Try  sting  Place  with  the  Divine. 
And  I  fell  at  the  feet  of  the  Holy, 

And  above  me  a  voice  said:  "  Be  mine." 
And  there  arose  from  the  depths  of  my  spirit 

An  echo — "  My  heart  shall  bo  thine." 

Do  you  ask  how  I  live  in  the  Valley? 

I  weep — and  I  dream — and  I  pray. 
But  my  tears  are  as  sweet  as  the  dewdrops 

That  fall  on  the  roses  in  May; 
And  my  prayer,  like  a  perfume  from  Censers, 

Ascendeth  to  God  night  and  day. 

In  the  hush  of  the  Valley  of  Silence 
I  dream  all  the  songs  that  I  sing; 

And  the  music  floats  down  the  dim  Valley, 
Till  each  finds  a  word  for  a  wing, 

That  to  hearts,  like  the  Dove  of  the  Deluge, 
A  message  of  Peace  they  may  bring. 

But  far  on  the  deep  there  are  billows 
That  never  shall  break  on  the  beach; 

And  I  have  heard  songs  in  the  Silence, 
That  never  shall  float  into  speech; 

And  I  have  had  dreams  in  the  Valley, 
Too  lofty  for  language  to  reach. 

And  I  have  seen  Thoughts  in  the  Valley — 
Ah!  me,  how  my  spirit  was  stirred! 

And  they  wear  holy  veils  on  their  faces, 
Their  footsteps  can  scarcely  be  heard: 

They  pass  through  the  Valley  like  Virgins, 
Too  pure  for  the  touch  of  a  word  ! 

Do  you  ask  me  the  place  of  the  Valley, 
Ye  hearts  that  are  harrowed  by  Care? 

It  lieth  afar  between  mountains 
And  (Jod  and  His  angels  are  there: 

And  one  is  the  dark  mount  of  Sorrow, 
And  one  the  bright  mountain  of  Prayer! 


LINES— 1875. 

Go  down  where  the  wavelets  are  kissing  the 

shore, 

And  ask  of  them  why  do  they  sigh  ? 
The  poets  have  asked  them  a  thousand  times 

o'er, 
But  they're  kissing  the  shore  as  they  kissed 

it  before. 
And  they're  sighing  to-day  and  they'll  sigh 

evermore.  [reply, 

Ask  them  what  ails  them:  they  will  not 
But  they'll  sigh  on  forever  and  never  tell  why! 
Why  does  your  poetry  sound  like  a  sigh?  [I. 
The  waves  will  not  answer  you;  neither  shall 

Go  stand  on  the  beach  of  the  blue  boundless 

deep, 

When  the  night  stars  are  gleaming  on  high, 
And  hear  how  the  billows  are  moaning  in 

sleep, 
On  the  low-lying  strand  by  the  surge-beaten. 

steep.  [sweep. 

They're  moaning  forever  wherever  they 
Ask  them  what  ails  them:  they  never  reply; 
They  moan,  and  so  sadly,  but  will  not  tell 

why  ! 

Why  does  your  poetry  sound  like  a  sigh  ? 
The  waves  will   not  answer  you;    neither 

shall  I. 

Go  list  to  the  breeze  at  the  waning  of  day, 
When  it  passes  and  murmurs  "  Good-bye."" 
The  dear  little  breeze — how  it  wishes  to  stay 
Where  the  flowers  are  in  bloom,  where  the 

singing  birds  play;  [way. 

How  it  sighs  when  it  flies  on  its  wearisome 
Ask  it  what  ails  it;  it  will  not  reply, 
Its  voice  is  a  sad  one,  it  never  told  why. 
Why  does  your  poetry  sound  like  a  sigh? 
The  breeze  will   not  answer  you;   neither 

shall  I. 

Go  watch  the  wild  blasts  as  they  spring  from 
their  lair, 

When  the  shout  of  the  storm  rends  the  sky: 

They  rush  o'er  the  earth  and  they  ride  thro' 
the  air 

And  they  blight  witli  their  breath  all  tin- 
lovely  and  fair, 


740 


POEMS  OF  REV.  ABRAM  J.  RYAN. 


And  they  groan  like  the  ghosts  in  the  "  land 

of  despair." 

Ask  them  what  ails  them:  they  never  reply; 
Their  voices  are  mournful,  they  will  not  tell 

why. 

Why  does  your  poetry  sound  like  a  sigh  ? 
The  blasts  will  not  answer  you;  neither  shall 

I. 

Go  stand  on  the  rivulet's  lily-fringed  side, 

Or  list  where  the  rivers  rush  by; 

The  streamlets  which    forest  trees  shadow 

and  hide, 
And  the  rivers  that  roll  in  their  oceanward 

tide, 

Are  moaning  forever  wherever  they  glide; 
Ask  them  what  ails  them:    they  will   not 

reply. 
On — sad-voiced — they  flow,  but  they  never 

tell  why. 

Why  does  your  poetry  sound  like  a  sigh  ? 
Earth's  streams  will  not  answer  you;  neither 

shall  I. 

Go  list  to  the  voices  of  air,  earth  and  sea, 
And  the  voices  that  sound  in  the  sky; 
Their  songs  may  be  joyful  to  some,  but  to  me 
There's  a  sigh  in  each  chord  and  a  sigh  in 

each  key, 
And  thousands  of   sighs  swell  their  grand 

melody. 
Ask   them  what  ails  them:    they  will   not 

reply. 

They  sigh — sigh  forever — but  never  tell  why. 
Why  does  your  poetry  sound  like  a  sigh  ? 
Their  lips  will  not  answer  you;   neither  will 

I! 


THE   SONG  OF  THE    DEATHLESS 
VOICE. 

'  TWAS  the  dusky  Hallowe'en — 
Hour  of  fairy  and  of  wraith, 
When  in  many  a  dim-lit  green, 
'Neath  the  stars'  prophetic  sheen 
As  the  olden  legend  saith, 
All  the  future  may  be  seen, — 


And  when, — an  older  story  hath — 
Whate'er  in  life  hath  ever  been 
Loveful,  hopeful,  or  of  wrath, 
Cometh  back  upon  our  path. 
I  was  dreaming  in  my  room, 
'  Mid  the  shadows, — still  as  they; 
Night,  in  veil  of  woven  gloom 
Wept  and  trailed  her  tresses  gray 
O'er  her  fair,  dead  sister — Day. 
To  me  from  some  far-away 
Crept  a  voice — or  seemed  to  creep — 
As  a  wave-child  of  the  deep, 
Frightened  by  the  wild  storm's  roar. 
Creeps  low-sighing  to  the  shore. 
Very  low  and  very  lone 
Came  the  voice  with  song  of  moan. 
This,  weak-sung  in  weaker  word, 
Is  the  song  that  night  I  heard. 
*  *  * 

How  long,  alas  !  How  long  ! 
How  long  shall  the  Celt  chant  the  sad  song 

of  hope 
That  a  sunrise  may   break  on  the  long 

starless  night  of  our  past  ? 
How  long  shall  we  wander  and  wait  on  the 

desolate  slope 

Of  Tabors  that  promise  our  Transiigura- 
tion  at  last  ? 

How  long,  0  Lord  !  How  long  ! 

How  long,  0  Fate  !  How  long  ! 
How  long  shall  our  sunburst  reflect  but  the 

sunset  of  Right 

When  gloaming  still  lights  the  dim  imme- 
morial years? 
How  long  shall  our  harp's  strings,  like  winds 

that  are  wearied  of  night, 
Sound  sadder  than  meanings  in  tones  all 
a- trembling  with  tears? 

How  long,  0  Lord!  How  long! 

How  long,  0  Right !  How  long! 
How  long  shall  our  banner,  the  brightest  that 

ever  did  flame 
In  battle  with  wrong,  droop  furled  like  a 

flag  o'er  a  grave  ? 

How  long  shall  we  be  but  a  nation  with  only 
a  name 


POEMS  OF   REV.  AH  I!  AM    J,    1,'YAN. 


741 


Whoso  history  clanks  with  the  sounds  of 
the  chains  that  enslave  ? 

How  long,  0  Lord!  How  long! 

How  long!  Alas,  how  long! 
How  long  shall  our  isle  be  ti  Golgotha,  out 

in  the  sea 
"With  a  Cross  in  the  dark, — oh,  when  shall 

our  Good  Friday  close  ? 
How  long  shall  thy  sea  that  beats  round  thee 

bring  only  to  thee 

The  wailiugs,  0  Erin!  that  float  down  the 
waves  of  thy  woes? 

How  long,  0  Lord!  How  long! 

How  long!  Alas,  how  long! 
How  long  shall  the  cry  of  the  wronged,  0 

Freedom!  for  thee 

Ascend  all  in  vain  from  the  valleys  of  sor- 
row below? 
How  long  ere  the  dawn  of  the  day  in  the 

ages  to  be 

When  the  Celt  will  forgive, — or  else  tread 
on  the  heart  of  his  foe  ? 

How  long,  O  Lord  !  How  long! 
*  *  * 

Whence  came  the  voice  ?    Around  me  gray 

silences  fall: 
And  without  in  the  gloom  not  a  sound  is 

astir  'neath  the  sky; 
And  who  is  the  singer?    Or  hear  I  a  singer 

a  tall?    ' 

Or,  hush!     Is't  my  heart athrill  with  some 
deathless  old  cry  ? 

Ah!  blood  forgets  not  in  its  flowing  its  fore- 
fathers' wrongs — 
They  are  the  heart's  trust,  from  which 

we  may  ne'er  be  released: 
Blood  keeps  in  its  throbs  the  echoes  of  all 

the  old  songs, 

And  sings  them  the  best  when  it   flows 
thro'  the  heart  of  a  priest. 

Am  I  not  in  my  blood  as  old  as  the  race 

whence  I  sprung? 

In  the  cells  of  my  heart  feel  I  not  all  its 
ebb  and  its  flow  ? 


And  old  as  our  race  is,  is  it  not  still  forever 

as  young 

As  the  youngest  of  Celts  in  whose  breaM 
Erin's  love  is  aglow  ? 

The  blood  of  a  race  that  is  wronged  beats  the 

longest  of  all; 
For  long  as  the  wrong  lasts,  each  drop  of 

it  quivers  with  wrath: 
And  sure  as  the  race  lives — no  matter  what 

fates  may  befall 

There's  a  Voice  with  a  Song  that  forever 
is  haunting  its  path. 

Aye,  this  very  hand  that  trembles  thro'  this 

very  line 
Lay  hid,  ages  gone,  in  the  hand  of  some 

forefather-Celt, 
With  a  sword  in  its  grasp — if  stronger  not 

truer  than  mine — 

And  I  feel,  with  my  pen,  what  the  old 
hero's  sworded-hand  felt — 

The  heat  of  the  hate  that  flashed  into  flames 

against  wrong — 
The  thrill  of  the  hope  that  rushed  like  a. 

storm  on  the  foe; 
And  the  sheen  of  that  sword  is  hid  in  the 

sheath  of  the  song 

As  sure  as  I  feel  thro'  my  veins  the  pun- 
Celtic  blood  flow. 

The  ties  of  our  blood  have  been  strained  o'er 

thousands  of  years, 
And  still  are  not    severed,   how  mighty 

soever  the  strain; 
Theclialice  of  time  o'erflows  with  the  streams 

of  our  tears, — 

Yet  just  as  the  shamrocks,  to  bloom,  need 
the  clouds  and  their  rain, 

The  faith  of  our  fathers,  our  hopes  and  the 

love  of  our  isle 
Need  the  rain  of  our  hearts  that  falls  from 

our  grief-clouded  eyes 
To  keep  them  in  bloom,  while  for  ages  wo 

wait  for  the  smile 

Of  Freedom  that  some  day — ah,  some  day! 
shall  light  Erin's  skies. 


742 


POEMS   OF  FANNY   PARNELL. 


Our  dead  are  not  dead  who  have  gone,  long 

ago,  to  their  rest ; 
They  are  living  in  us  whose  glorious  race 

will  not  die — 
Their  brave  buried  hearts  are  still  beating  on 

in  each  breast 

Of  the  child  of  each  Celt  in  each  clime 
'  neath  the  infinite  sky. 


Many  days  yet  to  come  may  be  dark  as  the 

days  that  are  past, 
Many  voices  may  hush, — while  the  great 

years  sweep  patiently  by. 
But  the  voice  of  our  race  shall  live  sounding 

down  to  the  last, 

And  our  blood  is  the  bard  of  the  song  that 
never  shall  die. 


POEMS  OF  FANNY  PARNELL 


IRELAND,  MOTHER! 

VEIN  of  my  heart,  light  of  mine  eyes, 
Pulse  of  my  life,  star  of  my  skies, 
Dimmed  is  thy  beauty,  sad  are  thy  sighs, 
Fairest  and  saddest,  what  shall  I  do  for  thee  ? 

Ireland,  mother! 

Vain,  ah,  vain  is  a  woman's  prayer; 
Vain  is  a  woman's  hot  despair; 
Naught  can  she  do,  naught  can  she  dare, — 
I  am  a  woman,  I  can  do  naught  for  thee; 

Ireland,  mother! 

Hast  thou  not  sons,  like  the  ocean-sands  ? 
Hast  thou  not  sons  with  brave  hearts  and 

hands  ? 
Hast  thou  not  heirs  for  thy  broad,  bright 

lands  ? 
What  have  they  done, — or  what  will  they  do 

for  thee  ? 

Ireland,  mother! 

Were  I  a  man  from  thy  glorious  womb, 
I'd  hurl  the  stone  from  thy  living  tomb; 
Thy  grief  should  be  joy,  and  light  thy  gloom, 


The  rose   should  gleam   'mid  thy  golden 

broom, 
Thy    marish   wastes    should    blossom    and 

bloom; 

I'd  smite  thy  foes  with  thy  own  long  doom, 
While  God's  heaped  judgments  should  round 

them  loom; 

Were  I  a  man,  lo!  this  would  I  do  for  thee, 

Ireland,  mother! 


SHE  IS  NOT  DEAD! 

'Ireland  is  a  corpse  on  the  dissecting-table." 

WHO  said  that  thou  wast  dead,  0  darling  of 

my  heart  ? 

My  fairest  one  amid  the  daughters, 
My  lily  brooding  on  the  waters, — 
Who  said  that  thou  wast  dead,  and  I  from 
thee  must  part? 

Who  said  that  thou  wast  dead,  and  called  me 

from  thy  side  ? 
Bright  saint  and  queen  of  my  devotion, 


POEMS  OF  FANNY   PARNELL. 


743 


My  spotless,  priceless  pearl  of  ocean, — 
My  bitter  ban  shall  rest  upon  the  knaves  who 
lied! 

They  said  that  thou  wast  dead,  tho'  fair  thy 

beauty  shone, 

My  sweet  Undine  gently  gleaming 
Thro'  crystal  mists  of  tear-drops  stream- 
ing, 

That  catcli  the  iris-tints  from  Aphrodite's 
zone. 

They  said  that  thou  wast  dead,  oh,  chosen 

one  of  Fate, — 

My  sovereign  lady  proud  and  peerless, 
My  swan-like  Valkyr  wild  and  fearless, 
My  deathless  maid  whose  soul  recks  not  for 
love  or  hate. 

They  said  that  thou  wast  dead,  they  wiled  me 

far  from  thee; 

But  ah!  my  heart  was  sadly  pining, — 
Its  tendrils  still  around  thee  twining, 
Drew  back  my  soul  in  bonds,  as  uoonbeams 
draw  the  sea. 

And  then  I  saw  that  still  the  life  was  in  thine 

eyes, 

0  sweet !  most  loved,  most  sorrow-laden! 
The  flashes  from  thy  ravished  Aidenn 
Played  o'er  thy  face  like  lightnings  o'er  the 
twilight  skies. 

And  then  I  knew  at  last  that  thou  could'st 

never  die, 

O  sister  of  the  great  Immortals, 
That  standest  hard  by  Freedom's  portals, 
Until  an  unseen  lland  shall  open  from  on 
high. 

Lo !  roses  red  thy  lovers  strew  before  thy 

shrine, 
Dipped  deep  in  blood  from  heart-veins 

flowing, 

With  hues  of  death  and  passion  glowing, 
Yet  thou  regardest  not,  for  thou  wast  born 
divine. 


Lo!  roses  white  thy  lovers  strew  before  thy 

feet, 

Bright  blossoms  of  pure  lives  and  holy; 
But  thy  firm  eyes  look  upward  solely, — 
Our  love  can  bring  no  offerings  that  for  thee 
are  meet. 

Thou  art  our  queen, — we  bare  our  bosoms  to 

thy  tread; 

Thy  empty  throne  for  thee  is  waiting; 
Tread  on,  all  heedless  still  of  love  or  hat- 
ing! 

Enough  for  us  who  kneel,  to  know  thou  art 
not  dead. 


IRELAND. 

SHE  turns  and  tosses  on  her  couch  of  pain, 
Where  cruel  hands  have  stretched  her, 
spent  and  worn; 

And  by  her  side  the  weary  watchers  strain 
Sad  eyes  to  catch  a  gleam  of  lialting  morn. 

She  moans, — and  every  moan  a  true  heart 

rends,— 

She  sighs, — the  fever  hot  in  every  limb, — 
"  Ah,  God,  whose  love  the  humblest  wretch 

befriends, 
Bid  daylight  break  upon  my  eyelids  dim! " 

Oh!  long  the  night! — and  many  a  time  and 

oft, 
We've  thought,  with  throbbing  pulse, — 

"  The  dawn  draws  nigh! " 
We've  seen  the  clouds,  illusive,  break  aloft, 
And  then  with   tenfold  blackness  mock 
the  eye. 

Oh,  long  the  night,  and  fierce  the  fever's 

pain! 
Once  nmiv  \vr  see  pale  glimmerings,  far 

off,  play;— 

We've  hoped  so  oft,  \vc  dare  not  hope  again, — 
And  yet, — if  this  indeed,  at  last,  were  Day* 


744 


POEMS  OF  FANNY  PARNELL. 


WHAT   SHALL  WE  WEEP  FOR? 

"Woe  is  me  now!  for  my  soul  is  wearied  be- 
cause of  murderers. — Jeremiah. 

SHALL  we  weep  for  thce,  0  my  mother, — 
shall  we  weep  for  the  martyred  land, — 

For  the  queen  that  is  prone  in  ashes,  struck 
down  by  a  robber's  hand  ? 

Shall  we  weep  for  the  fair  green  banner, 
drowned  deep  in  a  sea  of  tears, — 

For  the  golden  harp  that  is  broken,  and 
dumb  with  the  rust  of  years? 

Shall  we  weep  for  the  children  banished,  or 
for  those  crushed  down  to  the  brute, — 

Crushed  out  of  the  semblance  of  human, 
while  Justice  sits  blind  and  mute  ? 

For  the  peasant  that  died  in  torments, — for 
the  hero  that  battling  fell, 

For  the  martyr  that  slowly  rotted  in  the 
voiceless  dungeon  cell  ? 

For  the  famine,  the  filth,  and  fever,  the  lash, 
and  the  pitchcap,  and  sword, 

For  the  homeless,  coffinless  corpses,  flung 
out  on  their  native  sward  ? 

For  the  strong  man  that  crept  from  prison, 
old,  helpless,  and  blind,  to  die, 

For  the  soldier  that  bled  for  England,  'neath 
many  a  hostile  sky, — 

Whom  England,  delighting  to  honor,  gifts  of 
chains  and  a  dungeon  gave, 

Till  his  brave  heart  broke  with  its  anguish, 
and  he  staggered  from  cell  to  grave  ? 

Shall  we  weep  for  these,  0  my  brothers  ? — 
my  brothers  in  pain  and  in  love, — 

For  these  who  have  suffered  and  perished, 
and  shine  as  the  stars  above  ? 

Lo  !  yonder,  like  white-hot  beacons,  they 
light  up  the  path  we  should  tread; 

Pure  flames  on  the  heavenly  watch-towers, — 
shall  we  weep  for  those  happy  dead  ? 


Nay,  not  for  mother  or  children,  nor  for 

centuries'  woes  we'll  weep, 
But  we'll  weep  for  the  vengeance  coming, 

that  waits,  but  shall  never  sleep. 

Let  us  weep  for  the  hand  that's  bloody  with 

many  an  innocent  life; 
Let  us  weep  for  those  who  have  trampled 

the  defenceless  down  in  the  strife; 

For  the  heart  the  Lord  hath  hardened,  with 
triumph,  and  spoil,  and  crown, 

For  the  robber  whose  plundered  kingdoms 
never  see  the  sun  go  down; 

For  the  Scarlet  Woman  that's  drunken  with 
the  blood  und  tears  of  her  slaves,  • 

Who  goes  forth  to  slay  with  a  psalm-tune, 
and  builds  her  churches  on  graves; 

For  her  sons  who  rush  out  to  murder,  and 
return  with  plunder  and  prayer, 

Lifting  up  to  the  gentle  Saviour,  the  red 
hands  that  never  spare; 

For  these,  and  the  doom  that  is  on  them, 
the  spectre  ghastly  and  gray, 

Looming  far  in  the  haunted  future,  where 
Nemesis  waits  her  prey — 

Let  us  weep,  let  us  weep,  my  brothers!  We 
have  heard  but  a  whisper  fall, 

But  we  know  the  voice  of  the  tempest,  be  it 
ever  so  still  and  small. 

To  their  God  of  Cant  and  Slaughter,  they 
shall  cry  in  their  hour  of  need, 

But  the  true  God  shall  rise  and  break  them 
as  one  that  breaketh  a  reed. 

Weep  not  for  the  wronged,  but  the  wronger, 
—the  despot  whom  God  hath  cursed — 

Holding  off  awhile  till  the  floodgates  of  His 
gathering  wrath  have  burst, 

For  the  wronged  a  moment's  anguish, — for 
the  wronger  damnation  deep,— 

He  that  soweth  the  wind  shall  surely  for 
harvest  the  whirlwind  reap. 


I'OKMS   OF    FANNY    PAKXKLL 


MICHAEL  DAVITT. 

OUT  from  the  grip  of  the  slayer, 

Out  from  the  jaws  of  hate, 
Out  from  the  den  of  bloodhounds, 

Out  from  Gehenna's  gate; 
Out  from  the  felon's  bondage, 
Out  from  the  dungeon  keep, 
Out  from  the  valley  of  shadows, 

Out  from  the  starless  deep, 
Out  from  the  purging  tortures, 

Out  from  the  sorrow  and  stress, 
Out  from  the  roaring  furnace, 

Out  from  the  trodden  press, — 
He  has  come  for  a  savior  of  men, 

lie  has  come  on  a  mission  of  glory, 
He  has  come  to  tell  us  again 

The  olden  evangelist's  story  ! 
Now  blessed  the  poor  upon  earth, 

Now  blessed  the  hungry  and  weeping. 
For  they  shall  have  plenty  for  dearth, 

With  joy  returning  and  reaping; 
Now  blessed  the  outcast  and  slave, 

Now  blessed  the  scorned  and  the  hated, 
The  knights  of  the  Gibbet  and  Grave, 

The  mourners  in  ashes  prostrated; 
For  they  shall  arise  from  the  dust, 

Though  scattered  and  buried  for  aeons; 
They  shall  know  that  Jehovah  is  just, — 
From  Golgotha  coming  with  paeans. 

Back  to  the  grip  of  the  slayer, 

P»:;ek  to  the  jaws  of  hate, 
Back  to  the  den  of  bloodhounds, 

Back  to  Gehenna's  gate; 
Back  to  the  dungeon's  threshold — 

Now  may  Christ  the  brave  soul  keep! — 
Back  to  the  valley  of  shadows, 

Hack  to  the  starless  deep, 
Back  to  the  doom  of  martyrs, 

Back  to  the  sorrow  and  stress, 
Back  to  the  fiery  furnace, 

Back  to  the  bloody  press, — 
lie  has  gone  for  a  leader  of  men, 

He  has  gone  on  a  kingly  mission,       [pen, 
With  the  prophet's  fate-driven  tongue  and 

Heralding  all  our  hopes'  fruition. 
Thrice  blessed  the  looser  of  chains  ! 

Thrice  blessed  the  friend  of  the  friendless  ! 


The  High-Priest  whom  Heaven  ordains 

To  sacrifice  bitter  and  endless. 
Thrice  blessed  the  loved  of  the  vile, 

The  mean  and  the  abject  and  lowly  ! 
On  him  shall  the  Highest  One  smile, 

The  earth  that  he  treads  shall  be  holy; 
Thrice  blessed  the  consecrate  hands 

That  beckon  to  Liberty's  portal 
The  poor  and  despised  of  the  lands, 

'Mid  raptures  and  splendors  immortal  I 

Out  of  the  slime  and  the  squalor, 
Out  of  the  slough  of  despond, 
Out  of  the  yoke  of  Egypt, 

Out  of  the  gyve  and  bond; 

Out  of  the  Stygian  darkness, 

Out  of  the  place  of  tombs, 

Out  of  the  pitiful  blindness, 

Out  of  the  gulfs  and  glooms, 
Up  to  the  heights  of  freedom, 

Up  to  the  hills  of  light, 
Up  to  the  holy  places, 

Where  the  dim  eyes  see  aright,— 
Up  to  the  glory  man  hides  from  man, 

Up  to  the  banned  and  shrouded  altar, 
Rending  the  veil  and  breaking  the  ban, 

With  the  hands  that  shall  never  falter, 
Up  to  the  truth  in  its  inmost  shrine, 

Leading  the  serfs  that  crouch  and  grovel, 
Turning  the  troubled  waters  to  wine. 

Building  a  fane  in  every  hovel: 
Ever  and  ever  facing  the  day. 

Up  and  on  to  the  radiance  o'er  him, 
lie  has  gone  to  tread  the  martyr's  way. 
With  the  martyr's  cross  before  him: 
But  the  great  white  Star  of  Freedom's  birth, 

Shall  arise  for  the  darkest  nation, 
And  the  bound,  the  blind,  the  maimed  of 

earth, 
From  his  ashes  shall  draw  salvation. 


TO  MY  FELLOW-WOMEN, 

0  LAST  at  the  Cross,  and  first  at  the  Grave. 

and  first  at  the  Rising  too  ! 
Is  there  nothing  left  for  your  hearts  to  feel, 

or  left  for  your  hands  to  do  ? 


746 


POEMS  OF  FANNY   PARNELL. 


Have  you  lost  your  crown  of  the  days  of  old, 
as  the  mates  of  noble  men  ? 

Are  you  faint  and  fearful  and  witless  now, 
who  were  bold  as  the  she-lions  then  ? 

Are  you  playthings  now,  who  were  heroes' 
guides?  are  you  dolls,  who  were 
queens  on  earth  ? 

Have  you  stepped  with  a  simper  from  your 
thrones,  and  strangled  your  souls  at 
birth  ? 

Priestess  and  prophetess  shrined  of  yore, — 
have  you  naught  of  their  breath  di- 
vine? 

Vala  of  North  and  Sybil  of  South, — have 
they  perished  in  all  their  line  ? 

Have  you  heard  of  the  warrior  queens  who 

shed  on  your  country's  dawn  a  glow  ? 
Of  Scota  and  Eire  and  Meabhdh,  who  flash 

from  the  shadows  of  long  ago  ? — 
When  the  mothers  of  Erin  fed  their  babes 

from  the  sword- point  bright  and  bare, 
And  the  Druidess  flew  in  the  battle's  van,  by 

the  burning  torches'  glare  ? 

Have  you  heard  of  the  maiden  saints  who 
bore  the  Lamp  of  the  Holy  Chrism, 

While  the  glory  streamed  from  their  hal- 
lowed hands  o'er  the  heathen's  dark 
abysm  ? 

Of  the  "  Mary  of  Ireland,"  pure  and  wise, 
and  Ida,  the  blessed  nun, 

Like  the  Heralds  of  Pars,*  sent  forth  be- 
fore, to  usher  the  bursting  sun  ? 

Have  you  heard  of  the  woman  fair  and  foul, 

o'er  whose  shame  no  softening  veil 
Shall  ever  be  drawn  by  the  mournful  years, 

while  they  hear  her  lost  land's  wail  ? 
Yea,  hers  was  the  crime,  and  yours  is  the 

stain  till  Erin  shall  rise  up  crowned, 
When  the  women  of  Erin  loose  the  chain 

that  the  hands  of  a  woman  bound. 

But  bitter  the  ban,  and  black  the  brand, 
that  is  heavy  upon  your  brows, 

While  your  country  cries  and  your  sisters 
starve,  and  never  an  hour  ye  rouse; 

*  Pars — Persia. 


But  ye  sweep  in  your  silks  and  laces  here, 
in  your  new-found  honors  proud, 

While  "over  the  stream"  the  corpse-lips 
call,  from  many  a  woman's  shroud. 

Remember  the  olden  times,  when  the  Lord 

looked  down  on  the  Hebrew  dames, 
Who  walked   with  the  tinkling  feet,  and 

loved  the  glory  that  only  shames; 
How  He  gave  them  for  robes  a  sackcloth,  for 

a  girdle  He  gave  a  rent, 
And  for  beauty  He  gave  a  burning,  and  a 

stench  for  a  delicate  scent. 

They  heard  not  the  groans  of  the  poor,  and 

they  saw  not  the  wreck  of  their  land, 
They  smiled  to  the  lordly  oppressor,  and 

fawned  to  the  plunderer's  hand; 
Till  God  rose  up  in  His  wrath,  and  smote 

the  crown  of  each  haughty  head, 
And  on  the  road  that  the  beggar  had  trod, 

made  the  mincing  feet  to  tread. 

The  Lord  is  living,  the  Lord  that  judged, 

that  humbled  the  wanton  then ; 
Each  speeding  moment  His  word  goes  out, 

like  the  clarion's  peal  to  men. 
But  their  ears  are  deaf, — they  will  not  hear, 

till  the  stars  shall  topple  and  fall, 
And  the  pride  of  earth  shall  shrivel  and 

pass,  and  be  seen  no  more  at  all. 

Then  tlie  Voices  that  tempt,  the  Voices  that 

stun,  shall  be  mute  for  evermore, — 
The  Voices  that  drown  the  shriek  of  the 

poor,  when  the  burden  presses  sore, — 
They  shall  cease, — the  quibble  and  gibe  and 

lie,  the  casuist's  bloodless  sneers, 
And  the  voice  of  God  shall  speak  on  alone, 

thro'  the  everlasting  years. 

0  sisters !  tenderest  hearts  on  earth,  are 
your  bosoms  turned  to  stone  ? 

0  cruel  sisters  !  have  you  no  ears  for  a  dy- 
ing people's  moan  ? 

0  cruel  sisters  !  have  you  no  eyes  for  the 
tears  pressed  out  by  wrong  ? — 

The  tears  that  the  world  is  weary  to  see, 
they  have  flowed  so  fast  und  Ions;. 


1'OFMS    OF    FANNY    I'AIIX  KLI.. 


The  dropping  of  tears — the  dripping  of  blood 

— oh,  the  world  is  sick  at  heart ! 
It  points  to  us  with  an  angry  scorn,  saying, 

— "  See  how  they  stand  apart ! 
Tis  all  for  glitter,  or  all  for  greed,  or  all  for 

a  mushroom's  rise; 
Shall  strangers  pity  or  help  when  these  go 

by  with  averted  eyes  ?  " 

Far  down  the  echoing  aisles   of  the  Past 

comes  the  tread  of  stately  feet, 
Where   Jewess   and    Pagan   and   Christian 

shrined  in  an  equal  glory  meet; 
There  Judith  walks  with  the  virgin  Joan, 

and  Miriam  chants  of  Egypt's  seas, 
And  she  that  bore  the  Gracchi  is  there,  and 

she  that  suckled  the  Maccabees. 

Is  there  never  a  name  on  all  our  roll  of  noble 

women  and  fair, 
That  is  worthy  the  lustre  of  such  as  these  to 

grandly  win  and  wear  ? 
Sliall  a  woman's  hand  be  the  first  to  raise 

the  banner  that  leads  the  free 
In  every  land  that  hath  rent  its  bonds,  save 

alone,  0  Erin,  in  thee  ? 

The  sisters  whose  palms  ye  would  scarcely 

touch,  whose  palms  are  rugged  with 

toil, 
From  penury's  store  they  have  given  like 

queens,  and  poured  out  the  wine  and 

oil; 
The  hot  Irish  heart,  is  it  dead  in  the  breasts 

of  you  who  have  gold  and  power  ? 
Can  never  a  lady  of  all  put  on  the  woman 

again  for  an  hour  ? 

Nay,  well  I  know  that  the  patriot's  path 

hath  naught  of  delight  to  show; 
Nay,  well  I  know  that  for  woman  and  man 

the  thorns  of  the  martyr  grow; 
The  trail  of  blood  from  the  pilloried  feet 

that  climb  'mid  cursing  and  scorn, 
Points  ever  the  way,  and  the  one  straight 

way,  that  leads  to  the  hills  of  morn. 

The  King  of  the  children  of  men  hath  spread 
1 1  is  feast  for  you  and  for  me; 

Ye  must  cat  of  an  ashen  l>iv;ul.  and  drink 
the  wiiiu  from  a  bitter  tree; 


Who  would  sup  with  the  Lord  in  Paradise 
must  taste  of  the  pariah's  food, 

Who  would  rest  with  the  Lord  in  Paradise, 
must  carry  with  Him  the  Kood. 

Oh,  women  of  Ireland,  make  you  a  name  tliat 

the  world  shall  hear  and  thrill ! 
Oh,  women  of  Ireland,  this  is  no  time  for 

babbling  or  sitting  still ; 
No  time  is  it  now  to  doubt  and  quail, — there 

is  holiest  work  to  do, — 
The  harvest  of  Fate  is  ripe  this  day,  and  God 

and  your  country  have  need  of  you. 


JOHN  DILLON. 

"  Pater  nobilis,  fllius  nobillor." 

LIKE  Spain's  young  Cid  of  yore,  methought 

I  saw  thee  rise, 

The  mystic  inner  glow  thro'  thy  pale  fea- 
tures shining; 
Rodrigo's  fiery  soul  was  leaping  from  thine 

eyes,— 

Spain's  Red-Cross  flag  with  blazoned  sham- 
rocks round  thee  twining. 

I  heard  thee  speak,  and  dreamed  of  Galahad 

the  chaste, 
Of  Launcelot   the    brave,   and  Arthur's 

kingly  glory; 
Mailed  shadows  on  thy  form  the  helm  and 

hauberk  placed, 

And  bade  thee  forth,  to  take  up  knight- 
hood's broken  story. 

The  voice  of  Art  McMurrough  thunderel 

thro'  thy  tongue, 
Of  John  the  Proud,  whose  true  neart— 

Bloody  Bess  disdaining — 
By  those  twin  snakes  of  craft  and  greed  to 

death  was  stung 

Whose  rank  trail  still  the  banners  of  the 
Scot  is  staining. 

Methought  the  murdered   Desmond  raised 

.  his  blotxl-seoreil  throat 
Uptowered  the  Three  (ireat    Hurls,   who 
fought  and  fled  despairing; 


POEMS  OF  FANNY  PARNELL. 


Forth  gleamed  our  Owen  Eoe  who  first  the 

Roundheads  smote, 

Then  died,  with  single  arm  his  country's 
flag  upbearing. 

Around  thee  still    I   saw  the  great  souls 

thronging  fast, — 
Grattan,  the  golden-tongued,  whose  breast 

with  storms  was  swelling; 
The  Geraldine,  of  all  his  race's  heroes,  last, 
With  wild  Norse  blood  against  the  Saxon 
churl  rebelling. 

Wolfe  Tone! —  ah!  let  the  head  be  bowed, 

the  voice  be  hushed! 
See   you  the  livid  veins  that  gape   with 

mournful  quiver? 
Martyr,  self-slain!  the  blood  that  from  thy 

sad  heart  gushed, 

'Twixt  Celt  and  Saxon  flows,  a  black  and 
bridgeless  river. 

Tread  softly   yet  again!   we  stand  on  holy 

ground! 

Emmet,  our  nation's  Bayard,  'gainst  for- 
lorn hope  hoping; 
In  him  some  knight  of  Aiteach's  grot,  long 

slumber-bound, 

Woke  up,  with  baffled  fingers  for  the  dead 
Past  groping, 

A  giant  Form  I  saw  that  loomed  out  dim 

and  vast, 
A  great,  broad  brow  of  might,  yet  stamped 

with  endless  yearning; 
O'Connell!  thou  whose  labors  all  men's  have 

o'er-past, 

Though  for   thy  guerdon   only   failure's 
anguish  earning. 

Fret  not  thy  noble  heart !  no  hero  fails  in 

vain; 
Lo!  Sampson  in  his  wreck  the  Pagan  hosts 

o'er-throwing; 
Lo!  Herakles,  the  half -god,  rent  with  such 

vast  pain, 

As  only  they  who  serve  their  race  win  "right 
of  knowing. 


Behold  Prometheus!  lover  of  the  darkened 

world; ' 
The  grim  gods  cursed  with  death  the  flume 

he  gave  for  blessing. 

Yet — to  his  rock  of  torture  by  their  ven- 
geance hurled — 

He  only  smiled, —  his  soul  in  triumph  still 
possessing. 

And  on  they  came! — Lo,  Davis !  he  whose 

meteor  soul 
As  in  Elijah's  fiery  chariot,  heavenward 

sweeping, 
Threw  down  the  patriot's  mantle  and  the 

poet's  scroll, 

That   Erin's  mournful   Genius  still  un- 
touched is  keeping. 

Yet  more !  the  men  who  thro'  the  white-hot 

furnace  walked, 
Like   Rome's  live  torches,   quenched    in 

pain's  last  radiation — 
Mitchel,  whose  tongue  the  thunders  of  the 

war-god  talked, 

Teaching  the  one  old  way  where  lies  the 
serf's  salvation. 

O'Brien,  he  who  smote  his  fellows  on  the- 

face, — 
The  clan  of  lordlings,  born  from  rapine 

and  oppression, — 
And,  turning,  stung  with  grand  disdain  of 

caste  and  race, 

Went  out  and  joined  the  patriots'  pariah 
procession. 

And  still  they  came, — till  space  shall  fail  to 

tell  their  names; 
Thousands  of    hero  shades  around   thy 

young  head  sweeping; 
The  air  was  filled  with  splendors,  as  when 

heavenly  flames 

O'er  apostolic    brows  the    Spirit's  watch 
were  keeping 

Thy  sponsors  these,  young  chief,  thy  com- 
rades to  the  fray; 

In  all  their  pangs  and  joys  thou  shalt  be 
made  partaker; 


1'OKMS  OF  FANNY  PARNELL. 


749 


They  shall  be  there  to  choke  the  landlord 

from  his  prey, 

They  shall  be  there  to  give  the  lie  to  peer 
and  Quaker. 

The  path  before  thy  feet  climbs  brightening 

to  the  stars; 
These  champion  souls  that  fell  shall  never 

bid  thee  falter; 
Better  to  strive  and  fall,  decked  but  with 

warfare's  scars, 

And  immolate  e'en  Fame,  on  Freedom's 
holy  altar. 

Ah  !   darkly  lies  Gethsemane  around  thee 

now  ! 
In  bloody  sweat  the  kings  of  earth  must 

write  their  story, 
But  on  the  Mount,  high  o'er  the  clouds,  thy 

wounded  brow, 

Like  Gabriel's  who  slew  the  Worm,  shall 
shine  in  glory. 


BUCKSHOT  FORSTER. 

"Your  hands  are  defiled  with  blood,  and  your 
fingers  with  iniquity;  your  lips  have  spoken  lies, 
your  tongue  hath  uttered  perversities." — Isaiah. 

O  FALLEN  inheritor  of  a  glorious  faith, 
By  martyr  souls  unspotted  handed  down, 

Behold  up-looming  sadly  Fox's  stern-browed 

wraith, 
Sore  stricken  for  his  blood-polluted  crown  ! 

Behold  the  tongue-pierc'd  Naylor  of  the  fiery 

heart, 

And   brain   with  sacred   frenzy   all    dis- 
traught ! 
The  stately  shade  of  Penn,  who  chose  the 

outcast's  part, 

So    hotly    in    his    breast    Love's    magic 
wrought ! 

Penn,  who  has  taught  a  wolfish  world  that 

love  can  reign 
"Where  hate  and  rapine  gnash  decrepit  jaws; 


Penn,  who  has  taught  a  knavish  world  that 

truth  can  gain 

The  savage  mind  to  serve  her  own  swtvt 
laws. 

0  clean-lipped  founder  of  a  race  of  Nature's 

kings ! 

Men  of  the  steadfast  will  and  gentle  word, 
Men  to  whose  helping  hands  the  crushed 

wretch  ever  clings, 

Whose    feet    in   mercy's   ways   are   ever 
spurred, — 

From  them  the  red-skin  learned  some  white 

men  could  be  true, 
Some  Christians  yet  could  scorn  the  tongue 

of  guile; 
Not  Tlieij  betrayed  the  heathen  of  the  tawny 

hue, 

To  add  new  treasures  to  the  Christian's 
pile. 

Far  o'er  the  ocean  rose  a  cry  from  myriad 

lips, 
From  myriad  dying  lips  that  moaned  for 

bread; 

Oh!  fast  on  Irish  backs  fell  England's  scor- 
pion whips, 

And  hard  on  Irish  hearts  the  crushing 
Saxon  tread. 

But  these  men  heard; — their  sires  had  fled 

from  England's  hate, 
That  cruel  Motherland  that  knew  the  in 

not, — 
With  feet  love-shod  and  hands  to  bounty 

consecrate, 

They  fought  back  death  in  many  a  helot's 
cot. 

0  men  of  men  !   not  tongue  of  mine  can  tell 

your  praise, 
True  servants  of  the  Christ,  you  shone  for 

all; 
Yet  as  in  loveliest  rose-hearts,  oft  our  start  led 

gaze 

On  some  foul  birth  of  wriggling  slime  will 
fall,- 


750 


POEMS  OF  FANNY  PARNELL. 


So  falls  our  gaze  on  one,  who  on  your  snowy 

roll 
Leaves  thick  and  dark  a  blot  of  lasting 

shame, — 
He  who  for  power's  tenure  sells  his  faith  and 

soul, 
And  bears  a  bloody  label  to  his  name, — 

The  man  of  peace,  the  man  of  truth,  'mid 

Saxon  friends, 

Who  bless  the  day  they  found  their  smooth- 
faced tool; 
The  man  of  lies,  the  man  of  blood,  when 

Saxon  ends 

Demand  that  force  and  fraud  again  shall 
rule  ! 

The  man  of  murder !   hark,  from  many  a 

reddened  field, 

I  hear  the  shrieks  of  butchered  serfs  up- 
rise: 
Stand  forth,  Assassin !    with  thy  crimson 

hands  revealed; 

That  guiltless  blood  thy  name  to  Heaven 
cries. 

Ay,  Buckshot  Forster  !  baptized  thus  in  bit- 
ter jest, 

Angels  at  God's  stern  bar  shall  call  thee 
so: 


"With  measure  thou  hast  meted,  God  shall 

fill  thy  breast, 

And  mercy  such  as  thine,  thy  soul  shall 
know. 

"  'Twere  more  humane,"  thus  meant   thy 

pharisaic  speech, 

"  To  slay  a  hundred  than  to  slay  but  one  ! "' 
New  doctrines  to  delight  thy  masters  thou 

canst  preach; 

Let  Cromwell  blush,  and  own  himself  out- 
done! 

That  grim  old  warrior  slew,  but  never  whined 

that  love, 
Love  for  his  victims,  drove  him  forth  to 

slay; 
'Twas  not  the  gentle  mercy  dropping  from 

above, 

That  urged  him  raging  on  his  helpless 
prey. 

Go  on,  0  Friend!  and  make  our  land  one 

peaceful  grave; 
Thus   shall  the   lustre   of  thy   greatness 

blaze; 
A  little  buckshot  thus  a  suffering  land  shall 

save,  , 

And  wreathe  thy  Quaker  hat  with  Hay- 
nau's  bays. 


POEMS  OF  JOHN  BOYLE  O'REILLY, 


THE  FAME  OF  THE  CITY. 

A  GREAT  rich  city  of  power  and  pride, 
With  streets  full  of  traders,  and  ships  on  the 

tide; 
With  rich  men  and  workmen  and  judges 

and  preachers, 
The  shops  full  of  skill  and  the  schools  full 

of  teachers. 

The  people  were  proud  of  their  opulent  town: 
The  rich  men  spent  millions  to  bring  it  re- 
nown, 
The  strong  men  built  and  the  tradesmen 

planned, 

The  shipmen  sailed  to  every  land, 
The  lawyers  argued,  the  schoolmen  taught, 
And  a  poor  shy  Poet  his  verses  brought, 
And  cast  them  into  the  splendid  store. 

The  tradesmen  stared  at  his  useless  craft; 
The  rich  men  sneered  and  the  strong  men 

laughed ; 

The  preachers  said  it  was  worthless  quite; 
The  schoolmen  claimed  it  was  theirs  to  write; 
But  the  songs  were  spared,  though   they 

added  nought 

To  the  profit  and  praise  the  people  sought, 
That  was  wafted  at  last  from  distant  climes; 
And    the    townsmen   said:    "To  remotest 

times 
We  shall  send  our  name  and  our  greatness 

down  ! " 

The  boast  came  true;  but  the  famous  town 
ll:i'l  a  lesson  to  learn  when  all  was  told: 
The  nations  that  honored  cared  nought  for 

its  gold, 

Its  skill  they  exceeded  an  hundred-fold; 
It  had  only  been  one  of  a  thousand  more, 
Had  the  songs  of  the  Poet  been  lost  to  its 

store. 


Then    the   rich  men    and   tradesmen  and 

schoolmen  said 

They  had  never  derided,  but  praised  instead; 
And  they  boast  of  the  Poet  their  town  has 

bred. 


HEART-HUNGER. 

THERE  is  no  truth  in  faces,  save  in  children: 

They  laugh  and  frown  and  weep  from  na- 
ture's keys; 

But  we  who  meet  the  world  give  out  false 
notes, 

The  true  note  dying  muffled  in  the  heart. 

0,  there  be  woful  prayers  and  piteous  wail- 
ing 

That  spirits  hear,  from  lives  that  starve  for 
love  ! 

The  body's  food  is  bread;  and  wretches'  cries 

Are  heard  and  answered:  but  the  spirit's 
food 

Is  love;  and  hearts  that  starve  may  die  in 
agony 

And  no  physician  mark  the  cause  of  death. 

You  cannot  read  the  faces;  they  are  masks,— 
Like  yonder  woman,  smiling  at  the  lips, 
Silk-clad,  bejewelled,  lapped  with  luxury, 
And  beautiful  and  young — ay,  smiling  at 

the  lips, 

But  never  in  the  eyes  from  inner  light: 
A  gracious  temple  hung  with  flowers  with- 
out— 
Within,  a  naked  corpse  upon  the  stones  ! 

0,  years  and  years  ago  the  hunger  came — 
The  doRort-tliirst  for  love — she  prayed  for 

love — 


POEMS   OF  JOHN  BOYLE  O'REILLY. 


She  cried  out  in  the  night-time  of  her  soul 

for  love ! 
The  cup  they  gave  was  poison  whipped  to 

froth. 

For  years  she  drank  it,  knowing  it  for  death; 
She  shrieked  in  soul  against  it,  but  must 

drink: 
The  skies  were  dumb — she  dared  not  swoon 

or  scream. 

As  Indian  mothers  see  babes  die  for  food, 
She  watched  dry-eyed  beside  her  starving 

heart, 

And  only  sobbed  in  secret  for  its  gasps, 
And  only  raved  one  wild  hour  when  it  died  ! 

0  Pain,  have  pity  !     Numb  her  quivering 

sense; 
0  Fame,  bring  guerdon  !    Thrice  a  thousand 

years 

Thy  boy-thief  with  the  fox  beneath  his  cloak 
Hath  let  it  gnaw  his  side  unmoved,  and  held 

the  world; 

And  she,  a  slight  woman,  smiling  at  the  lips, 
With  repartee  and  jest — a  corpse-heart  in 

her  breast  ! 


JACQUEMINOTS. 

I  MAY  not  speak  in  words,  dear,  but  let  my 

words  be  flowers, 
To  tell  their  crimson  secret  in  leaves  of 

fragrant  fire; 
They  plead  for  smiles  and  kisses  as  summer 

fields  for  showers, 

And  every  purple  veinlet  thrills  with  ex- 
quisite desire. 

0,  let  me  see  the  glance,  dear,  the  gleam  of 

soft  confession 
You  give  my  amorous  roses  for  the  tender 

hope  they  prove; 
And  press  their  heart-leaves  back,  love,  to 

drink  their  deeper  passion, 

their  sweetest,  wildest  perfume  is  the 

whisper  of  my  love  ! 


My  roses,  tell  her,  pleading,  all  the  fondness 

and  the  sighing, 
All  the  longing  of  a  heart  that  reaches 

thirsting  for  its  bliss, 
And  tell  her,  tell  her,  roses,  that  my  lips 

and  eyes  are  dying 

For  the  melting  of  her  love-look  and  the 
rapture  of  her  kiss. 


MY  NATIVE  LAND. 

IT  chanced  to  me  upon  a  time  to  sail 

Across  the  Southern  Ocean  to  and  fro; 
And,  landing  at  fair  isles,  by  stream  and  vale 

Of  sensuous  blessing  did  we  ofttimes  go. 
And  months  of  dreamy  joys,  like  joys  in 

sleep, 
Or  like  a  clear,  calm  stre.im  o'er  mossy 

stone, 
Unnoted   passed  our  hearts   with  voiceless 

sweep, 

And  left  us  yearning  still  for  lands  un- 
known. 

And  when  we  found  one, — for  'tis  soon  to  find 

In  thousand-isled  Cathay  another  isle,— 
For  one  short  noon  its  treasures  filled  the 

mind, 
And  then  again  we  yearned,  and  ceased 

to  smile- 

And  so  it  was,  from  isle  to  isle  we  passed, 
Like  wanton  bees  or  boys  on  flowers  or 

lips; 

And  when  that  all  was  tasted,  then  at  hist 
We  thirsted  sore  for  draughts  instead  of 
sips. 

I  learned  from  this  there  is  no  Southern  land 
Can  fill  with  love  the  hearts  of  Northern 

men. 
Sick  minds  need  change;  but,  when  in  health 

they  stand 
'Neath  foreign  skies,  their  love  flies  home 

again. 
And   thus   with   me  it  was:    the  yearning 

turned 
From  laden  airs  of  cinnamon  away, 


POEMS  OF  JOHN   BOYLE  O'REILLY. 


And  stretched  far  westward,  while  the  full 

heart  burned 
With  love  for  Ireland,  looking  on  Cathay  ! 

My  first  dear  love,  all  dearer  for  thy  grief  ! 

My  land,  that  has  no  peer  in  all  the  sea 

For  verdure,  vale,  or  river,  flower  or  leaf, — 

If  first  to  no  man  else,  thou'rt  first  to  me. 

New  loves  may  come  with  duties,  but  the 

first 
Is  deepest  yet, — the  mother's  breath  and 

smiles: 
Like  that  kind  face  and  breast  where  I  was 

nursed 
Is  my  poor  land,  the  Niobe  of  isles. 


WESTERN  AUSTRALIA. 

O  BEAUTEOUS  Southland  !  land  of  yellow  air, 
That  hangeth  o'er  thee  slumbering,  and 
dotli  hold 

The  moveless  foliage  of  thy  valleys  fair 
And  wooded  hills,  like  aureole  of  gold. 

O  thou,  discovered  ere  the  fitting  time, 
Ere   Nature  in   completion   turned  thee 

forth  ! 

Ere  aught  was  finished  but  thy  peerless  clime, 
Thy  virgin   breath  allured  the  amorous 
North. 

0  land,  God  made  thee  wondrous  to  the  eye  ! 
But  His  sweet  singers  thou  hast  never 

heard; 

1  If  left  thee,  meaning  to  come  by-and-by, 

And  give  rich  voice  to  every  bright-winged 
bird. 

lie   painted    with   fresh   hues   thy  myriad 

flowers, 

But  left  them  scentless:   ah  !   their  woful 
dole, 

sad  reproach  of  their  Creator's  pow- 
ers,— 
To  make  so  sweet  fair  bodies,  void  of  soul. 


He  gave  thee  trees  of  odorous,  precious  wood ; 
But  midst  them  all,  bloomed  not  one  tree 

of  fruit. 
He  looked,  but  said  not  that  His  work  was 

good, 

When  leaving  thee  all   perfumeless  and 
mute. 

He  blessed  thy  flowers  with  honey:   every 

bell 

Looks  earthward,  sunward,  with  a  yearn- 
ing wist; 
But  no  bee-lover  ever  notes  the  swell 

Of  hearts,  like  lips,  a-hungering  to  be  kist. 

0  strange  land,  thou  art  virgin  !   thou  art 

more 
Than  fig-tree  barren  !    Would  that  I  could 

paint 

For  others'  eyes  the  glory  of  the  shore 
Where  last  I  saw  thee;   but  the  senses 
faint 

In  soft  delicious  dreaming  when  they  drain 
Thy  wine  of  color.     Virgin  fair  thou  art. 

All  sweetly  fruitful,  waiting  with  soft  pain 
The  spouse  who  comes  to  wake  thy  sleep- 
ing heart. 


WAITING. 

HE  is  coming  !   he  is  coming  !  in  my  throb- 
bing breast  I  feel  it; 

There  is  music  in  my  blood,  and  it  whis- 
pers all  day  long, 
That  my  love  unknown  comes  toward  me  ! 

Ah,  my  heart,  he  need  not  steal  it. 
For  I  cannot  hide  the  secret  that  it  mur- 
murs in  its  song ! 

0  the  sweet   bursting   flowers!    how   they 

open,  never  blushing, 
Laying  bare  their  fragrant  bosoms  to  the 

kisses  of  the  sun  ! 
And  the  birds — I  thought  'twas  poets  only 

iv;id  their  tender  gushing, 
But  I  hear  their  pleading  stories,  and  I 
kn»w  them  every  one. 


754 


POEMS  OF  JOHN   BOYLE  O'KEILLY. 


"He  is  coming!"   says  my  heart;    I  may 

raise  my  eyes  and  greet  him; 
I  may  meet   him  any  moment — shall   I 

knpw  him  when  I  see  ? 
And  my  heart  laughs  back  the  answer — I 

can  tell  him  when  I  meet  him, 
For  our  eyes  will  kiss  and  mingle  ere  he 
speaks  a  word  to  me. 

0,  I'm  longing  for  his  coming — in  the  dark 

my  arms  outreaching;. 
To  hasten  you,  my  love,  seer  I  lay  my 

bosom  bare  ! 
Ah,  the  night-wind  !     I  shudder,  and  my 

hands  are  raised  beseeching — 
It  wailed  so  light  a  death-sigh  that  passed 
me  in  the  air  ! 


LIVING. 

To  toil  all  day  and  lie  worn-out  at  night; 
To  rise  for  all  the  years  to  slave  and  sleep, 
And  breed  new  broods  to  do  no  other  thing 
In  toiling,  bearing,  breeding — life  is  this 
To  myriad  men,  too  base  for  man  or  brute. 

To  serve  for  common  duty,  while  the  brain 
Is  hot  with  high  desire  to  be  distinct; 
To  fill  the  sand-grain  place  among  the  stones 
That  build  the  social  wall  in  million  same- 
ness, 
Is  life  by  leave,  and  death  by  insignificance. 

To  live  the  morbid  years,with  dripping  blood 
Of  sacrificial  labor  for  a  Thought; 
To  take  the  dearest  hope  and  lay  it  down 
Beneath  the  crushing  wheels  for  love  of 

Freedom; 

To  bear  the  sordid  jeers  of  cant  and  trade, 
And  go  on  hewing  for  a  far  ideal, — 
This  were  a  life  worth  giving  to  a  cause, 
If  cause  be  found  so  worth  a  martyr  life. 

But  highest  life  of  man,  nor  work  nor  sacri- 
fice, 

But  utter  seeing  of  the  things  that  be  ! 
To  pass  amid  the  hurrying  crowds,  and  watch 


The  hungry  race  for  things  of  vulgar  use; 
To  mark  the  growth  of  baser  lines  in  men; 
To  note  the  bending  to  a  servile  rule; 
To  know  the  natural  discord  called  disease 
That  rots  like  rust  the  blood  and  souls  of 

men; 
To  test  the  wisdoms  and  philosophies  by 

touch 

Of  that  which  is  immutable,  being  clear, 
The  beam  God  opens  to  the  poet's  brain; 
To  see  with  eyes  of  pity  laboring  souls 
Strive    upward    to   the    Freedom    and    the- 

Truth, 
And  still  be  backward  dragged  by  fear  and 

ignorance; 

To  see  the  beauty  of  the  world,  and  hear 
The  rising  harmony  of  growth,  whose  shade 
Of  undertone  is  harmonized  decay; 
To  know  that  love  is  life — that  blood  is  one 
And  rushes  to  the  union — that  the  heart 
Is  like  a  cup  athirst  for  wine  of  love; 
Who  sees  and  feels  this  meaning  utterly, 
The  wrong  of  law,  the  right  of  man,  the 

natural  truth, 
Partaking  not  of  selfish  aims,  withholding 

not 
The  word  that  strengthens  and  the  hand  that 

helps; 
Who  waits  and  sympathizes  with  the  pettiest 

life, 

And  loves  all  things,  and  reaches  up  to  God 
With  thanks  and  blessing — he  alone  is  living.. 


HER  REFRAIN. 

"  Do  you  love  me  ?  "  she  said,  when  the  skies 

were  blue, 
And  we  walked  where  the  stream  through 

the  branches  glistened; 
And  1  told  and  retold  her  my  love  Avas  true, 
While  she  listened  and  smiled,  and  smiled 
and  listened. 

"  Do  you  love  me  ?"  she  whispered,when  days 

were  drear, 

And  her  eyes  searched  mine  with  a  patient 
yearning; 


I'oK.MS   OF  JOHN    BOYLE  O'REILLY. 


755 


And  I  kissed  her,  renewing  the  words  so 

dear, 

While  she  listened  and  smiled,  as  if  slowly 
learning. 

"  Do  you  love  me?"  she  asked,  when  we  sat 

at  rest 
By  the  stream  enshadowed  with  autumn 

glory; 
Her  cheek  had  been  laid  as  in  peace  on  my 

breast, 

But  she  raised  it  to  ask  for  the  sweet  old 
story. 

And  I  said:  "  I  will  tell  her  the  tale  again — 
I  will  swear  by  the  earth  and  the  stars 

above  me  ! "  [prove 

And  I  told  her  that  uttermost  time  should 
The  fervor  and  faith  of  my  perfect  love; 
And  I  vowed  it  and  pledged  it  that  nought 

should  move; 
While  she  listened  and  smiled  in  my  face, 

and  then 
She  whispered  once  more,  "  Do  you  truly 

love  me?" 


"He  will  not  come."     "He's  not  a  fool.'" 

"  The  men 
Who  set  the  savage  free  must  face  the 

blame." 

A  Choctaw  brave  smiled  bitterly,  and  then 
Smiled  proudly,  with  raised  head,  as  Dixon 
came. 

Silent  and  stern — a  woman  at  his  heels; 
He  motions  to  the  brave,  who  stays  hei- 

tread. 
Next  minute — flame  the  guns;   the  woman 

reels 
And  drops  without  a  moan — Dixon  is  dead. 


A  SAVAGE. 

I  >i  XON,  a  Choctaw,  twenty  years  of  age, 

Had  killed  a  miner  in  a  Leadville  brawl; 
Tried   and   condemned,    the   rough-beards 

curb  their  rage, 

And  watch  him  stride  in  freedom  from 
the  hall. 

"Return  on  Friday,  t<>  l><-  xhot  to  death!" 

So  ran  the  sentence — it  was  Monday  night. 
Tin-  dead  man'&comradesdrew  a  well-pleased 

breath ; 

Then  all  night  long  the  gambling  dens 
were  bright. 

The  days  sped  slowly;  but  the  Friday  came, 
And   lloeked  the  miners  to  the  shooting- 
ground; 

They  chose  six  riflemen  of  deadly  aim 
And    with   low   voices   sat  and  lounged 
•round. 


LOVE'S  SECRET. 

LOVE  found  them  sitting  in  a  woodland  place, 
His  amorous  hand  amid  her  golden  tresses; 

And  Love  looked  smiling  on  her  glowing  face 
And  moistened  eyes  upturned  to  his  ca- 
resses. 

"0  sweet,"  she  murmured,  "life  is  utter 

bliss!" 
"  Dear  heart,"  he  said,  "our  golden  cup 

runs  over ! " 
"Drink,  love,"  she  cried,  "and  thank  the 

gods  for  this  ! " 

He  drained  the  precious  lips  of  cup  and 
lover. 

Love  blessed  the  kiss;  but,  ere  he  wandered 

thence, 

The  mated  bosoms  heard  this  benediction: 
"Love  lies  within  tlw  brimming  bowl  of  sense: 
Who  /vr/'.s-  ////A-  full  ha*  joy— who  drains^ 
affliction." 

They  heard  the  rustle  as  he  smiling  fled: 
She  reached  her  hand  to  pull  the  roses 

blowing. 
He  stretched  to  take  the  purple  grapes  o'er- 

head; 

Love  whispered  back,  "JVay,  keep  their 
beauties  growing." 


756 


POEMS  OF  JOHN  BOYLE  O'REILLY. 


They  paused,  and  understood:   one  flower 

alone 

They  took  and  kept,  and  Love  flew  smil- 
ing over. 

Their  roses  bloomed,  their  cup  went  brim- 
ming on — 

She  looked  for  Love  within,  and  found 
her  lover. 


LOVE'S  SACRIFICE. 

LOVE'S  Herald  flew  o'er  all  the  fields  of 
Greece, 

Crying:  "  Love's  altar  waits  for  sacrifice  ! " 
And  all  folk  answered,  like  a  wave  of  peace, 

With  treasured  offerings  and  gifts  of  price. 

Toward  high  Olympus  every  white  road  filled 
With  pilgrims  streaming  to  the  blest 
abode; 

Each  bore  rich  tribute,  some  for  joys  fulfilled, 
And  some  for  blisses  lingering  on  the  road. 

The  pious  peasant  drives  his  laden  car; 

•    The  fisher  youth  bears  treasure  from  the 

sea; 

A  wife  brings  honey  for  the  sweets  that  are; 
A  maid  brings  roses  for  the  sweets  to  be. 

Here  strides  the  soldier  with  his  wreathed 

sword, 

No  more  to  glitter  in  his  country's  wars; 
There  walks  the  poet  with  his  mystic  word, 
And  smiles  at  Eros'  mild  recruit  from 
Mars. 

But  midst  these  bearers  of  propitious  gifts, 
Behold  where  two,  a  youth  and  maiden, 

stand: 

She  bears  no  boon;  his  arm  no  burden  lifts, 
Save  her  dear  finger  pressed  within  his 
hand. 

Their  touch  ignites  the  soft  delicious  fire, 
Whose  rays  the  very  altar- flames  eclipse; 

Their  eyes  are  on  each  other — sweet  desire 
And  yearning  passion  tremble  On  their  lips. 


So  fair — so  strong  !    Ah,  Love  !  what  errant 

wiles 
Have  brought  these  two  so  poor  and  so 

unblest  ? 

But  see  !  Instead  of  anger,  Cupid  smiles; 
And  lo  !  he  crowns  their  sacrifice  as  best ! 

Their  hands  are  empty,  but  their  hearts  are 
filled; 

Their  gifts  so  rare  for  all  the  host  suffice: 
Beore  the  altar  is  their  life-wine  spilled — 

The  love  they  long  for  is  their  sacrifice. 


AT  FREDERICKSBURG.— DEC.  13, 

1862. 

GOD  send  us  peace,  and  keep  red  strife  away; 
But  should  it  come,  God  send  us  men  and 

steel ! 

The  land  is  dead  that  dare  not  face  the  day 
When  foreign  danger  threats  the  common 
weal. 

Defenders  strong  are  they  that  homes  defend; 

From  ready  arms  the  spoiler  keeps  afar. 
Well  blest  the  country  that  has  sons  to  lend 

From  trades  of  peace  to  learn  the  trade  of 
war. 

Thrice  blest  the  nation  that  has  every  son 
A  soldier,  ready  for  the  warning  sound; 
Who  marches  homeward  when  the  fight  is 

done, 

To   swing  the   hammer   and   to   till   the 
ground. 

Call  back  that  morning,  with  its  lurid  light, 
When  through  our  land  the  awful  war- 
bell  tolled; 
When  lips  were  mute,  and  women's  faces 

white 

As  the  pale  cloud  that  out  from  Sumter 
rolled. 

Call  back  that  morn:    an  instant  all  were 

dumb, 
.  As  if  the  shot  had  struck  the  Nation's  life; 


1'uKMS   OF  JOHN"    lioYLE  O'RKILLY. 


Then  cleared  the  smoke,  and  rolled  the  call- 
in  g  drum, 

And  men  streamed  in  to  meet  the  coming 
strife. 

They  closed  the  ledger  and  they  stilled  the 

loom, 
The    plough   left  rusting   in    the    prairie 

farm; 
They  saw  but  "Union"  in  the  gathering 

gloom; 

The  tearless  women  helped  the  men  to 
arm; 

Brigades  from  towns — each  village  sent  its 
band: 

German  and  Irish — every  race  and  faith; 
There  was  no  question  then  of  native  land, 

But — love  the  Flag  and  follow  it  to  death. 

No  need  to  tell  their  tale:  through  every  age 
The  splendid  story  shall  be  sung  and  said; 

But  let  me  draw  one  picture  from  the  page — 
For  words  of  song  embalm  the  hero  dead. 


The  smooth  hill  is  bare,  and  the  cannons  are 

planted, 
Like    Gorgon   fates   shading   its   terrible 

brow ; 
The  word  has  been  passed  that  the  stormers 

are  wanted, 
And  Burnside's  battalions  are  mustering 

now. 
The  armies  stand  by  to  behold  the  dread 

meeting; 
The  work  must  be  done  by  a  desperate 

few; 
The  black-mouthed  guns  on  the  height  give 

them  greeting — 
From  gun-mouth  to  plain  every  grass  blade 

in  view. 
Strong  earthworks  are  there,  and  the  rifles 

behind  them 

Are  Georgia  militia — an  Irish  brigade — 
Their  caps  have  green  badges,  as  if  to  remind 

them 
Of  all  the  brave  record  their  country  has 

made. 

The  stormers  go  forward — the  Federals  cheer 
them ; 


They  breast  the  smooth  hillside — the  black 

mouths  are  dumb; 
The  riflemen  lie  in  the  works  till  they  i.ear 

them, 
And  cover  the  stormers  as  upward  they 

come. 
Was  ever  a  death-march  so  grand  and  so 

solemn  ? 
At  last,   the  dark  summit  with  flame  is 

enlineil; 
The  great  guns  belch  doom  on  the  sacrificed 

column, 

That  reels  from  the  height,  leaving  hun- 
dreds behind. 
The  armies  are  hushed — there  is  no  cause 

for  cheering: 
The  fall  of  brave  men  to  brave  men  is  a 

pain. 
Again  come  the  stormers  !   and  as  they  are 

nearing 
The    flame-sheeted   rifle-lines,    reel   back 

again. 
And  so   till  full   noon   come  the   Federal 

masses — 
Flung  back  from  the  height,  as  the  cliff 

flings  a  wave; 
Brigade   on   brigade   to  the   death-struggle 

passes, 
No  wavering  rank  till  it    steps   on    the 

grave. 
Then  comes  a  brief  lull,  and  the  smoke-pall 

is  lifted, 

The  green  of  the  hillside  no  longer  is  seen : 
The   dead   soldiers  lie  as  the   sea-weed   is 

drifted, 
The  earthworks  still  held  by  the  badges 

of  green. 
Have  they  quailed  ?  is  the  word.     No:  again 

they  are  forming — 
Again  comes  a  column  to  death  and  d--- 

feat! 

What  is  it  in  these  who  shall  now  do  tin- 
storming 
That  makes  every  Georgian  spring  to  his 

feet? 
"0  God  !   what  a  pity  !"   they  cry  in  their 

POV 

As  rifles  are  readied  and  bayonets  made 


758 


POEMS  OF  JOHN   BOYLE  O'REILLY. 


"  'Tis  Meagher  and  his  fellows  !   their  caps 

have  green  clover; 
'Tis  Greek  to  Greek  now  for  the  rest  of 

the  fight ! " 
Twelve  hundred  the  column,  their  rent  flag 

before  them, 
With  Meagher  at  their  head,  they  have 

dashed  at  the  hill ! 
Their  foemen  are  proud  of  the  country  that 

bore  them; 

But,  Irish  in  love,  they  are  enemies  still. 
Out  rings  the  fierce  word,  "  Let  them  have 

it ! "  the  rifles 
Are  emptied  point-blank  in  the  hearts  of 

the  foe: 
[t  is  green  against  green  but  a  principle 

stifles 
The   Irishman's  love   in   the    Georgian's 

blow. 

The  column  has  reeled,  but  it  is  not  de- 
feated; 

In  front  of  the  guns  they  re-form  and  at- 
tack; 
Six  times  they  have  done  it,  and  six  times 

retreated; 

Twelve  hundred  they  came,  and  two  hun- 
dred go  back. 
Two  hundred  go  back  with  the  chivalrous 

story; 

The  wild  day  is  closed  in  the  night's  sol- 
emn shroud; 
A  thousand  lie  dead,  but  their  death  was  a 

glory 
That  calls  not  for  tears — the  Green  Badges 

are  proud ! 
Bright  honor  be  theirs  who  for  honor  were 

fearless, 
Who  charged  for  their  flag  to  the  grim 

cannon's  mouth; 
And  honor  to  them  who  were  true,  though 

not  tearless, — 
Who  bravely  that  day  kept  the  cause  of 

the  South. 

The  quarrel  is  done — God  avert  such  another; 
The  lesson  it  brought  we  should  evermore 

heed: 

Who  loveth  the  Flag  is  a  man  and  a  brother, 
No  matter  what  birth  or  what  race  or  what 
creed. 


RELEASED— JANUARY,  1878.* 

THEY  are  free  at  last !     They  can  face  the 

sun; 
Their  hearts  now  throb  with  the  world's 

pulsation ; 

Their  prisons  are  open — their  night  is  done; 
'Tis  England's  mercy  and  reparation  ! 

The  years  of  their  doom  have  slowly  sped — 
Their  limbs  are  withered — their  ties  are 

riven; 
Their  children  are  scattered,  their  friends 

are  dead — 

But  the  prisons  are  open — the  "crime" 
forgiven. 

God  !  what  a  threshold  they  stand  upon: 
The  world  has  passed  on  while  they  were 

buried ; 

In  the  glare  of  the  sun  the}^  walk  alone 
On  the  grass-grown  track  where  the  crowd 
has  hurried. 

Haggard  and  broken  and  seared  with  pain, 
They  seek  the  remembered  friends  and 

places: 
Men  shuddering  turn,  and  gaze  again 

At  the  deep-drawn  lines  on  their  altered 
faces. 

What  do  they  read  on  the  pallid  page  ? 

What  is  the  tale  of  these  wof ul  letters  ? 
A  lesson  as  old  as  their  country's  age, 

Of  a  love  that  is  stronger  than  stripes  and 
fetters. 

In  the  blood  of  the  slain  some  dip  their  blade, 
And  swear  by  the  stain  to  follow: 

But  a  deadlier  oath  might  here  be  made, 
On  the  wasted  bodies  and  faces  hollow. 

Irishmen  !    You  who  have  kept  the  peace — 
Look  on  these  forms  diseased  and  broken: 

Believe,  if  you  can,  that  their  late  release, 
When  their  lives  are  sapped,  is  a  good-will 
token. 

*  On  the  5th  of  January,  1878,  three  of  the  Irish  political 
prisoners,  who  had  been  confined  since  1866,  were  set  at  lib- 
erty. The  released  men  were  received  by  their  fellow- 
countrymen  in  London.  "  They  are  well,"  said  the  report, 
"  but  they  look  prematurely  old." 


POEMS  OF  JOHN   BOYLE  O'REILLY. 


759 


Their  hearts  are  the  bait  on  England's  hook; 

For  this  are  they  dragged  from  her  hope- 
less prison; 
She  reads  her  doom  in  the  Nations'  book — 

She  fears  the  day  that  has  darkly  risen; 

She  reaches  her  hand  for  Ireland's  aid — 
Ireland,  scourged,  contemned,  derided; 

She  begs  from  the  beggar  her  hate  has  made; 
She  seeks  for  the  strength  her  guile  di- 
vided. 

She  offers  a  bribe — ah,  God  above  ! 

Behold  the  price  of  the  desecration: 
The  hearts  she  has  tortured  for  Irish  love 

She  brings  as  a  bribe  to  the  Irish  nation  ! 

O,  blind  and  cruel !     She  fills  her  cup 
With  conquest  and  pride,  till  its  red  wine 

splashes: 
But  shrieks  at  the  draught  as  she  drinks  it 

up— 

Her  wine  has  been  turned  to  blood  and 
ashes. 

We  know  her — our  Sister  !    Come  on  the 

storm  ! 

God  send  it  soon  and  sudden  upon  her: 
The  race  she  has  shattered  and  sought  to 

deform 

Shall  laugh  as  she  drinks  the  black  dis- 
honor. 


A  NATION'S  TEST. 

HEAD  AT  THE  O'CONNELL  CENTENNIAL  IN  BOSTON, 
ON  AUGUST  6,  1875, 


A  NATION'S  greatness  lies  in  men,  not  acres; 
One  master-mind  is  worth  a  million  hands. 
No  royal   robes  have  marked   the   planet- 
shakers, 
But  Samson-strength  to  burst  the  ages' 

bands. 

The  might  of  empire  gives  no  crown  super- 
nal— 
Athens  is  here — but  where  is  Macedon  ? 


A  dozen  lives  make  Greece  and  Rome  eter- 
nal, 

And  England's  fame  might  safely  rest  on 
one. 

Here  test  and  text  are  drawn  from  Nature's 

preaching: 

Afric  and  Asia — half  the  rounded  earth — 
In  teeming  lives  the  solemn  truth  are  teach- 
ing* 
That   insect-millions   may    have    human 

birth. 

Sun-kissed  and  fruitful,  every  clod  is  breed- 
ing 

A  petty  life,  too  small  to  reach  the  eye: 
So  must  it  be,  with  no  Man  thinking,  lead- 
ing, 
The  generations  creep  their  course  and  die. 

Hapless  the  lands,  and  doomed  amid  the 
races, 

That  give  no  answer  to  this  royal  test; 
Their  toiling  tribes  will  droop  ignoble  faces, 

Till  earth  in  pity  takes  them  back  to  rest 
A  vast  monotony  may  not  be  evil, 

But  God's  light  tells  us  it  cannot  be  good; 
Valley  and  hill  have  beauty — but  the  level 

Must   bear  a  shadeless  and  a  stagnant 
brood. 

IT. 

I  bring  the  touchstone,  Motherland,  to  thee, 
And  test  thee  trembling,  fearing  thou 

shouldst  fail; 

If  fruitless,  sonless,  thou  wert  proved  to  be, 
Ah,  what  would  love  and  memory  avail  ? 
Brave  land  !  God  has  blest  thee  ! 

Thy  strong  heart  I  feel, 
As  I  touch  thee  and  test  thee — 

Dear  land  !     As  the  steel 
To  the  magnet  flies  upward,  so  rises  thy 

breast, 

With  a  motherly  pride  to  the  touch  of  the 
test. 


in. 


See 


she  smiles   beneath   the  touchstone, 
looking  on  her  distant  .youth. 
Looking  down  her  line  of   leaders  and  of 
workers  for  the  truth. 


reo 


POEMS  OF  JOHN  BOYLE   O'REILLY. 


Ere  the  Teuton,  Norseman,  Briton,  left  the 

primal  woodland  spring, 
When  their  rule  was  might  and  rapine,  and 

their  law  a  painted  king; 
When  the  sun  of  art  and  learning  still  was 

in  the  Orient; 
When  the  pride  of  Babylonia  under  Cyrus' 

hand  was  shent; 
When  the  sphinx's  introverted  eye  turned 

fresh  from  Egypt's  guilt; 
When  the  Persian  bowed  to  Athens;   when 

the  Parthenon  was  built; 
When  the  Macedonian  climax   closed  the 

Commonwealths  of  Greece; 
Wrhen  the  wrath  of  Eoman  manhood  burst 

on  Tarquin  for  Lucrece — 
Then  was  Erin  rich  in  knowledge — thence 

from  out  her  Ollamh's  store — 
Kenned  to-day  by  students  only — grew  her 

ancient  Senchus  More;* 
Then  were  reared  her  mighty  builders,  who 

made  temples  to  the  sun — 
There  they  stand — the  old  Round  Towers — 

showing  how  their  work  was  done: 
Thrice  a  thousand  years  upon  them — sham- 
ing all  our  later  art — 
Warning  fingers  raised  to  tell  us  we  must 

build  with  reverent  heart. 

Ah,  we  call  thee  Mother  Erin  !    Mother  thou 

in  right  of  years; 
Mother  in  the  large  fruition — mother  in  the 

joys  and  tears. 
All  thy  life  has  been  a  symbol — we  can  only 

read  a  part: 
God  will  flood  thee  yet  with  sunshine  for 

the  woes  that  drench  thy  heart. 
All  thy  life  has  been  symbolic  of  a  human 

mother's  life: 
Youth's  sweet  hopes  and  dreams  have  van- 

.ished,  and  the  travail  and  the  strife 
Are  upon  thee  in  the  present;  but  thy  work 

until  to-day 
Still  has  been  for  truth  and  manhood — and 

it  shall  not  pass  away: 

*  "  Senchus  More,"  or  Great  Law,  the  title  of  the  Brehon 
Laws,  translated  by  O'Donovan  and  O'Curry.  Ollamh 
Tola,  who  reigned  900  years  B.  c.,  organized  a  trien- 
nial parliament  at  Tara,  of  the  chiefs,  priests,  and  bards, 
who  digested  the  laws  into  a  record  called  the  Psalter  of 


Justice  lives,  though  judgment  lingers — an- 
gels' feet  are  heavy  shod — 

But  a  planet's  years  are  moments  in  th'  eter- 
nal day  of  God ! 

TV. 

Out  from  the  valley  of  death  and  tears, 
From  the  war  and  want  of  a  thousand  years. 
From  the  mark  of  sword  and  the  rust  of 

chain, 

From  the  smoke  and  blood  of  the  penal  hn\  P. 
The  Irish  men  and  the  Irish  cause 
Come  out  in  the  front  of  the  field  again  ! 

What  says  the  stranger  to  such  a  vitality  ? 

What  says  the  statesman  to  this  nationality? 

Flung  on  the  shore  of  a  sea  of  defeat, 

Hardly  the  swimmers  have  sprung  to  their 
feet, 

When  the  nations  are  thrilled  by  a  clarion- 
word, 

And  Burke,  the  philosopher-statesman,  is 
heard. 

AVhen  shall  his  equal  be  ?     Down  from  the 

stellar  height 
Sees  he  the  planet  and  all  on  its  girth — 

India,  Columbia,  and  Europe — his  eagle- 
sight 

Sweeps  at  a  glance  all  the  wrong  upon 
earth. 

Ra,ces  or  sects  were  to  him  a  profanity: 
Hindoo  and  Negro  and  Kelt  were  as  one; 

Large  as  mankind  was  his  splendid  humanity, 
Large  in  its  record  the  work  he  has  done. 

v. 

What  need  to  mention  men  of  minor  note, 
When  there  be  minds  that  all  the  heights- 
attain  ? 
What  school -boy  knoweth  not  the  hand  that 

wrote 
"  Sweet  Auburn,  loveliest  village  of  the 

plain?" 

What  man  that  speaketh  English  e'er  can 
lift 


Tara.  Ollamh  Fola  founded  schools  of  history,  medicine, 
philosophy,  poetry,  and  astronomy,  which  were  protected 
by  his  successors.  Kimbath  (450  B.C.)  and  Hugony  (300  B.C.  ) 
also  promoted  the  civil  interests  of  the  kingdom  in  a  re- 
markable manner. 


1'oF.M:'    (>F   .J<>! IN    I5OYLK   (TKKILLY. 


rei 


His  voice  'mid  scholars,  who  hath  missed 

the  lore 

Of  Berkeley,  Curran,  Sheridan,  and  Swift, 

The  art  of  Foley  and  the  songs  of  Moore  ? 

Grattan  and  Flood  and  £mmet — where  is  he 

That  hath  not  learned  respect  for  such  as 

these  ? 

Who  loveth  humor,  and  hath  yet  to  see 
Lover  and  Prout  and  Lever  and  Maclise  ? 

VI. 

Great  men  grow  greater  by  the  lapse  of  time: 
We  know  those  least  whom  we  have  seen 

the  latest; 
And  they,  'mong  those  whose  names  have 

grown  sublime, 

Who   worked   for   Human    Liberty,    are 
greatest. 

And  now  for  one  who  allied  will  to  work, 
And  thought  to  act,  and  burning  speech 

to  thought; 
Who  gained  the  prizes  that  were  seen  by 

Burke — 

Burke  felt  the  wrong — O'Connell  felt,  and 
fought. 

Ever  the  same — from  boyhood  up  to  death 
His  race  was  crushed — his  people  were  de- 
famed; 
He  found  the  spark,  and  fanned  it  with  his 

breath, 
And  fed  the  fire,  till  all  the  nation  flamed  ! 

He  roused  the  farms — he  made  the  serf  a 

yeoman; 
He  drilled  his  millions  and  he  faced  the 

foe; 

But  not  with  lead  or  steel  he  struck  the  foe- 
man: 

Reason  the  sword — and  human  right  the 
blow. 

He   fought   for   home — but  no   land-limit 

bounded 

O'Connell's  faith,  nor  curbed  his  sympa- 
thies; 


All  wrong  to  liberty  must  be  confounded, 
Till  men  were  chainless  as  the  winds  and 

seas. 

He  fought  for  faith  —  but  with  no  narrow 

spirit; 
With   ceaseless  hand  the   bigot  laws  he 

smote; 
One  chart,  he  said,  all  mankind  should  in- 

herit, — 

The  right  to  worship  and  the  right  to 
vote. 

Always  the  same  —  but  yet  a  glinting  prism: 
In  wit,  law,  statecraft,  still  a  master-  hand;. 

An  "  uncrowned  king,"  whose  people's  love 

was  chrism; 
His  title  —  Liberator  of  his  Land  ! 

"  His  heart's  in  Rome,  his  spirit  is  in  heav- 

en"— 

So  runs  the  old  song  that  his  people  sing; 
A  tall  Round  Tower  they  builded  in  Glas- 

nevin  — 
Fit  Irish  headstone  for  an  Irish  king  ! 

VII. 

0  Motherland  !   there  is  no  cause  to  doubt 

thee; 

Thy  mark  is  left  on  every  shore  to-day. 
Though  grief  and  wrong  may  cling  like  robes 

about  thee, 
Thy  motherhood  will  keep  thee  queen  al- 

way. 

In  faith  and  patience  working,  and  beliaving 
Not  power  alone  can  make  a  noble  state: 

Whate'er  the  land,  though  all  things  else 


Unless  it  breed  great  men,  it  is  not  great. 
Go  on,  dear  land,  and  midst  the  generations 

Send  out  strong  men  to  cry  the  word  aloud  ; 
Thy  niche  is  empty  still  amidst  the  nations  — 

Go  on  in  faith,  and  God  must  raise  tin 
cloud. 


POEMS  OF  LADY  WILDE, 


THE   BROTHERS.* 
A  SCENE  FEOM  '98. 


"  Oh!  give  me  truths, 

For  I  am  weary  of  the  surfaces, 
And  die  of  inanition." — EMERSON. 


'Tis  midnight,  falls  the  lamp-light  dull  and 

sickly 

On  a  pale  and  anxious  crowd, 
Through  the  court,  and  round  the  judges, 

thronging  thickly, 

With  prayers,  they  dare  not  speak  aloud. 
Two  youths,  two  noble  youths,  stand  pris- 
oners at  the  bar — 

You  can  see  them  through  the  gloom — 
In  the  pride  of  life  and  manhood's  beauty, 

there  they  are 
Awaiting  their  death  doom. 

n. 

All  eyes  an  earnest  watch  on  them  are  keep- 
ing, 

Some,  sobbing,  turn  away, 
And  the  strongest  men  can  hardly  see  for 

weeping, 

So  noble  and  so  loved  were  they. 
Their  hands  are  locked  together,  those  young 

brothers, 

As  before  the  judge  they  stand — 
They  feel  not  the  deep  grief  that  moves  the 

others, 
For  they  die  for  Fatherland. 

in. 
They  are  pale,  but  it  is  not  fear  that  whitens 

On  each  proud,  high  brow, 
For    the    triumph    of    the    martyr's   glory 

brightens 
Around  them  even  now. 

*  The  patriot  brothers  John  and  Henry  Sheares,  who  were 
"hanged,  drawn  and  quartered  "  in  1798. 


They  sought  to  free  their  land  from  thrall 

of  stranger; 

Was  it  treason  ?    Let  them  die; 
But  their  blood  will  cry  to  Heaven — the 

Avenger 
Yet  will  hearken  from  on  high. 

IV. 

Before  them,  shrinking,  cowering,  scarcely 

human, 

The  base  Informer  bends, 
Who,  Judas-like,  could  sell  the  blood  of  true 

men, 

While  he  clasped  their  hand  as  friends. 
Aye,  could  fondle  the  young  children  of  his 

victim — 

Break  bread  with  his  young  wife 
At  the  moment  that  for  gold  his  perjured 

dictum 
Sold  the  husband  and  the  father's  life. 

v. 

There  is  silence  in  the  midnight — eyes  are 
kaeping 

Troubled  watch  till  forth  the  jury  come; 
There  is  silence  in  the  midnight — eyes  are 
weeping — 

Guilty  ! — is  the  fatal  uttered  doom. 
For  a  moment,  o'er  the  brothers'  noble  faces, 

Came  a  shadow  sad  to  see; 
Then,  silently,  they  rose  up  in  their  places, 

And  embraced  each  other  fervently. 

VI. 

Oh  !  the  rudest  heart  might  tremble  at  such 

sorrow, 
The  rudest  cheek  might  blanch  at  such  a 

scene: 
Twice  the  judge  essayed  to  speak  the  word 

— to-morrow — 
Twice  faltered,  as  a  woman  he  had  been. 


POEMS  OF  LADY  WILDE. 


763 


To-morrow  ! — Fain   the  elder  would    have 

spoken, 
Prayed  for  respite,  tho'  it  is  not  Death  he 

fears; 
But,  thoughts  of  home  and  wife  his  heart 

hath  broken, 
And  his  words  are  stopped  by  tears. 

VII. 

But  the  youngest — oh,  he  spake  out  bold 

and  clearly: — 

I  have  no  ties  of  children  or  of  wife; 
Let  me  die — but  spare  the  brother  who  more 

dearly 

Is  loved  by  me  than  life. — 
Pale  martyrs,  ye  may  cease,  your  days  are 

numbered; 

Next  noon  your  sun  of  life  goes  down; 
One  day  between  the  sentence  and  the  scaf- 
fold- 
One   day   between  the  torture  and  the 
crown  ! 

VIII. 

A  hymn  of  joy  is  rising  from  creation; 
Bright  the  azure  of  the  glorious  summer 

sky; 
But  human  hearts  weep  sore  in  lamentation, 

For  the  Brothers  are  led  forth  to  die. 
Aye,  guard  them  with  your  cannon  and  your 

lances — 

So  of  old  came  martyrs  to  the  stake; 
Aye,  guard  them — see  the  people's  flashing 

glances, 

For  those  noble  two  are  dying  for  their 
sake. 

IX. 

Yet  none  spring  forth  their  bonds  to  sever; 

Ah  !  methinks,  had  I  been  there, 
Pd  have  dared  a  thousand  deaths  ere  ever 

The  sword  should  touch  their  hsiir. 
It  falls  ! — there  is  a  shriek  of  lamentation 

From  the  weeping  crowd  around ; 
They're  stilled — the  noblest  hearts   within 
the  nation — 

The   noblest  heads  lie  bleeding  on   the 
ground. 


x. 


Years  have  passed  since  that  fatal  scene  of 

dying, 

Yet,  lifelike  to  this  day, 
In  their  coffins  still  those  severed  heads  are 


Kept  by  angels  from  decay. 
Oh  !  they  preach  to  us,  those  still  and  pallid 

features  — 
Those  pale  lips  yet  implore  us,  from  their 

graves, 
To  strive  for  our  birthright  as  God's  crea- 

tures, 
Or  die,  if  we  can  but  live  as  slaves. 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  POOR. 

i. 
WAS  sorrow  ever  like  to  our  sorrow  ? 

Oh,  God  above  ! 
Will  our  night  never  change  into  a  morrow 

Of  joy  and  love  ? 
A  deadly  gloom  is  on  us  waking,  sleeping, 

Like  the  darkness  at  noontide, 
That  fell  upon  the  pallid  mother,  weeping 

By  the  Crucified. 

n. 

Before  us  die  our  brothers  of  starvation: 

Around  are  cries  of  famine  and  despair  ! 
Where  is  hope  for  us,  or  comfort,  or  salva- 
tion— 

Where — oil !  where  ? 

If  the  angels  ever  hearken,  downward  bend- 
ing* 

They  arc  weeping,  we  are  sure. 
At  the  litanies  of  human  groans  ascending 

From  the  crushed  hearts  of  the  poor. 

in. 

When  the  human  rests  in  love  upon  the 
human, 

All  grief  is  light; 
But  who  bonds  one  kind  glance  to  illumine 

Our  life-long  night  ? 


POEMS  OF   LADY  WILDE. 


The  air  around  is  ringing  with  their  laugh- 
ter— 

God  has  only  made  the  rich  to  smile; 
But  we— in  our  rags,  and  want,  and  woe — 

we  follow  after, 
Weeping  the  while. 

IV. 

And  the  laughter  seems  but  uttered  to  de- 
ride us. 

When — oh  !  when 
Will  fall  the  frozen  barriers  that  divide  us 

From  other  men  ? 
Will  ignorance  for  ever  thus  enslave  us  ? 

Will  misery  for  ever  lay  us  low  ? 
All  are  eager  with  their  insults,  but  to  save 
us, 

None,  none,  we  know. 

v. 

We  never  knew  a  childhood's  mirth  and 

gladness, 
Nor  the  proud  heart  of  youth,  free  and 

brave; 
Oh  !  a  deathlike  dream  of  wretchedness  and 

sadness, 

Is  life's  weary  journey  to  the  grave. 
Day  by  day  we  lower  sink  and  lower, 

Till  the  Godlike  soul  within, 
Falls  crushed,  beneath  the  fearful  demon 

power 
Of  poverty  and  sin. 

VI. 

So  we  toil  on,  on  with  fever  burning 

In  heart  and  brain; 
So  we  toil  on,  on  through  bitter  scorning, 

Want,  woe,  and  pain: 

We  dare   not  raise   our   eyes  to   the   blue 
Heaven, 

Or  the  toil  must  cease — 
We  dare  not  breathe  the  fresh  air  God  has 
given 

One  hour  in  peace. 

VII. 

We  nmst  toil,  though  the  light  of  life  is 

burning, 
Oh,  how  dimj 


We  must  toil  on  our  sick  bed,  feebly  turning 

Our  eyes  to  Him 
Who  alone  can  hear  the  pale  lip  faintly  say- 
ing, 

With  scarce  moved  breath, 
While   the  paler  hands,  uplifted,  aid  the 

praying, 
"  Lord,  grant  us  Death  !  " 


BUDRIS  AND  HIS  SONS. 

FROM  THE  RUSSIAN. 
I. 

SPRING  to  your  saddles,  and  spur  your  fleet 

horses; 
Time  for  ye,  children,   to  seek   your  life 

courses. 
(Thus    spake    old    Budris,    the    Lithuan 

brave. ) 

Never  your  father's  sword  rusted  in  leisure, 
Never  his  hand   failed  to  grasp  the  rich 

treasure;  [grave. 

But  now  my  feeble  frame  sinks  to  the 

ii. 
Three  paths  from  Wilna  to  plunder  Avill  lead 

ye; 

Eide  forth,  my  sons — each  a  path  I  aread  ye — 
Thus  will  your  booty  be  varied  and  rare. 

Olgard,  go  thou  and  despoil  the  proud  Prus- 
sian; 

Woiwod,  Kiestut,  be  thy  prey  the  Russian — 
Vitald  the  lances  of  Poland  may  dare. 

in. 
From  Novgorod  Veliki  *  come  back  to  me 

never 
Without  the  rich  dust  of  the  Tartar's  gold 

river; 
Bring  the  sables  of  Yakutsk,  so  costly  and 

fine, 
And  the  silver  of  Argun  they  dig  from  the 

mine, 

The  gems  of  Siberia  and  far  Kolivun — 
So  saints  speed  the  ride  of  the  bold  Lithuaii  I 

*  Novgorod,  the  great. 


1'OKMS   OF    LADY    \VILDK. 


IV. 

In  the  cursed  Prussian  land  there  is  wealth 

for  the  bold:  [gold; 

Ha,  boy  !  never  shrink  from  their  ducats  of 

Take  their  costly  brocades,  where  the  golden 

thread  flashes,  [dashes: 

The  amber  that  lies  where  the  Baltic  wave 

Be  the  prize  but  as  rich  as  your  forefathers 

won,  [my  son. 

And  the  gods  of  old  Litwa  *  will  guard  thee, 


No  gold,  my  young 

share, 

Where  the  plains  of 
But  their  lances  are 

;ire  keen, 

And  their  maidens 
So  speed  forth,  my 

the  ride 
That  brings  a  fair 


v. 

Vitald,  will  fall  to  thy 
[bare; 

the  Polac  lie  level  and 
bright,  and  their  sabres 
[seen: 

the  loveliest  ever  were 
son,  and  good  luck  to 
[bride. 
Polenese  home  for  thy 

VI. 

Not  the  azure  of  ocean,  or  stars  of  the  sky, 
Can  rival  the  color  or  light  of  her  eye; 
Like  the  lily  in  hue,  when  its  first  leaves 

unfold,  [go^; 

Is  the  bosom  on  which  fall  her  tresses  of 
Fine  and  slender  her  form  as  the  pines  of 

the  grove,  [and  love. 

And  her  cheek  and  her  lips  glow  with  beauty 

VII. 

By  three  paths  from  Wilna,  the  young  men 

are  roaming, 
Day  after  day  Budris  looks  for  their  coming — 

But  day  after  day  he  watcheth  in  vain. 
No  steed  from  the  high-road,  no  lance  from 

the  forest, 
He   watcheth  and  waiteth  in  anguish  the 

sorest — 
"Alas  !  for  my  brave  sons,  I  fear  they  are 

slain  !  " 

VIII. 

The  snow  in  the  valley  falls  heavy  and  fast — 
Through  the  forest  a  horseman  comes  dash- 
ing at  last, 

*  Lithuania 


With  his  mantle  wrapped  closely  to  guard 

from  the  cold: 
"  Ha,  Olgard  !   hast  brought  me  the  ducats 

of  gold  ? 
Let's  see — is  it  amber  thou'st  won  for  thy 

ride?"  [bride  1" 

"  Oh,  father — no,  father — a  young  Polish 

IX. 

The  snow  on  the  valley  falls  heavier  still, 
A  horseman  is  seen  rushing  down  from  the 

hill; 
Wrapped   close    in    his   mantle   some  rich 

treasure  lies — 
"  How    now,    my    brave    son — hast    thou 

brought  me  a  prra-  ? 

Is  it  silver  of  Argun  thou'st  won  for  thy  ride  ? 
Come  show  me!"  "No,  father — a  young 

Polish  bride ! " 

x. 

Faster  and  thicker  the  snow-showers  fall — 
A  horseman   rides   fiercely  through   sm>\v- 

flakes  and  all; 
Budris  sees  how  his  mantle  is  clasped  to  his 

breast —  [the  feast ! 

"  IIo,  slaves!  'tis  enough,  bid  our  friends  to 
111  ask  no  more  questions,  whatever  betides. 
Well  drain  a  full  cup  to  the  three  Polish 

brides ! " 


SULEIMA  TO  HER  LOVER. 

FROM  THE  TURKISH. 

THOU  reck'nest  seven  Heavens;  I  but  one: 
And  thou  art  it,  Beloved  !  Voice  ami  hand. 
Ami  eye  and  mouth,  are  but  the  angel  band 
Who  minister  around  that  highest  throne — 
Thy  godlike  heart.  And  there  I  reign  su- 
preme, 

And  choose,  at  will,  the  angel  who  I  deem 
\Vi!l  sing  the  sweetest,  words  I  love  to  hear — 
Tlrnt  short,  sweet  son^.  whose  echo  clear 
Will  last  throughout  eternity: 
"  I  love  thee 
How  I  love  thee  ! " 


'66 


POEMS  OF  LADY  WILDE. 


A  LA   SOMBRA   DE   MIS  CABELLOS. 

FROM  THE  SPANISH. — SIXTEENTH  CENTURY. 

MY  love  lay  there, 

In  the  shadow  of  my  hair, 
As  my  glossy  raven  tresses  downward  flow; 

And  dark  as  midnight's  cloud, 

They  fell  o'er  him  like  a  shroud: 
Ah  !  does  he  now  remember  it  or  no  ? 

With  ,a  comb  of  gold  each  night 

I  combed  my  tresses  bright;  [fro; 

But  the  sportive  zephyr  tossed  them  to  and 

So  I  pressed  them  in  a  heap, 

For  my  love  whereon  to  sleep: 
Ah  !  does  he  now  remember  it  or  no  ? 

He  said  he  loved  to  gaze 

On  my  tresses'  flowing  maze, 
And  the  midnight  of  my  dark  Moorish  eyes; 

And  he  vowed  'twould  give  him  pain 

Should  his  love  be  all  in  vain; 
So  he  Avon  me  with  his  praises  and  his  sighs. 

Then  I  flung  my  raven  hair 

As  a  mantle  o'er  him  there, 
Encircling  him  within  its  mazy  flow; 

And  pillowed  on  my  breast, 

He  lay  in  sweet  unrest. 
Ah!  does  he  now  remember  it  or  no? 


THE  ITINERANT  SINGING  GIRL. 

FROM  THE  DANISH. 

FATHERLESS  and   motherless,  no   brothers 

have  I, 

And  all  my  little  sisters  in  the  cold  grave  lie; 
Wasted   with   hunger   I   saw   them   falling 

dead — 
Lonely  and  bitter  are  the  tears  I  shed. 

Friendless  and  loverless  I  wander  to  and  fro, 
Singing  while  my  faint  heart  is  breaking  fast 

with  woe, 
Smiling  in  my  sorrow,  and  singing  for  my 

bread — 
Lonely  and  bitter  are  the  tears  I  shed. 


Harp  clang  and  merry  song  by  stranger  door 

and  board, 
None  ask  wherefore  tremble  my  pale  lips  at 

each  word; 
None  care  why  the  color  from  my  wan  cheek 

has  fled — 
Lonely  and  bitter  are  the  tears  I  shed. 

Smiling  and  singing  still,  tho'  hunger,  want, 

and  woe, 
Freeze  the  young  life-current  in  my  veins  as 

I  go; 
Begging  for  my  living,  yet  wishing  I  we^e 

dead — 
Lonely  and  bitter  are  the  tears  I  shed 


THE  POET  AT  COURT. 

i. 
HE  stands  alone  in  the  lordly  hall — 

He,  with  the  high,  pale  brow; 
But  never  a  one  at  the  f estiva1 

Was  half  so  great  I  trow. 
They  kiss  the  hand,  and  they  bend  th<   knee, 

Slaves  to  an  earthly  king; 
But  the  heir  of  a  loftier  dynasty 

May  scorn  that  courtly  ring. 

11. 
They  press,  with  false  and  flattering  vords* 

Around  the  blood-bought  throne; 
But  the  homage  never  yet  won  by  swords 

Is  his — the  anointed  one  ! 
His  sway  over  every  nation 

Extendeth  from  zone  to  zone; 
He  reigns  as  a  god  o'er  creation — 

The  universe  is  his  own. 

in. 
No  star  on  his  breast  is  beaming, 

But  the  light  of  his  flashing  eye 
Reveals,  in  its  haughtier  gleaming, 

The  conscious  majesty. 
For  the  Poet's  crown  is  the  godlike  brow-^ 

Away  with  that  golden  thing  ! 
Your  fealty  was  never  yet  due  till  now — 

Kneel  to  the  god-made  King  ! 


POEMS  OF  KATHARINE  CONWAY. 


TWO  VINES. 

BY  the  garden-gate  sprang  a  flowering  vine, 
And  it  sprouted  and  strengthened  in  shower 
and  shine. 

It  reached  out  tendrils  on  every  side — 
There  was  none  to  prune,  there  was  none  to 
guide. 

So  it  wavered  and  fell  from  its  tender  trust 
And  trailed  its  bright  blossoms  down  in  the 
dust. 

Within  the  garden  its  sister-vine 
O'er  many  a  friendly  branch  did  twine. 

Both  were  fed  with  the  same  sweet  dew, 
Both  in  the  same  kind  sunlight  grew. 

But  one  was  tended  with  fondest  care, 
And  its  blooming  gladdened  the  garden  fair: 

While  the  other,  as  fragrant  and  pure  and 

sweet, 
Was  trodden  under  by  passing  feet. 

Days  go  by  till  the  summer  is  fled. 
The  year  is  waning,  and  both  are  dead. 


THE  FIRST  RED  LEAF. 

IT  gleams  amid  the  foliage  green, 
While  earth  is  fair  and  skies  serene:- 
A  little,  fluttering,  scarlet  leaf, 
The  herald  of  a  coming  grief. 

It  saith  to  summer — Even  so. 
Thy  fading-time  is  near,  I  trow; 
And  I  am  conic  to  whisper  tlieo 
Of  gloomy  days  that  yet  must  be. 


A  little  longer  wear  thy  crown, 
Nor  lay  thy  blooming  sceptre  down, 
And  in  the  sun's  benignant  smile 
Forget  thy  fears  a  little  while. 

I  shall  not  see  thee  pass  away — 
Swift  is  my  coming,  brief  my  stay. 
Scarce  doth  the  blessed  daylight  shine 
On  beauty  shorter-lived  than  mine. 

But  know  that  thou  art  past  thy  prime: 
It  draweth  near  thy  fad  ing-time — 
I  am  the  herald  of  thy  grief, 
The  first  red  leaf,  the  first  red  leaf. 


REMEMBERED. 

RKMEMBERED  thus,  my  dearest!  remem- 
bered !  can  it  be 

That,  after  all  my  waywardness,  I'm  still  so 
dear  to  thee  ? 

Though  changed  thy  outward  seeming,  that 
thy  heart  no  change  hath  known, 

And  the  love  I  thought  had  left  me  is  still 
my  own — my  own? 

0  1  remembered  !    but  I  said,  "  I,  too,  can 

be  unheeding." 
With  smiling  eyes  and  aching  heart  I  stilled 

sweet  memory's  pleading — 
Or  dreamed  I  stilled  it — murmuring,  "  Soon 

shall  my  strength  atone 
For  the  cares  and  joys  he  shares  not,  and  the 

triumphs  won  alone." 

One  word  from  thee,  beloved,  and  the  pent- 
up  fount's  unsealed, 

And  all  my  self-deceiving  to  sense  and  soul 
aled, 


768 


POEMS  OF  KATHARINE  CONWAY. 


And  all  that  lonesome,  toilsome  past  clear- 
pictured  unto  me, —  [for  thee  ! 
O  it  never  had  a  day,  dear,  unlit  by  prayer 

Fore'er  divided  ?— yea,  for  earth;   but  our 

lives  have  wider  scope, 
And  the  bonds  between  us  strengthen  with 

our  strong  supernal  hope. 
For  oh,  my  friend,  my  dearest,  how  God's 

love  halloweth  [face  of  Death  ! 

This  love  that,  unaffrighted,  looks  in  the 


IN  EXTREMIS. 

DYING  !  who  says  I  am  dying  ? — Come  here, 

come  close  to  the  bed, 
Look   at   me — don't   speak    in   whispers; — 

there's  worse  than  death  to  dread. 
I'm  weak,  but  that  is  the  pain;   and  0  this 

fluttering  breath  ! 
But  'twas  often  the  same  before; — it  surely 

is  not  death. 

Raise  the  curtain  a  little;  it  can't  be  dusk, 
I  know,  [an  hour  ago. 

For  I  heard  the  bells  ring  noontime  scarcely 

Why  are  you  here  alone? — 'Tis  passing 
strange  indeed, 

If  there's  none  but  you  to  tend  me  in  my 
saddest,  sorest  need. 

Only  a  year  since  I  came  here,  a  proud  and 
happy  bride, 

Scorning  for  you  all  else  on  earth — yea,  and 
in  Heaven,  beside; 

False  to  the  Faith  of  my  fathers,  my  child- 
hood's blessed  Faith, 

And  all  for  the  short-lived  love  of  a  man — 
and  now  the  end  is  death. 

Is  this  fast-ripened  harvest  too  bitter  for 

your  reaping, 
That  you  stand  like  a  very  woman,  wringing 

your  hands  and  weeping? 
You  love  me  ? — Would  I  had  never  listened 

to  lover's  vow  !  [now  ? 

What  is  your  love  to  me  if  it  cannot  help  me 


Pray? — Do  you  bid  me  pray? — A  seemly 
counsel,  ay, 

Sweefr  prayer  !  ah,  not  for  me  ! — Do  you 
know  what  it  is  to  die  ? 

Do  you  know  my  rending  pain  ! — this  chill 
fast-gathering  gloom  ? 

Or  my  helpless,  desperate  fear  of  the  Judg- 
ment and  the  Doom  ? 

Mock  me  not  with  your  tears  !  0  leave  me 
— don't  you  see 

How  I  yearn  for  the  light,  and  all  the  while 
you  are  keeping  the  light  from  me  ! 

The  love  that  we  called  undying  in  this  aw- 
ful shadow  dies: 

0  lost,  lost  years  when  I  craved  no  light  but 
the  baneful  light  of  your  eyes  ! 

Hark  to  the  rushing  of  wings  ! — 0  shapes  01 

horror  and  dread, 
What  would  ye  have  of  me  that  ye  crowd 

around  my  bed? 
Closer,   closer  ! — Ah,   God, — but  in  vain   I 

cry  to  Thee, 
Even  as  I  forsook  Thee  hast  Thou  forsaken 

me  ! 


THE  HEAVIEST  CROSS  OF  ALL. 

I'VE  borne  full  many  a  sorrow,  I've  suffered 

many  a  loss — 
But  now,  with  a  strange,  new  anguish,  I 

carry  this  last  dread  cross; 
For  of  this  be  sure,  my  dearest,  whatever 

thy  life  befall, 
The  cross  that  our  own  hands  fashion  is  the 

heaviest  cross  of  all. 

Heavy  and  hard  I  made  it  in  the  days  of  my 

fair  strong  youth, 
Veiling  mine  eyes  from  the  blessed  light, 

and  closing  my  heart  to  truth. 
Pity  me,   Lord,   whose   mercy  passeth   my 

wildest  thought, 
For  I  never  dreamed  of  the  bitter  end  of  the 

work  my  hands  had  wrought ! 


POEMS  OF  MAKY   E.    BLAKE. 


In  the  sweet  morn's  flush  and  fragrance  I 

wandered  o'er  dewy  meadows 
And  I  hid  from  the  fervid  noontide  glow  in 

the  cool,  green,  woodland  shadows; 
And  I  never  recked  as  I  sang  aloud  in  my 

weird  and  wilful  glee, 
Of  the  mighty  woe  that  was  drawing  near 

to  darken  the  world  for  me. 

But  it  came  at  last,  my  dearest, — what  need 

to  tell  thee  how  ? 
Mayst  never  know  of  the  wild,  wild  woe  that 

my  heart  is  bearing  now  ! 


Over  my  summer's  glory  crept  a  damp  and 

chilling  shade, 
And  I  staggered  under  the  heavy  cross  that 

my  sinful  hands  had  made. 

I  go  where  the  shadows  deepen,  and  the  end 

seems  far  off  yet — 
God  keep  thee  safe  from  the  sharing  of  this 

woful  late  regret ! 
For  of  this  be  sure,  my  dearest,  whatever 

thy  life  befall, 
The  crosses  we  make  for  ourselves,  alas  !  are 

the  heaviest  ones  of  all ! 


WOMEN  OF  THE  REVOLUTION. 

HEART  of  the  Patriot  touched  by  Freedom's 

kindling  breath, 

Pouring  its  burning  words  from  lips  by 

passion  fired  !  [of  death  ! 

S \vord  of  the  Soldier  drawn  in  the  awful  face 

Bounteous  pen  of  the  Scholar  tracing  its 

theme  inspired  ! 
Wealth  of  the  rich  man's  coffers,  help  of  the 

poor  man's  dole  ! 
Strength  of  the  sturdy  arm  and  might  of 

the  Statesman's  fame, 

These  be  fit  themes  for  praise,  in  days  that 

tried  the  soul.       [of  woman's  name  ? 

But  where  in  the  list  is  room  for  mention 

For  hers  are  the  virtues  cast  in  finer  and 

gentler  mould; 

In  quiet  and  peaceful  paths  her  nature 
%  finds  its  scope. 

Stronger  in  loving  than  hating,  fond  where 

the  man  is  bold, 

She  works  with  the  tools  of  patience  and 
wonderful  gifts  of  hope  ! 


Hers  are  the  lips  that  kiss,  the  hands  that 

nurse  and  heal, 
The  tender  voice  that  speaks  in  accents 

low  and  sweet; 

What  hath  her  life  to  do  with  clash  of  mus- 
ket and  steel, 

Who  sits  at  the  gate  of  home  with  chil- 
dren about  her  feet  ? 

Nay  !    In  the  sturdy  tree  is  there  one  sap  ut 

the  root, 
That  mounts  to  the  stately  trunk  and  fills 

it  with  power  and  pride, 
And  one  for  the  tender  branch  that  bour- 
geons in  flower  and  fruit, 
Casting  its  welcome  shadow  on  all  who 

rest  beside  ? 
Nay  !     When  the  man  is  called  the  woman 

must  swiftly  rise. 
Ready  to  strengthen  and  bless,  ready  to 

follow  or  wait; 

Ready  to  crush  in  her  heart  the  anguish  of 
tears  and  sighs, 

the  message  of  God  in  the  blind 
decrees  of  Fate  ! 


POEMS  OF  MARY   E.    BLAKE. 


So,  in  days  of  the  past,  when  Liberty  raised 

her  voice, 
Weak  as  a  new-born  babe  in  the  cradle 

who  wakes  and  calls, 
And  the  tremulous  accents  ran  through  the 

beautiful  land  of  her  choice — 
As  into  the  heart  of  the  mother  the  cry  of 

her  infant  falls — 
So  did  hand  of  the  woman  reach  to  hand  of 

the  man, 
Helping  with  comfort  and  love,  steeling 

his  own  for  the  strife; 
Till  the  calm  of  his  steadfast  soul  through  his 

wavering  pulses  ran, 

And  the  blow  of  the  husband's  arm  was 
nerved  from  the  heart  of  the  wife. 

Wearing  a  homespun  gown,  or  ruling  with 

easy  sway 
The  world  of  fashion  and  pride,  gilded  by 

fortune's  sun, 
Eich  or  poor,  who  asks,  as  we  read  the  record 

to-day? 
Lowly  or  great,  who  cares  how  the  poor 

distinctions  run  ? 
Hallowed  be  every  name  in  the  roll  of  honor 

and  fame, 
Since  on  hearthstone  and  field  they  kindled 

the  sacred  fire, 
Since  with  fostering  breath  they  nurtured 

Liberty's  flame 

And  set  it  aloft  on  the  heights  to  which 
heroes'  feet  aspire. 

Molly  of  Monmouth,  staunch  in  the  place  of 

her  fallen  brave, 
Drowning  the  cry  of  defeat  in  the  lusty 

roar  of  her  gun; 
Eebecca,  the  Lady  of  Buckhead,  who,  eager 

for  Freedom,  gave 
Home  of  her  heart  to  the  burning,  and 

smiled  when  the  work  was  done; 

Abigail  Adams  of  Quincy,  noble  of  soul  and 

race,  [taff  and  pen; 

Reader  of  men  and  books,  wielder  of  dis- 

Martha    Wilson    of    Jersey,    moving    with 

courtly  grace; 

Deborah   Samson,   fighting   side   by  side 
with  the  men; 


Frances  Allen,  the  Tory,  choosing  the  better 

part       • 
Led  by  Ethan  the  daring,  to  follow  his 

glorious  way; 
Elizabeth  Zane  of  Wheeling,  timid,  yet  brave 

of  heart, 
Bearing  her  burden  of  powder  through 

smoke  and  flame  of  the  fray  ! 
Each,  on  the  endless  list,  through  length 

and  breadth  of  the  land, 
Winning  her  deathless  place  on  the  golden. 

scroll  of  time, 
Fair  as  in  old  Greek  days  the  women  of 

Sparta  stand 

Linked  with  the  heroes'  fame  and  sharing 
their  deeds  sublime. 

Stronger  than  we  of  to-day,  in  nerve  and 

muscle  and  will, 
Braver  than  we  of  to-day  the  burden  of 

women  to  bear, 
Glad  from  their  wholesome  breasts  the  soft 

mouths  of  children  to  fill, 
Holding    the    crown    of    the    mother   as 

proudest  that  women  could  wear; 
Asking  no  larger  sphere  than  that  in  which 

bravely  shine 
Sunshine  of  home  and  heart,  stars  of  duty 

and  love; 

Full  of  a  purer  faith  that  rested  in  Trust 

Divine  [Heaven  above. 

And  lifted  their  simple  lives  to  glory  of 

Plain  of  speech  and  of  dress,  as  fitted  their 

age  and  place, 
Meet  companions  for  men  of  sterner  creed 

and  frame; 
Yet  knowing  the  worth  of  a  word,  and  fair 

with  the  old-time  grace, 
That  perfumes  like  breath  of  a  flower  the 

page  that  holds  their  name; 
Trained   within  closer  bounds  to  question 

issue  and  cause, 

Small  the  reach  of  their  thought  to  the 

modern  student  looks;  , 

But  the  stream  within  narrower  banks  runs 

deeper  by  nature's  laws, 
And  theirs  was  a  wiser  lore  than  the  shal- 
low knowledge  of  books. 


I'OKMS   ()!•    MARY    F,    liLAKK. 


771 


Not  in   the  Forum's  seats  and  aping  the 

wrangler's  course 

Did  they  strive  with  barbed  word  the  tar- 
get of  right  to  reach, 
But  moulding  the  will  of  their  kind  with 

eloquent,  silent  force, 
Stronger  than  sting  of  the  pen,  deeper 

than  clamor  of  speech; 
Honor  they  taught,  and  right,  and  noble 

courage  of  truth. 

Strength  to  suffer  and  bear  in  holy  Lib- 
erty's need; 
Framing  through  turbulent  years  and  fiery 

season  of  youth, 

Soul  for  the  valor  of  thought — hand  for 
the  valor  of  deed. 

Well  that  with  praise  of  the  brave  song  of 

their  triumph  should  blend  ! 
Well  that  in  joy  of  the  land  fame  of  their 

glory  find  part ! 
For  theirs  is  the  tone  of  the  chord  that  holds 

its  full  strength  to  the  end, 
When  music  that  dies  on  the  ear  still  lin- 
gers and  sings  in  the  heart. 
Letter  and  word  may  die,  but  still  the  spirit 

survives, 

Rounding  in  ages  unborn  each  frail  dis- 
torted plan; 
And  fittest  survival  is  that  when  souls  of 

mothers  and  wives 

Bloom  in  immortal  deeds  through  life  of 
child  and  man. 


HOW   IRELAND  ANSWER  1. 1  >. 

A   TRADITION  OF  THE  AMERICAN   REVOLUTION. 

Wn  KKKSO'ER  in  song  or  story 
Runs  one  theme  of  ancient  glory, 
Whereso'er  in  word  or  action  lives  one  spark 

for  Freedom's  shrine, 
Read  it  out  before  the  people, 
Ring  it  loud  in  street  and  steeple, 
'Till  the  hearts  of  those  who  listen  thrill  be- 
neath its  power  divine  ! 


And,  as  lives  immortal,  gracious, 
The  great  deed  of  young  Horatius, 
Or  that  gauntlet  of  defiance  flung  by  Tell  in 

Gessler's  face, 

So  for  him  who  claims  as  sireland 
The  green  hills  of  holy  Ireland, 
Let  the  speech  of  old  John  Parnell  speak  its 

lesson  to  his  race 

******* 
'Twas  in  days  when,  sore  tormenting, 
With  a  malice  unrelenting, 
England  pushed  her  youngest  step-child  past 

endurance  into  strife, 
'Till  with  weak,  frail  hands  uplifted — 
With  but  hate  and  courage  gifted — 
She  began  the  desperate  struggle  that  should 
end  in  death — or  life. 

'Twas  the  fourth  long  year  of  fighting; 
Want,  and  woe,  and  famine,  biting, 
Nipped  the  heart-strings  of  the  "  Rebels," 
chilled  their  pulse  with  cold  despair; 
Southern  swamp  and  Northern  mountain 
Fed  full  streams  to  war's  red  fountain. 
And  the  gloom  of  hopeless  struggle  darkened 
all  the  heavy  air. 

Lincoln's  troops  in  wild  disorder, 
Beaten  on  the  Georgian  border; 
Five  score  craft,  off  Norfolk  harbor,  scuttled 

deep  beneath  the  tide; 

Hessian  thieves,  in  swaggering  sallies, 
Raiding  fair  New  England  valleys, 
While    before    Savannah's    trenches,    brave 
Pulaski,  fighting,  died  ' 

Indian  allies  warwhoops  raising 
Where  Wyoming's  roofs  are  blazing; 
Clinton,  full  of  pomp  and    bluster,  sailing- 

down  on  Charleston: 
And  the  people,  faint  with  striving, 
Worn  with  aimless,  sad  contriving. 
Tired  at  last,  of  Freedom's  battle,  heedless  if 
'tis  lost  or  won  ! 

Shall  now  England  pause  in  mercy, 
When  the  fro/en  plains  of  .Jersey 
Tracked  with  blood,  show  pathways  trodden 
by  bare  feet  of  wounded  men  ? 


'72 


POEMS  OF  MARY   E.    BLAKE. 


When  the  drained  and  tortured  nation 
Holds  no  longer  gold  or  ration 
To  upbuild  her  broken  fortune,  or  to  fill  her 
veins  again  ? 

Nay  !  but  striking  swift  and  surely, 
Now  to  gain  the  end  securely, 
Stirling  asks  for  re-inforcements — volunteers 

to  speed  the  cause ; 
And  King  George,  in  mandate  royal, 
Speeds  amid  his  subjects  loyal, 
Calls  for  dutiful  assistance  to  avenge  his 
outraged  laws. 

In  the  name  of  law  and  order, 
Sends  across  the  Irish  border 
To  the  wild  and  reckless  spirits  of  whose 

daring  well  he  knows: 
"  Ho  !  brave  fools  who  fight  for  pleasure  ! 
Here  is  chance  for  fame  and  treasure ; 
Teach  those  brazen  Yankee  devils  the  full 
force  of  Irish  blows." 

Old  John  Parnell,  cool  and  quiet,— 
Strange  result  on  Celtic  diet — 
Colonel  he  of  volunteers,  and  well  beloved 

chief  of  men, 

Reads  the  royal  proclamation, 
Answers  for  himself  and  nation — 
Ye  who  heed  the  voice  of  honor,  list  the 
ringing  words  again: 

"  Still,  as  in  her  ancient  story, 
Ireland  fights  for  right  and  glory  ! 
Still  her  sons,  through  blood  and  danger, 

hold  unstained  their  old  renown; 
But  by  God  who  reigneth  o'er  me, 
By  the  Motherland  that  bore  me, 
Never  Irish  gold  or  valor  helps  to  strike  a 

patriot  down  ! " 

******* 
Thus,  'mid  themes  immortal,  gracious, 
Like  the  deed  of  young  Horatius, 
Or  that  gauntlet  of  defiance  flung  by  Tell  in 

Gessler's  face, 

Let  the  Celt  who  claims  as  sireland 
'The  green  hills  of  holy  Ireland, 
Place  the  speech  of  old  John  Parnell,  for  the 
glory  of  his  race. 


WITH  A  FOUR-LEAFED  CLOVER. 

LOVE,  be  true  to  her  !    Life,  be  dear  to  her  ! 
Health,  stay  close  to  her  !   Joy,  draw  near  to 

her ! 

Fortune,  find  what  your  gifts  can  do  for  her; 
Search    your    treasure-house    through    and 

through  for  her; 

Follow  her  steps  the  wide  world  over,— 
You    must !    for   here   is   the   Four-leafed 

clover ! 


THE  FIRST  STEPS. 

TO-NIGHT  as  the  tender  gloaming 

Was  sinking  in  evening's  gloom, 
And  only  the  blaze  of  the  firelight 

Brightened  the  dark'ning  room, 
I  laughed  with  the  gay  heart  gladness 

That  only  to  mothers  is  known, 
For  the  beautiful  brown-eyed  baby 

Took  his  first  steps  alone  ! 

Hurriedly  mnning  to  meet  him 

Came  trooping  the  household  band, 
Joyous,  loving,  and  eager 

To  reach  him  a  helping  hand, 
To  watch  him  with  silent  rapture, 

To  cheer  him  with  happy  noise,  - 
My  one  little  fair-faced  daughter 

And  four  brown  romping  boys. 

• 
Leaving  the  sheltering  arms 

That  fain  would  bid  him  rest 
Close  to  the  love  and  the  longing, 

Near  to  the  mother's  breast,— 
Wild  with  daring  and  laughter, 

Looking  askance  at  me, 
He  stumbled  across  through  the  shadows 

To  rest  at  his  father's  knee. 

Baby,  my  dainty  darling, 

Stepping  so  brave  and  bright 
With  flutter  of  lace  and  ribbon 

Out  of  my  arms  to-night, 
Helped  in  thy  pretty  ambition 

With  tenderness  blessed  to  see, 
Sheltered,  upheld,  and  protected — 

How  will  the  last  steps  be  ? 


I'OKMS    <)!•     MARY    K.    I'.LAKK. 


Sec,  we  are  all  beside  you 

Urging  and  beckoning  on, 
Watching  lest  aught  betide  you 

Till  the  safe,  near  goal  is  won, 
Guiding  the  faltering  footsteps 

That  tremble  and  fear  to  fall — 
How  will  it  be,  my  darling, 

With  the  last  sad  step  of  all  ? 

Nay  !  shall  I  dare  to  question, 

Knowing  that  One  more  fond 
Than  all  onr  tenderest  loving 

Will  guide  the  weak  feet  beyond  ! 
And  knowing  beside,  my  dearest, 

That  whenever  the  summons,  'twill  be 
But  a  stumbling  step  through  the  shadow, 

Then  rest — at  the  Father's  knee  ! 


THE  LITTLE  SAILOR  KISS. 

0  KISSES  they  are  plenty 

As  blossoms  on  the  tree  ! 
And  be  they  one  or  twenty 

They're  sweet  to  yoii  and  me; 
And  some  are  for  the  forehead,  and  some  are 

for  the  lips, 
And  some  are  for  the  rosy  cheeks,  and  some 

for  finger  tips, 
And  some  are  for  the  dimples, — but  the 

sweetest  one  is  this, 

When  the  bonny,  bonny  bairnie,  gives  his 
little  sailor  kiss. 

0  I  will  kiss  this  sailor, 
This  sailor  lad  so  true  ! 

1  would  not  kiss  a  tailor, 
A  carpenter,  or  nailer, 
But  I  will  kiss  this  sailor 

With  bonny  eyes  of  blue! 
With  a  sonsy  smile,  and  yellow  hair  to  snare 

the  sunbeams  in, 
With  a  laughing  mouth,  and  a  rosy  cheek, 

and  a  dimple  in  the  chin. 
Throe  years  old,  and  a  heart  of  gold — ah, 

who  would  want  to  miss 
The  chance  to  meet  my  darling  with  his  little 

sailor  kiss. 


For  then  the  tiny  fingers 

Creep  softly  to  your  face, 
With  a  touch  that  thrills  and  lingers; 

And  the  rosy  palms  find  place 
To  come  pressing  and  caressing  with  sweet 

and  clinging  touch, 
Not  teasing  you  too  little,  and  yet  not  over 

much; 
While  full  of  love  and  laughter  the  pretty 

blue  eyes  glow, 
And  red  lips  tightly  puckered  pout  roguishly 

below, 
— 0  tell  me,  ye  who  know  it,  is  there  in  this 

world  such  bliss 

As  when  the  bonny  bairnie  gives  his  little 
sailor  kiss  ! 


OUR  RECORD. 

WHO  casts  a  slur  on  Irish  worth,  a  stain  on 

Irish  fame, — 
Who  dreads  to  own  his  Irish  blood  or  wear 

his  Irish  name, — 
Who  scorns  the  warmth  of  Irish  hearts,  the 

clasp  of  Irish  hands? 
Let  us  but  raise  the  vail  to-night  and  shame 

him  as  he  stands. 

The  Irish  fame  !  It  rests  enshrined  within 
its  own  proud  light, 

Wherever  sword  or  tongue  or  pen  has  fash- 
ioned deed  of  might; 

From  battle  charge  of  Fontenoy  to  (•  rattan's 
thunder  tone, 

It  holds  its  storied  past  on  high,  unrivaled 
and  alone. 


The 


tide    has 


Irish    blood  !      Its   crimson 

watered  hill  and  plain 
Wherever  there  were  wrongs  to  crush,  or 

freemen's  rights  to  gain; 
No  dastard  thought,  no  coward  fear,   has 

held  it  tamely  l>y 
When  there  were  noble  deeds  to  do,  or  noble 

deaths  to  die  ! 


774 


POEMS  OF  MARY   E.    BLAKE. 


The  Irish  heart !    The  Irish  heart !     God 

keep  it  fair  and  free, 
The  fullness  of  its  kindly  thought,  its  wealth 

of  honest  glee, 
Its  generous  strength,  its  ardent  faith,  its 

uncomplaining  trust, 
Though  every  worshiped   idol   breaks  and 

crumbles  into  dust. 

And  Irish  hands,— aye,  lift  them  up;  em- 
browned by  honest  toil, 

The  champions  of  our  western  world,  the 
guardians  of  the  soil; 

When  flashed  their  battle  swords  aloft,  a 
waiting  world  might  see 

What  Irish  hands  could  do  and  dare  to  keep 
a  nation  free. 

They  bore  our  starry  flag  above  through  bas- 
tion, gate,  and  wall, 

They  stood  before  the  foremost  rank,  the 
bravest  of  them  all; 

And  when  before  the  cannon's  mouth  they 
held  the  foe  at  bay, 

O  never  could  old  Ireland's  heart  beat 
projider  than  that  day  ! 

So  when  a  craven  fain  would  hide  the  birth- 
mark of  his  race, 

Or  slightly  speak  of  Erin's  sons  before  her 
children's  face, 

Breathe  no  weak  word  of  scorn  or  shame, 
but  crush  him  where  he  stands 

With  Irish  worth  and  Irish  fame,  as  won  by 
Irish  hands. 


A  DEAD  SUMMER. 

WHAT  lacks  the  summer  ? 

Not  roses  blowing, 

Nor  tall  white  lilies  with  fragrance  rife, 
Nor  green  things  gay  with  the  bliss  of  grow- 
ing* 
Nor  glad  things  drunk  with  the  wine  of 

life, 

Nor  flushing  of  clouds  in  blue  skies  shining, 
Nor  soft  wind  murmurs  to  rise  and  fall, 


Nor  birds  for  singing,  nor  vines  for  twin- 
ing,— 

Three  little  buds  I  miss,  no  more, 
That  blossomed  last  year  at  my  garden 
door, — 

And  that  is  all. 

What  lacks  the  summer  ? 

Not  waves  a-quiver 
With  arrows  of  light  from  the  hand  of 

dawn, 
Nor  drooping  of  boughs  by  the  dimpling 

river, 

Nor  nodding  of  grass  on  the  windy  lawn, 
Nor  tides  unswept  upon  silver  beaches, 
Nor  rustle  of  leaves  on  tree-tops  tall, 
Nor  dapple  of  shade  in  woodland  reaches, — 
Life  pulses  gladly  on  vale  and  hill, 
But  three  little  hearts  that  I  love  are 
still,— 

And  that  is  all. 

What  lacks  the  summer  ? 

O  light  and  savor, 

And  message  of  healing  the  world  above  ! 
Gone  is  the  old-time  strength  and  flavor, 

Gone  is  its  old-time  peace  and  love  ! 
Gone  is  the  bloom  of  the  shimmering  mead- 
ows, 

Music  of  birds  as  they  sweep  and  fall,— 
All  the  great  world  is  dim  with  shadow, 
Because  no  longer  mine  eyes  can  see 
The  eyes  that  made  summer  and  life  for 
me,— 

And  that  is  all. 


SONNET. 

To-  DAY  amid  the  sobbing  of  the  rain, 

While  gaunt  November  with  pale  finger 

tips 

Proffers  the  cup  of  doom  to  Nature's  lips 

And  scowling  mocks  her  bitter  moan  of  pain, 

I  cannot  mark  the  strife  'twixt  life  and  death 

For  joy  of  one  fair  thought  that  dwells 

with  me, — 
A  summer  hillside,  sleeping  by  the  sea, 


POKMS  OF  MARY   E.    BLAKE. 


Made  glad  with  bloom  and  song-birds'  voice- 

ful  breath; 

Fair  as  a  dream  that  fills  a  winter's  night 
With  peace  and  love,  it  stirs  my  waking 

hours 
With  hum  of  brown  bees  deep  in  chaliced 

flowers, 

With  blue  waves  dancing  in  the  golden  light, 
And  one  swift  flight  of  swallows  drifting 

by, 

Blown  like  a  cloud  across  the  summer  sky  ! 


DEAD. 

DEAD  !    That  is  the  word 
That  rings  through  my  brain  till  it  crazes  ! 
Dead,  while  the  Mayflowers  bud  and 

blow, 
While  the  green  creeps  over  the  white 

of  the  snow, 
While  the  wild  woods  ring  with  the  song  of 

the  bird, 
And  the  fields  are  a-bloom  with  daisies  ! 


See  !     Even  the  clod 
Thrills,  with  life's  glad  passion  shaken; 
The  vagabond  weeds  with  their  vagrant 

train 

Laugh  in  the  sun  and  nod  in  the  rain, 
The  blue  sky  smiles  like  the  eye  of  God, — 
Only  my  dead  do  not  waken  ! 

Dead  ! — There  is  the  word 
That  I  sit  in  the  darkness  and  ponder  ! 
Why  should  the  river,  the  sky,  and  the 

sea 

Babble  of  summer  and  joy  to  me, 
While  a  strong  true  heart  with  its  pulse  un- 
stirred 
Lies  hushed  in  the  silence  yonder  ? 

Lord  !  Lord  !    How  long 
Ere  we  rise  to  Thy  heights  supernal 
Ere  the  soul  may  read  what  Thy  spirit 

saith; 
"  Life  that  must  fade,  is  not  life  but 

death. 

Lift  up  thine  eyes,  0  soul !     Be  strong; 
For  Death  is  the  Life  Eternal !  " 


JILLEN  ANDY. 

When  O'Donovan  Rossa  was  in  prison  in  England,  he  wrote 
the  powerful  and  deeply  pathetic  poem  of  "  Jillen  Andy,"  a 
study  from  Irish  life  which  he  who  reads  can  never  forget. 
In  his  "Prison  Life,"  Rossa  says:  "  Jillen  Andy  lived  at  the 
other  side  of  the  street  in  Rosscarberry  when  I  was  a  child. 
Her  husband,  Andy  Hayes,  was  a  linen  weaver  and  worked 
for  my  father  ere  I  was  born.  He  died,  too,  before  I  came 
into  the  world,  but  when  I  did  come  I  think  I  formed  the 
acquaintance  of  Jillen  as  soon  as  I  did  that  of  my  mother. 
Jillen  was  left  a  widow  with  four  helpless  children,  and  all 
the  neighbors  were  kind  to  her.  The  eldest  of  the  sons 
listed,  and  the  first  sight  I  got  of  a  '  red-coat '  was  when  he 
came  home  on  furlough.  The  three  other  sons  were  Char- 
ley, Thade  and  Andy.  Charley  died  in '65.  Andy  'listed, 
and  died  in  Bombay,  and  Thade  and  his  mother  fell  victims 
to  the  famine  of  '47.  Thade  met  me  one  day,  and  spoke  to 
me  as  I  state  in  the  following  lines.  I  went  to  the  grave- 
yard with  him.  I  dug,  and  he  shovelled  up  the  earth  till 
the  grave  was  about  two  feet  deep.  Then  he  talked  about 
its  being  deep  enough,  that  there  would  be  too  great  a  load 
on  her,  and  that  he  could  stay  up  and  '  watch '  her  for 
some  time.  By-and-by  we  saw  four  or  five  men  coming  in 
the  church-gate  with  a  door  on  their  shoulders  bearing  the 
cofftnless  Jillen.  She  was  laid  in  the  grave.  Her  head  did 
not  rest  firmly  on  the  stone  on  which  it  was  pillowed,  and 
as  it  would  turn  aside  and  rest  on  the  cheek  when  I  took 
my  hands  away  from  it,  one  of  the  men  asked  me  to  hand 
him  the  stone.  I  did  so,  and  covering  it  with  a  red  spotted 
handkerchief  he  took  out  of  his  pocket,  he  gave  it  to  me 
again  and  I  settled  Jillen's  head  steadily  on  it.  Then  1  was 
told  to  loose  the  strings,  to  take  out  a  pin  that  appeared,  to 
lay  her  apron  over  her  face,  and  come  up.  To  this  day  I  can 
see  how  softly  the  man  handled  the  shovel,  how  quietly  he 
laid  the  earth  down  at  her  feet,  how  the  heap  kept  rolling 
and  creeping  up  until  it  covered  her  head,  and  how  the  big 
men  pulled  their  hats  over  their  eyes." 

"It  takes  an  Irishman  or  Irishwoman,"  Rossa  says, 
"brought  up  among  the  Irish-speaking  people,  to  under- 
stand several  passages  in  'Jillen  Andy  '  "— - 

"  He'd  walk  the  '  eeriest '  place  a  moonlight  night." 
On  a  moonlight  night  the  fairies  are  out  most. 
"  He'd  whistle  in  the  dark— even  in  bed." 

Whistling  in  the  dark  brings  on  the  fairies— particularly 
whistling  in  bed. 

"  Untie  the  night-cap  string,  unloose  that  lace, 
Take  out  that  pin,"  &c. 

To  tie  anything,  or  pin  anything  around  a  corpse,  and 
bury  the  corpse  so  pinned  or  tied,  prevents  the  spirit  from 
coming  to  see  us— keeps  the  spirit  tied  and  in  prison  in  the 
other  world. 

"  Tears  would  disturb  poor  Jillen  in  her  last  long  sleep." 


If  you  cry  over  a  corpse  in  Ireland,  every  tear  you  drop 
on  the  corpse's  clothes  will  burn  a  hole  in  those  clothes  in 
the  other  world.  All  strings  are  cut  or  loosed  and  all  pins- 
taken  out  before  the  corpse  is  put  in  the  coffin. 


"  COME  to  the  graveyard,  if  you're  not  afraid, 
I'm  going  to  dig  my  mother's  grave,  she's 

dead, 
And  I  want  some  one  that  will  bring  the 

spade, 

For  Andy's  out  of  home,   and  Charlie's 
sick  in  bed." 

Thade  Andy  was  a  simple-spoken  fool, 
With  whom  in  early  days  I  loved  to  stroll. 

He'd  often  take  me  on  his  back  to  school, 
And  make  the  master  laugh  himself,  he 
was  so  droll. 

In  songs  and  ballads  he  took  great  delight, 
And  prophecies  of  Ireland  yet  being  freed,. 

And  singing  them  by  our  fireside  at  night, 
I   learned    songs    from   Thade    before    I 
learned  to  read. 

And  I  have  still  "by  heart"  his  "Colleen 

Fhune," 
His  "  Croppy  Boy,"  his  "  Phoenix  of  the 

Hall," 
And  I  could    "rise"  his    "  Kising  of  the 

Moon," 
If  I  could  sing  in  prison  cell — or  sing  at  all. 

He'd  walk  the  "eeriest"  place  a  moonlight 

night, 

He'd  whistle  in  the  dark — even  in  bed; 
In  fairy  fort  or  graveyard,  Thade  was  quite 
As  fearless  of   a  ghost  as  any  ghost  of 
Thade. 


POEMS  OF  O'DONOVAN    BOSS4 


Now  in  the  dark  churchyard  we  work  aw:iy. 

The  shovel  in  his  hand,  in  mine  the  spade, 

And  seeing  Tliado  cry  I  cried  myself  that 

day, 

For  Thade  was  fond  of  me  and  I  was  fond 
of  Thade. 

But  after  twenty  years  why  now  will  such 

A  bubbling  spring  up  to  my  eyelids  start? 
Ah  !   there  be  things  that  ask  not  leave  to 

touch 

The  fountain  of  the  eyes  or  feelings  of  the 
heart. 

"  This  load  of  clay  will  break  her  bones,  I 

fear, 

For  when  alive  she  was'nt  over  strong. 
We'll  dig  no  deeper,  I  can  watch  her  here 
A  month  or  so,  sure  nobody  will  do  me 
wrong." 

Four  men  bear  Jillen  on  a  door — 'tis  light, 
They  have  not  much  of  Jillen  but  her 

frame. 

No  mourners  come,  for  'tis  believed  the  sight 
Of  any  death  or  sickness  now  begets  the 
same. 

And  those  brave  hearts  that  volunteer  to 

touch 
Plague-stricken  death  are  tender  as  they're 

brave, 
They   raise  poor   Jillen   from   her  tainted 

couch, 

And  shade  their  swimming  eyes  while  lay- 
ing her  in  the  grave. 

I  stand  within  that  grave,  nor  wme  nor  deep, 
The  slender,  wasted  body  at  my  feet; 

What  wonder  is  it  if  strong  men  will  weep 
O'er  famine-stricken  Jillen  in  her  winding- 
sheet. 

Her  head  I  try  to  pillow  on  a  stone, 

But  it  will  hang  one  side,  as  if  the  breath 

Of  famine  gaunt  into  the  corpse  had  blown, 
And   blighted    in   the  nerves   the   ri<rid 
strength  of  death. 


"  Hand  me  that  stone,  child."     In  his  hands 

'tis  placed; 
Down-channelling  his  cheeks  are  tears  like 

rain; 

The  stone  within  his  handkerchief  is  cased, 
And  then  I  pillow  on  it  Jillen's  head  again. 

"  Untie  the  nightcap  string,"  "  Unloose  that 

lace,'' 
"  Take  out  that  pin,"  "  There,  now,  she's 

nicely — rise, 

But  lay  the  apron  first  across  her  face, 
So  that  the  earth  won't  touch  her  lips  or 
blind  her  eyes. 

"  Don't  grasp  the  shovel  too  tightly — there, 

make  a  heap, 
Steal  down  each  shovelful  quietly — there, 

let  it  creep 
Over  her  poor  body  lightly;  friend,  do  not 

weep, 

Tears  would  disturb  old  Jillen  in  her  last,; 
long  sleep." 

And  Thade  was  faithful  to  his  watch  and 

ward;  [h: 

Where'er  he'd  spend  the  day,  at  night  he'd 
With  his  few  sods  of  turf  to  that  churchyard. 
Where   he   was    laid    himself   before   the 
month  was  past. 

Then  Andy  died  a  soldiering  in  Bombay, 
And  Charlie  died  in  Ross  the  other  day, 

Now,  no  one  lives  to  blush  because  I  say 
That  Jillen  Andy  went  uncoffined  to  the 
clay. 

E'en  all  are  gone  that  buried  Jillen,  save 
One  banished  man  who  dead  alive  remains, 

The  little  boy  that  stood  within  the  grave 
Stands  for  his  country's  cause  in  England's 
prison  chains. 

How  oft  in  dreams  that  burial  scene  appears. 
Through   death,    eviction,    prison,    exile, 

home. 
Through  all  the  suns  and  moons  of  twenty 

years — 

And  oh  !  how  short  these  years  compared 
with  years  to  come. 


POEMS  OF  O'DONOVAN   ROSSA. 


Some  things  are  strongly  on  the  mind  im- 
pressed, 

And  others  faintly  imaged  there,  it  seems; 
And  this  is  why,  when  reason  sinks  to  rest, 
Phases  of  life  do  show  and  shadow  forth 
in  dreams. 

And  this  is  why  in  dreams  I  see  the  face 
Of  Jillen  Andy  looking  in  my  own, 

The  poet-hearted  man — the  pillow  case, 
The  spotted  handkerchief  that  softened 
the  hard  stone. 

Welcome  those  memories  of  scenes  of  youth, 
That   nursed    my   hate   of   tyranny  and 

wrong, 
That  helmed  my  manhood  in  the  path  of 

truth, 

And  help  me  now  to  suffer  calmly  and  be 
strong. 


And  suffering  calmly  is  a  trial  test, 

When  at  the  tyrant's  foot  and  felon-drest, 

When  State  and  master  jailer  do  their  best, 
To  make  you  feel  degraded,  spiritless,  op- 
prest. 

When  barefoot  before  Dogberry,  and  when 
He  mocks  your  cause  of  'prisonment,  and 

speaks 

Of  "Thieves,"  "State  orders/'  "No  dis- 
tinctions " — then, 

Because  you  speak  at  work — hard  bread 
and  board  for  weeks. 

Or  when  he  says,  "  Too  well  you're  treated, 

for 
Times   were  you'd   hang;"    "You  were 

worse  fed  at  home; " 

"  You  can't  be  more  degraded  than  you  are; " 
"You  should  be  punished  also  in  the  world 
to  come." 

When  sneer,  and  jeer,  and  insult  follow  fast, 
And  heavenward  you  look,  or  look  him 

down, 

He  rages  and  commands  you  to  be  classed 
And  slaved  amongst  the  slaves  of  infamied 
renown. 


When  England — worthy  of  the  mean  and 

base — 
Smites  you  when  bound,  flings  outrage  in 

your  face, 
When  hand  to  hand  with  thieves  she  gives 

you  place, 

To  scoff  at  freedom  for  your  land  and 
scattered  race: 

To  suffer  calmly  when  the  cowardly  wound, 
From  wanton  insult,  makes  the  veins  to 

swell 
With  burning  blood,  is  hard,  though  doubly 

bound 

In  prison  within  prison — a  blacker  hell  in 
hell. 

The  body  starved  to  break  the  spirit  down, 
That  will  not  bend  beneath  the  scourging 

rod; 
The  dungeon  dark  that  pearls  the  prisoner's 

crown, 

And  stars  the  suffering  that  awakens  Free- 
dom's God. 

Thus  all  who  ever  won  had  to  endure 
Thus  human  suffering  proves  good  at  last, 

The  painful  operation  works  the  cure, 
The  health-restoring  draught  is  bitter  to 
the  taste. 

'Tis  suffering  for  a  trampled  land,  that  suf- 
fering 

Bears  heavenly  fruit,  and  all  who  ever  trod 
In   Freedom's  path,  found  heavenly  help 

when  offering 

Their  sacrifice  of  suffering  to  Freedom's 
God. 


MY  PRISON  CHAMBER  IS  IRON 
LINED. 

"The  following  verses,"  says  Rossa,  "strung  together 
during  the  cold  nights  and  hungry  days  in  the  blackhole  of 
Chatham  Prison,  will  show  how  much  my  mind  was  filled 
with  the  Englishmen's  Bible  hypocrisy  : 

MY  prison  chamber  now  is  iron  lined, 

An  iron  closet  and  an  iron  blind. 

But  bars,  and  bolts,  and  chains  can  never 

bind 
To  tyrant's  will  the  freedom-loving  mind. 


I -n K.MS   OK   O'DONOVAN    BOSSA, 


Beneath  the  tyrant's  heel  we  may  be  trod, 
We  may  be  scourged  beneath  the  tyrant's 

rod, 

But  tyranny  can  never  ride  rough-shod 
O'er  the  immortal  spirit-work  of  God. 

And  England's  Bible  tyrants  are,  0  Lord  ! 
Of  any  tyrants  out  the  crudest  horde, 
Who'll  chain  their  Scriptures  to  a  fixture 

board 
Before  a  victim  starved,  and  lashed,  and 

gored. 

They  tell  such  tales  of  countries  far  away, 
How  in  Japan,  and  Turkey,  and  Cathay, 
A  man  when  scourged  is  forced  salaams  to 

pay, 

While  they  themselves  do  these  same  things 
to-day. 

The  bands,  the  lash,  the  scream,  the  swoon, 

the  calm, 

The  minister,  the  Bible,  and  the  psalm, 
The  doctor  then  the  bloody  seams  to  balm, 
"  Attention,  'tention,"  now  for  the  salaam. 

I  don't  salaam  them  and  their  passions  roll, 
Again  they  stretch  me  in  the  damp  black- 
hole, 

Again  they  deal  to  me  the  famine  dole, 
To  bend  to  earth  the  heaven-created  soul. 

Without  a  bed  or  board  on  which  to  lie, 
Without  a  drink  of  water  if  Fm  dry, 
Without  a  ray  of  light  to  strike  the  eye, 
But  8      ne  vacant,  dreary,  dismal  sky. 

The  bolts  are   drawn,  the   drowsy  hinges 

creak, 
The  doors  are  groaning,  and  the  side  walls 

shake, 

The  light  darts  in,  the  day  begins  to  break, 
Ho,  prisoner!   from  your  dungeon  dreams 

awake. 

Attention,   "'tention,"  "'tention,"  now  is 

cried, 

The  English  master  jailer  stands  outside. 
And  he's  supposed  to  wear  tin-  lion's  hide, 
But  I  will  not  salaam  his  royal  pride. 


"  Rossa,  salute  the  Governor,"  cries  one, 
The  Governor  cries  out — "Come  on,  come 

on," 

My  tomb  is  closed,  I'm  happy  they  are  gone, 
Well — as  happy  as  I  ever  feel  alone. 

Be  calm,  my  soul,  let  state  assassins  frown, 

'Tis  chains  and  dungeons  pearl  a  prisoner's 
crown, 

'Tis  suffering  draws  God's  choicest  blessings 
down, 

And  gives  to  freedom's  cause  its  fair  re- 
nown. 

Rossa  adds  the  following  "  Secret  instructions  from  the 
authorities  to  the  prison  governor:" 

That  we  are  base  assassins — he  says  so — 
And  liars  and  hypocrites: — 'tis  well  to  know 
That  he's  at  least  an  unrepenting  foe. 
To  cast  him  out  as  far  as  we  can  throw, 
Is  now  our  bounden  duty.     This  we  owe 
To  England's  Majesty.    Then  keep  him  low, 
Yet  treat  him  doctorly — be  sure  and  slow 
Leaving  no  record  anywhere  to  show 
That  aught  but  nature  gave  the  conquering 

blow; 

And  once  cast  out  from  this  our  heaven  be- 
low, 
What  care  we  if  to  heaven  above  he  go! 


A  VISIT  FROM  MY  WIFE. 

In  July,  1870,  while  O'Donovan  Rossa  was  in  Chatham 
Prison,  England,  he  was  allowed  a  visit  from  his  wife.  !!•• 
says :  "It  was  as  curious  a  position  as  ever  a  married  couple 
were  seen  in,  to  see  us  sitting  in  this  glass  house  with  Prin- 
cipal Warder  King  as  s«-iitry  outside  the  glass  cl<x>r;  and 
was  it  not  a  curious  place  for  her  to  reproach  me  with  in- 
gratitude because  I  never  wrote  a  line  of  poetry  for  her 
since  we  were  married?  When  I  went  to  my  cell  that 
eveningl  wrote  the  following  lim-s." 

A  SINGLE  glance,  and  that  glance  the  first. 
And  her  image  was  fixed  in  my  mind  and 

nursed; 

And  now  it  is  woven  with  all  my  schemes, 
And  it  rules  the  realm  of  all  my  dreams. 

One  of   Heaven's  best  gifts  in   an  earthly 

mould. 
With  a  fiiruri'  Apprllos  might  paint  of  old — 


780 


POEMS  OF  O'DONOVAN   KOSSA. 


All   a   maiden's    charms   with    a    matron's 

grace, 
And  the  blossom  and  bloom  of  the  peach  in 

her  face. 

And  the  genius  that  flashes  her  bright  black 
eye 

Is  the  face  of  the  sun  in  a  clouded  sky; 

She  has  noble  thoughts — she  has  noble 
aims 

And  these  thoughts  on  her  tongue  are  spark- 
ling gems. 

With  a  gifted  mind  and  a  spirit  meek 

She  would  right  the  wronged  and  assist  the 

weak; 

She  would  scorn  dangers  to  cheer  the  brave, 
She   would   smite  oppression   and  free  the 

slave. 

Yet  a  blighted  life  is  my  loved  one's  part, 
And  a  death -cold  shroud  is  around  her  heart, 
For  winds  from  the  "  clouds  of  fate"  have 

blown 
That  force  her  to  face  the  hard  world  alone. 

And  a  daughter  she  of  a  trampled  land, 
With  its  children  exiled,  prisoned,  banned; 
And  she  vowed  her  love  to  a  lover  whom 
The  tyrant  had  marked  for  a  felon's  doom. 

And  snatched  from  her  side  ere  the  honey- 
moon waned: 

In  the-  dungeons  of  England  he  lies  en- 
chained; [slave 

And  the  bonds  that  bind  him  "for  life"  a 

Are  binding  his  love  to  his  living  grave. 

He  would  sever  the  link    of  such  hopeless 

love, 
Were    that   sentence    "for    ever"   decreed 

above.  [life — 

For  the  pleasures  don't  pay  for  the  pains  of 
To  be  living  in  death  with  a  widowed  wife. 

A  single  glance,  and  that  glance  the  first, 
And  her  image  was  fixed  in  my  mind  and 

nursed, 
And    now   she's  the   woof   of    my   worldly 

schemes,  [dreams. 

And  she  sits  enthroned  as  the  queen  of  my 


A  VISIT  TO   MY   HUSBAND   IN 
PRISON. 

MAY,  1866. 

WITHIN  the  precincts  of  the  prison  bounds, 
Treading  the  sunlit  courtyard  to  a  hall, 

Roomy  and  unadorned,  where  the  light 
Thro'  screenless  windows  glaringly  did  fall. 

Within  the  precincts  of  the  prison  walls, 
With  rushing  memories  and  bated  breath. 

With  heart  elate  and  light  swift  step  that 

smote 
Faint  echoes  in  this  house  of  living  death. 

Midway  I  stood  in  bright  expectancy, 

Tightly  I  clasped  my  babe,  my  eager  sight 

Restlessly  glancing  down  the  long,  low  room 
To  where  a  door  bedimmed  the  walls'  pure 
white. 

They  turned — the  noiseless  locks;  the  portal 

fell  [room 

With  clank  of  chain  wide  open,  and  the 

Held  him — my  wedded  love.     My  heart  stood 

still  [doom. 

AVith  sudden  shock,  with  sudden  sense  of 

My  heart  stood  still  that  had  with  gladsome 

bound  [pear — 

Counted  the  moments  ere  he  should  ap- 

Drew  back  at  sight  so  changed,  and  shivering 

waited, 

Pulselessly  waited   while  his  steps  drew 
near  ! 

Oh  !  for  a  moment's  twilight  that  might  hide 
The  harsh  tanned  features  once  so  soft 

and  fair ! 

The  shrunken  eyes  that  with  a  feeble  flash 
Smiled  on  my  presence  and  his  infant's 
there  ! 

Oh  !  for  a  shadow  on  the  cruel  sun 

That  mocked  thy  father,  Baby,  with  his 

glare; 

Oh  !  for  the  night  of  nothingness  or  death 
Ere  thou,  my  love,  this  felon  garb  should 
wear  ! 

*  Written  by  Mrs.  O'Donovan  Rossa  after  a  visit  to  her 
husband  in  Millbauk  Prison,  London. 


I 'oK  MS  OF  O'DONOVAN   IIOSSA. 


It  needed  not  these  passionate,  pain-wrung 
words,  [lips, 

Falling  with  sad  distinctness  from  thy 
To  tell  a  tale  of  insult,  abject  toil, 

And    day-long    labor    hewing    Portland 
steppes  ! 

It   needed    not,    my   love,    this   anguished 

glance, 

This  fading  fire  within  thy  gentle  eyes, 
To  rouse  the  torpid  voices  of  my  heart, 
Till  all  the  sleeping  heavens  shall  hear 
their  cries. 

('<x\  of  the  wronged,  and  can  Thy  vengeance 
sleep  ?  [day  ? 

And  shall  our  night  of  anguish  know  no 
And  can  Thy  justice  leave  our  souls  to  weep 

Yet,  and  yet  longer  o'er  our  land's  decay  ! 

Must  we  still  cry — "  How  long,  0  Lord,  how 

long?" 

For  seven  red  centuries  a  country's  woe 
lias  wept  the  prayer  in  tears  of  blood,  and 

still 
Our  tears  to-night  for  fresher  victims  flow  ! 


EDWARD  DUFFY.* 

THE  world  is  growing  darker  to  me — darker 

day  by  day, 
The  stars  that  shone  upon  life's  paths  arc 

vanishing  away, 
Some  setting  and  some  shifting,  only  one 

that  changes  never, 
'Tis  the  guiding  star  of  liberty  that  blazes 

bright  as  ever. 

Liberty  sits  mountain  high,  and  slavery  has 

birth 
In  the  hovels,  in  the  marshes,  in  the  lowest 

dens  of  earth; 
The  tyrants  of  the  world  pitfall-pave  the 

•  path  between, 

And   o'ershadow   it   with   scaffold,    prison, 
block  and  guillotine. 

*  An  Irish  patriot  and  fellow-prisoner  who  died  In  un 

Kn;,'lisli  jirison. 


The  gloomy  way  is  brightened  when  we  walk 
with  those  we  love. 

The  heavy  load  is  lightened  when  we  bear 
and  they  appro  \ 

The  path  of  life  grows  darker  to  me  as  I 
journey  on, 

For  the  truest  hearts  that  travel  led  it  un- 
failing one  by  one. 

The  news  of  death  is  saddening  even  in  fes- 
tive hall, 

But  when  'tis  heard  through  prison  bars,  'tis 
saddest  then  of  all, 

Where  there's  none  to  share  the  sorrow  in 
the  solitary  cell, 

In  the  prison,  within  prison — a  blacker  hell 
in  hell. 

That    whisper    through    the    grating    has 

thrilled  through  all  my  veins, 
"  Duffy  is  dead  ! "  a  noble  soul  has  slipped 

the  tyrant's  chains, 
And  whatever  wounds  they  gave  him,  their 

lying  books  will  show, 
How  they  very  kindly  treated  him,  more»like 

a  friend  than  foe. 

For  these  are  Christian  Pharisees,  the  hypo- 
crites of  creeds, 

With  the  Bible  on  their  lips,  and  the  devil 
in  their  deeds, 

Too  merciful  in  public  gaze  to  take  our  lives 
away, 

Too  anxious  here  to  plant  in  us  the  seed  of 
life's  decay. 

Those  Christians  stand  between  us  and  tin- 
God  above  our  bond. 

The  sun  and  moon  they  prison,  and  with- 
hold the  daily  bread. 

Entomb,  enchain,  and  starve  us,  that  tin- 
mind  they  may  control, 

And  queneh  the  tire  that  burns  in  the  over- 
living soul. 

To  lay  your  bead  upon  the  block  for  faith  in 

Freedom's  God. 
To  fall  in  light  for  Freedom  in  the  land  your 

fathers  trod: 


POEMS  OF  O'DONOVAX   110SSA. 


For  Freedom  on  the  scaffold  high  to  breathe 

your  latest  breath, 
Or  anywhere  'gainst  tyranny  is  dying  a  noble 

death. 

Still,  sad  and  lone,  was  yours,  Ned,  'mid  the 
jailers  of  your  race, 

With  none  to  press  the  cold  white  hand,  with 
none  to  smooth  the  face; 

With  none  to  take  the  dying  wish  to  home- 
land friend  or  brother, 

To  kindred  mind,  to  promised  bride,  or  to 
the  sorrowing  mother. 

I  tried  to  get  to  speak  to  you  before  you 

passed  away, 
As  you  were  dying  so  near  me,  and  so  far 

from  Castlerea, 
But  the  Bible-mongers  spurned  me  off,  when 

at  their  office  door 
I  asked  last  month  to  see  you — now  I'll  never 

see  you  more. 

If   spirits   once   released  from  earth  could 

'     visit  earth  again, 
You'd  come  and  see  me  here,  Ned,  but  for 

these  we  look  in  vain; 
In  the  dead-house  you  are  lying,  and  I'd 

"  Avake  "  you  if  I  could. 
But  they'll  wake  you  in  Loughglin,  Ned,  in 

that  cottage  by  the  wood. 

For  the  mother's  instinct  tells  her  that  the 

dearest  one  is  dead — 
That  the  gifted  mind,  the  noble  soul,  from 

earth  to  heaven  is  fled, 
As  the  girls  rush  toward  the  door  and  look 

toward  the  trees, 
To  catch  the  sorrow-laden  wail,  that's  borne 

on  the  breeze. 

Thus  the  path  of  life  grows  darker  to  me — 

darker  day  by  day, 
The  stars  that  flashed  their  light  on  it  are 

vanishing  away, 
Some  setting  and  some  shifting,  but  that 

one  which  changes  never, 
The  beacon  light  of  liberty  that  blazes  bright 

as  ever. 


IN   MILLBANK  PEISON,    LONDON, 

1866. 

I  HAVE  no  life  at  present,my  life  is  in  the 

past; 
I  have  none  in  the  future,  if  the  present  is 

to  last; 
The  "Dead  Past"   only    mirrors  now  the 

memories  of  life, 
The  fatherland,  the  hope  of  years,  the  friend, 

the  child  and  wife. 


Then  am  I  dead  at  present?  Yes,  dead 
while  buried  here — 

Dead  to  the  wife,  the  child  and  friend,  to  all 
the  world  holds  dear; 

Dead  to  myself,  for  life  is  death  to  one  con- 
demned to  dwell 

His  life-long  years  in  exile  in  a  convict  prison 
cell. 


Though  dead  unto  the  present,  I  live  in  the 

"Dead  Past," 
And  thoughts   of   dead   and   living   things. 

crowd  on  me  thick  and  fast; 
E'en  when  reason  is  reposing  they  revel  in 

my  brain, 
And  I  meet  the  wife,  the  child  and  friend ,. 

in  fatherland  again. 


The  goddess  on  her  throne  resits — the  cher- 
ished dreams  are  fled — 

Were  they  but  phantoms  of  the  past  to  show 
the  past  is  dead  ? 

Past,  Present,  Future,  what  to  me  ! — how 
little  man  can  see — 

Am  I  dead  unto  the  world  ? — or  the  world 
to  me? 

God  only  knows.     I  only  know  that  which 

to  man  He  gives, 
The  love  of  Liberty  and  Truth — the  soul, 

the  spirit  lives; 
And  though  its  house  of  clay  be  bound  by 

England's  iron  hand, 
It  freely  flies  to  wife  and  child,  and  friend 

and  fatherland. 


POEMS  OF  O'DONOVAN,  HOSSA. 


SMUAINTE    BROIN- THOUGHTS    OF 
SORROW. 

The  following  is  a  translation  of  the  Gaelic  poet  Craoibhin 
.I'nt'/i in's  noble  song.  " Thoughts  of  Sorrow  "  with  the  first 
stanza  in  the  original  Irish  :— 

Is  dorcha  anocht  i  an  oidhche,  ni  fheicim 

aon  reult  amhain, 
'Gus  is  dorclia  trom  ata  smuainte  mo  chroidh- 

se  ta  sgaoilte  ar  fan. 
Ni'l  torran  air  bith  in  mo  thimcheall,  acht 

na  h-eunlaith  dul  tharm  os  mo  cheann, 
Na  filibinidhe  ag  bualadh  na  spcire  le  buille 

fad-tharruingthe,  fann; 
Agus  tagann  an  f  lieadog  mar  phileir  ag  gear- 

nulh  na  h-oidhchele  fead, 
Agus  cluinim  na  gaethe  fiana  is  airde  's  is 

gairbhe  sgread, 
Acht  aon  torran  eile  ni  chluinim,  is  e  so  a 

mheudas  mo  bhron, 
Aon  torran  eile  acht  sgrioch  agus  glaodhoch 

na  n-eun  air  an  moin. 


How  dark  is  the  night  time  to-night !    I  be- 
hold not  a  single  star; 
And    heavy   and    dark    are    my    heartfelt 

thoughts  as  they  wander  sadly  afar, 
Not  a  sound  in  creation  around,  but  the 

birds  passing  over  my  head: 
Those  lapwings  that  ruffled  the  air  with  their 

long-drawn  strokes  as  they  fled. 
The  plover  that  comes  like  a  bullet  cutting 

the  sky  with  its  speech; 
And  I  hear  the  wild  geese  above  them,  with 

their  wilder  and  stronger  screech. 
There  is  no  other  noise  within  hearing;  oh, 

that  is  what  adds  to  my  woe — 
No  other  noise  but  the  cry  and  the  call  of 

the  birds  in  the  meadow  below. 

II. 
But,  afar  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain  that 

borders  the  ocean  wide, 
List  to  the  great  sea  rolling,  to  the  waves  as 

they  chase  on  the  tide — 
Rushing  OB  to  the  lieaeh  \vhidi  swallows  the 

weeds  on  its  sandy  bed. 
Oh,  cold  as  the  tide  to-night  is,  I  feel  colder 

in  heart  and  head; 


I  cannot,  I  cannot  explain  it;   I  know  not 

the  reason  why 
I'm  so  troubled  and  sorrow-laden:  I  can  only 

sigh  and  cry. 
How  cold  and  how  wild  this  place  is — this 

place  where  Pm  lying  apart — 
But  that's  not  the  reason  that  makes  me  BO 

heavy  and  sad  at  heart. 

in. 
Since  the  men  who  were  true  are  departed — 

they  who  my  affection  had  won — 
Cast  out  from  the  land  I  was  raised  in;  alas  T 

that  they're  banished  and  gone — 
Asking  for  only  protection  and  shelter  from 

poverty;  now 
In  the  land  in  which  they  were  dwelling 

there  are  only  the  sheep  and  the  cow. 
The  cow  and  the  sheep  in  the  pasture — in 

the  pathlands  of  people,  my  woe  ! 
And  in  place  of  the  laugh  of  the  children, 

the  cries  of  the  raven  and  crow. 
Every  candle  and  light  is  extinguished  that 

lighted  each  door  and  each  hearth ; 
'Tis  the  death,  the  exile  of  the  people  in- 
creases my  sorrow  on  earth. 

IV. 

But,  see  there  !   the  bright  moon  is  rising 

and  tearing  asunder  the  clouds, 
And  spreading  its  light  on  the  meadows  so 

mantled  with  desolate  shrouds, 
And  beneath  it  I  see  the  old  village,  with 

the  homes  of  the  people  all  raxed — 
No  gables,  no  doorsteads,  no  children;   na 

cows  in  the  bawn.  when-  they  grazed. 
From  the  rock  upon  which  I  am  sitting,  how 

woful  the  look  of  the  glen; 
With  no  human  creature  but  I,  from  one 

end  to  the  other  therein; 
The  sheep  and  the  cows  where  the  men  were; 

the  lone  snipe  starts  up  from  its  nest, 
And  screeches  aloud  to  the  heavens,  while 

Pm  here  alone  in  the  mist. 

v. 

But  like  as  appeareth  the  liriirhi  moon, 
breaking  through  darkness  with  light, 

Scattering  theelonds  in  its  way,  and  scatter- 
ing the  shadows  of  night, 


784 


POEMS  OF  O'DONOVAN   KOSSA. 


Chasing  the  shadows  of  night,  and  chasing 
the  mist  and  the  fog, 

Casting  light  upon  mountain  and  hill,  upon 
pasture  and  meadow  and  bog; 

Oh,  like  as  illumines  the  moonlight  the  land 
that  is  stricken  with  blight, 

So,  shortly,  will  Freedom  illumine  the  Slav- 
ery that  shrouds  us  to-night, 

"Will  tear  from  a  nation  of  people  the  death- 
pall  that  mantles  the  strong, 

And  our  laughter,  once  more  full  and  joy- 
ous, will  be  heard  beyond  sea  before 
long. 

VI. 

But  oh,  'tis  not  speeching,  declaiming,  or 
talking  with  all  our  might, 

Will  lift  from  our  land  its  darkness — will 
scatter  the  clouds  of  night; 

Nor  the  music,  nor  songs  of  the  poets,  nor 
the  orators'  power  in  "  the  hall." 

Nor  crying,  nor  praying,  nor  moaning,  nor 
lying, — the  sweetest  of  all; 

But  the  work  of  the  hands  that  are  strong, 
and  the  hearts  that  are  strangers  to 
fear,  [were  found  in  the  rear — 

That  never  deserted  the  fight,  and  that  never 


The  heroes  who  stand  in  the  gap,  neither 
speaking  nor  acting  the  lie; 

The  men  who're  not  frightened  by  threats, 
who  are  ready  to  dare  and  to  die. 


VII. 

But  whither,   0  Lord  !   run   my  thoughts 

now?   What  foolish  things  come  to 

my  mind  ? 
Whereabout   can   you   see   such   a   people? 

None  in  mountain  or  glen  can  you 

find 
They  are  exiled — cast  out  from  among  us 

and  scattered  all  over  the  earth, 
No  track  of  their  steps  on  the  mountain,  or 

their  boats  on  the  streams  of  their 

birth; 
And  I  all  alone  by  myself   here,    my  ship 

without  steer  or  mainstay, 
Thinking  sadly  of  going  forever  to  cold, 

stranger  lands,  far  away; 
My  friends  will  be  dead,  very  likely,  if  once 

more  I  revisit  this  shore, 
And  the  language  I'm  speaking  at  present, 

I  may  never  again  speak  it  more. 


POEMS  OF  HENRY  BERNARD  CARPENTER. 


VIVE  VALEQUE. 

TO  DR.  ROBERT  DWYER  JOYCE. 

[  Within  six  weeks  Boston  lost  two  distinguished  artistic 
workmen.  On  the  21st  of  July  died  Martin  Milmore,  the 
sculptor  of  the  Soldiers'  Monument  and  the  Sphinx  in  Mount 
Auburn.  On  the  2d  of  September,  sailed  for  Ireland,  in 
shattered  health,  R.  D.  Joyce,  Poet  and  Physician,  the 
author  of  "  Deirdre  "  and  "  Blanid."] 

O  SADDEST  of  all  the  sea's  daughters,  lerne, 

dear  mother  isle, 
Take  home  to  thy  sweet,  still  waters  thy  son 

whom  we  lend  thee  awhile. 
Twenty  years  has  he  poured  out  his  song, 

epic  echoes  heard  in  our  street, 
Twenty  years  have  the  sick  been  made  strong 

as  they  heard  the  sound  of  his  feet. 
For  few  there  be  in  his  lands  whom  Apollo 

deigns  to  choose 

On  whose  heads  to  lay  both  hands  in  medi- 
cine-gift and  the  muse. 
Double-grieved   because  double-gifted   now 

take  him  and  make  strong  again 
The  heart  long-winnowed  and  sifted  on  the 

threshing-floor  of  pain. 
Saving  others,  lie  saved  not  himself,  like  a 

shipmaster  staunch  and  brave, 
Whose   men    leave   the    surge-beaten    shelf 

while  he  sinks  alone  in  the  wave. 
The  child  in  the  night  cries  "  mother,"  and 

the  mother  straight  brings  peace; 
lerne,  be  kind  to  our  brother;   speak  thou, 

and  his  plague  shall  cease. 
Thou  gavest  him  once  as  revealer  song-breath 

and  the  starry  scroll, 

Give  him  now  as  the  heart's  best  healer  life- 
breath  and  balms  for  the  soul. 

O  saddest  of  all  the  sad  islands,  green-girt  by 

thy  mother  the  sea, 
Fold  warm,  and  feed  with  thy  silence  the 

child  whom  we  send  to  thee. 


Two  children  thou  gavest  our  city,  to  stand 

in  the  stress  and  strife 
And  touch  us  to  holier  pity  through  shapes 

of  the  deathless  life; 
One  caught  in  the  mountain  granite,  the 

other  in  marble  of  song 
Those  shadows  that  fall  on  our  planet  from 

the  worlds  of  the  Fair  and  the  Strong; 
Of  those  thy  two  sons  thou  gavest,  one  is, 

but  the  younger  is  not; 
For  with  all  men,  even  the  bravest,  strength 

wanes  when  the  noons  wax  hot. 
The  wine  of  his  life  half  tasted,  the  work  of 

his  life  half  done, 
He  sank  through  earth- wounds  that  waste.:, 

hi'urt-sore  and  sick  of  the  sun, 
The  scabbard  fell  from  the  sabre,  the  soul 

dropped  its  time-worn  vest, 
Then  we  said,  Let  this  land  of  his  labor  be 

always  the  land  of  his  rest, 
And  always  the  bronze  and  the  stone  that 

grew  soft  to  his  touch  as  ilanie. 
Shaped  for  others,  shall  now  be  his  own,  new- 
raised  and  emblazed  with  his  name, 
And  the  glimmering  shaft  that  witches  the 

sun's  last  kiss  on  its  head  * 
And  the  Sphinx  that  overwatohes  the  un- 
murmuring streets  of  the  dead 
Shall  call  to  life's  tide  where  it  dashes,  and 

speak  of  him  we  deplore, 
Till  the  sun  burns  down  to  ashes,  and  the 

moon  cries,  I  rise  no  more. 

Who  shall  cancel  that  which  is  sealed  ?    Who 

shall  close  what  the  Fates  have  cleft  ? 

Two  men  were  at  work  in  one  field;  one  is 

taken,  the  other  left; 


*Thf>  SoldienT  Miuimm-nt  on  Boston  Common  and  tu« 
Sphinx  at  Mount  Aulnirn. 


786 


POEMS  OF   HENRY   BERNARD   CARPENTER. 


He  is  left  in  life's  mid  meadows,  nor  yet  have 

the  days  begun, 
"When  the  hand  from  the  valley  of  shadows 

draws    down  from  the   light   of  the 

sun, 
He  lives,  and  looks  round  with  dread,  as  a 

strengthless  reaper  who  grieves, 
When  the  last  low  moon  rises  red  on  his  rich 

half -harvested  sheaves. 
Hast  not  thou,  lerne,  a  blossom  that  scared 

the  snake  from  thy  soil, 
That  shall  slay  the  snake  in  the  bosom  and 

wither  its  deadly  coil  ? 
Yea,  thou  hast  what  we  fain  would  inherit, 

though  kings  in  these  isles  of  the  blest, 
Thou  hast  for  the  world- worn  spirit   some 

simples  unfound  in  the  West. 
Here  the  field  flows  with  milk  and  honey, 

the  river  with  spoil  divine, 
Here  the  clear  air  is  warm  with  sunny  gold 

cups  of  invisible  wine, 
Self- trust  and  Toil  are  defiant,  and  Freedom 

is  mightier  than  these, 
And  Wealth  spreads  his  couch,  like  a  giant, 

silk-smooth  for  the  sides  of  Ease, 
And  gilds  man  and  man  with  his  million,  and 

fast  as  he  flies  through  the  heat, 
White  cabin  and  purple  pavilion  are  stirred 

with  the  storm  of  his  feet. 
But  what  soil,   thou  Eden  of  islands,  can 

match  thy  red  and  white  store, 
The  roses  of  health  on  thy  highlands,  the 

lilies  of  love  on  thy  shore  ? 
What  land  lies  emerald-valleyed,  inlaid  with 

lakelet  and  lawn, 
Where  the  spirit  is  swifter  rallied,  reclothed 

as  with  lights  of  the  dawn  ? 
Or  where  comes  with  starrier  splendor  the 

touch  of  a  light-breathing  fan, 
To  scatter  the  chaff  and   make  tender  and 

affluent  the  spirit  of  man  ? 
There  a  courtier  is  found  in  the  cot,  and  a 

prince  in  the  poor  man's  shed, 
With  a  soul  sorrow-born,  love-begot,  rocked 

and  cradled  in  thoughts  of  the  dead, 
A  soul  like  a  wind-harp  that  takes  all  tones 

of  laughter  and  tears, 
Now  burns,  now  in  dying  delays  woos.  us 

back  through  its  dream  of  the  years. 


There  the  neediest  spreads  you  the  last  of  his 

earth-apples*  dug  from  the  ground, 
And  the  salt  of  his  wit  turns  the  fast  to  a 

feast,  where  dainties  abound,  — 
Smile  and  tear  and  manna-dropped  speech 

freely  shed  on  the  least  word  he  saith, 
And  high-soaring  thought  beyond  reach  and 

the  love  of  his  land  to  the  death. 

Sweetest  isle  of  old  white-haired  Ocean,- 
breathe  new  in  this  child  of  thy  love 

A  spirit  whose  musical  motion  is  light  as  the 
wings  of  a  dove, 

While  hence  from  palace  and  purlieu  our 
messenger  thoughts  on  the  breeze 

Shall  reach  him  through  cry  of  curlew  and 
call  of  sundering  seas, 

Where  perchance  in  the  shore-wind's  breath- 
ing he  looks  from  some  headland 
height, 

His  westward-bound  thoughts  bequeathing 
to  the  sun  ere  he  sinks  in  night, 

Or  haply  mid  stones  of  the  olden  and  peril- 
ous places  of  fear 

He  rears  a  new  song-palace,  golden  with 
dreams  of  meadow  and  mere, 

Mab's  realm,  the  swart  Connaught  Queen, 
faery  bugles  blown  through  the  sky, 

Magic  shores,  which  once  to  have  seen  is  to 
live  and  never  die; 

WThere  Benbulben,  lonely  and  solemn,  looks 
forth  toward  dark  Donegal, 

O'er  the  endless  Atlantic  column  that  foams 
round  Sliev  League's  rock-wall, 

Down  whose  cliff  the  Gods  drave  their  share, 
and  its  face  with  long  furrows 
ploughed, 

When  they  planted  as  king  of  the  air,  crag- 
throned  and  ermined  with  cloud, 

The  far-sighted,  sun-gazing  eagle  to  scream 
to  the  deep  his  decree, 

Low-boomed  in  organ- tones  regal  and  vassal 
voices  of  sea. 

0  saddest  of  all  the  sea's  daughters,  lerne, 

sweet  mother  isle, 
Say,  how  canst  thou  heal  at  thy  waters  the 

son  whom  we  lend  thee  awhile  ? 


*  Pommes-de-terre. 


POEMS  OF   I1KNKY   BERNARD   CARPENTER. 


When  the  gathering  cries  implore  theo  to 

lielp  and  to  heal  thy  kind, 
When  thy  dying  are  strewn  before  thee,  thy 

living  ones  crouch  behind, 
When   about   theo   thy   perishing   children 

cling,  crying,  "  Thou  only  art  fair, 
We  have  seen  through  Life's  maze  bewilder- 
ing how  the  earth-gods  never  spare: " 
And  the  wolves  blood-ripe   with  slaughter 

gnar  at  thee  with  fangs  of  steel ; 
Thou,  Niobe-Land  of  the  water,  hast  many 

children  to  heal. 
Yd  heal  him,  lerne,  dear  mother,  thy  days 

with  his  days  shall  increase, 
At  the  song  of  this  Delphic  brother,  nigh 

half  of  thy  pangs  shall  cease. 
\or  art  thou,  sweet  friend,  in  a  far  land, — 

all  places  are  near  on  the  globe, — 
<  >ur  greeting  wear  for  thy  garland,  our  love 

for  thy  festival  robe, 
While  we  keep  through  glory  and  gloom  two 

:ilt;ir-candles  for  thee, 
Thy  "Blanid"  of  deathless  doom  and  thy 

dead  but  undying  "  DeirdnV 
And  may  He  who  builds  in  his  patience  the 

houses  which  death  reveals, 
Round  whom  the  far  constellations  are  dust 

from  his  chariot- wheels, 
AVho  showers  his  coin  without  scorning,  each 

day  as  he  issues  it  bright, 
The  sun  as  his  gold  in  the  morning,  the 

stars  as  his  silver  at  night, 
Tlii'   love  which   feedeth  the  sparrow  and 

watcheth  the  little  leaf, 
Which  guideth  the  death-laden  arrow  and 

counteth  eacli  grain  of  grief, 
Change  thy  life-chant  from  its  minor  and 

spread  thy  spirit  serene, 
As  gold  before  the  refiner  whose  face  is  re- 
flected therein. 


FRYEBURG. 

No  vale  with  purer  peace  the  spirit  fills 
Than  thine,  Kryrhurg  the  fair,  Fryeburg 

the  free. 
Dear  are  thy  men  and  maidens  unto  me; 


Holy  the  smokeless  altars  of  thy  hills; 
Sacred  thy  wide,  moist  meadows,  where 

the  morn 

Delays  for  very  love;  divinely  born 
Those  drooping  tresses  of  thy  feathery  elms, 
That  lisp  of  cool  delight  through  dream- 

of  noon; 
Gentle  thy  Saco's  tides,  that  creep  and 

croon, 

Lapsing  and  lingering  through  hushed  forest- 
realms, 
Which  love  the  song-bird's  boon. 

But  neither  vale  nor  hill  nor  field  nor  tree 
Nor  stream  nor  forest  had  this  day  been 

ours, 

Nor  would  sweet  English  speech  in  K rye- 
burg's  bowers 

This  night  be  heard  across  her  lake  and  lea,— 
Our  seamless  flag  had  been  in  pieces  riven. 
Nor  had  we  been,  beneath  its  blue,  starred 

heaven, 
A  nation  one  and  indivisible, — 

Had  not  two  spirits  come  to  range  and 

reign 

Here  over  sand-girt  Saco's  green  domain. 
The  one  with  sword,  the  other  with  prophet- 
spell, — 
Webster  and  Chamberlain. 

Two  crowns  of  glory  clasp  thy  calm,  chaste 

brow. 

0  ye  strong  hills,  l>ear  witness  to  my  verse, 
Thou     "  Maledetto,"    mountain    of    the 

curse,* 

Chocorua,  blasted  by  thy  chief,  and  thou, 
Kearsarge,   slope-shouldered    monarch   of 

this  vale, 
Who  gavcst  thy  conquering  name  to  that 

swift  sail 

Which  caught  in  (lallic  seas  the  rebel  bark 
And  downward  drove  the  Alabama's  pride 
To  deep  sea-sleep  in  Cherbourg's  ravening 

tide, 

What  time  faint  Commerce  watched  a  na- 
tion's ark 
Sinking  with  shattered  side. 

*  Mt.  Maledetto,  the  Chocorua  of  th«  Pyr*ne«- 

ii'-t  itute  of  vegetation,  the  suppot«ed  it-suit  of  a  main; 
like  that  pronounced  by  the  Indian  chieftain. 


788 


POEMS   OF   HENRY   BERNARD   CARPENTER. 


Speak,   ye  historian  pine-woods,   where  ye 

stand, 
And  tliou  bald  scalp,  like  the  bald  crown 

of  Time,* 

Lifted  above  thy  sylvan  sea  sublime, 
And  ye  still  shores,  reaches  of  golden  sand, 
Linked  like  a  necklace  round  your  Lovell's 

lake, 
Speak,  for  ye  saw  how,  when  the  morning 

brake, 

Brave  Chamberlain,  and  men  like  Chamber- 
lain, 
Turned  like  caged  lions,  where  round  them 

in  fell  scorn 
Leaped  from  their  lairs  a  thousand  flushed 

with  morn, 
And   fought,   death-loving,  grand   in  life's 

disdain, 
Till  eve's  first  star  was  born. 

Then   fell   the   peerless,   fearless,   cheerless 

chief, 

Paugus,  between  this  water  and  that  wood, 
Staining  the  yellow  strand  with  Indian 

blood, 
Death-struck  by  Chamberlain;   and  straight 

in  grief 
The   Indian   vanished,   and  the   English 

came, 
And  laid  on  this  lone  mere  their  Lovell's 

name, 

Lovell  who  led  them:  thus  the  northern  land 
From   Kearsarge   to   Katahdin,   and   the 

State 

Named  from  the  Pine,  lay  open  as  a  gate 
For   Saxon   steps   to    reach    St.    Lawrence 

strand, 
Clear  of  wild  war's  debate. 

A  century,  half  a  hundred  years,  and  seven, 
Each  like  a  pilgrim  from  eternity 
With  sandals  of  soft  silence  creeping  by, 
Have  paced  thy  streets,  and  hied  them  home 

to  heaven, 

Sweet  Fryeburg,  since  thy  Lovell's  battle- 
day 

"Wove  the  pine-wreath  which  welcomes  no 
decay: 

*  Equesrrian  fancy  calls  the  scalp-like  rock  over-hanjrine 

-  *  7-..-.~  .1..,    :: 


But  grandsire  Time,  who  crowns  men  with 

both  hands, 
Giving  to  him  that  hath,   decreed   that 

thou, 
Ere  fourscore  years,  shouldst  bind  about 

thy  brow 

A  second  wreath,  culled  from  thy  meadow- 
lands 
And  the  elm's  peaceful  bough. 

Then    Judgment    rose    on     swift,     storm- 
shadowed  wings,* 
And  pitying  Man,   heart-sick  with   vain 

desire, 
Sent    the     new     Gods,    mist-robed    and 

crowned  with  fire, 
To  trace  with  flame-like  hands  the  doom  of 

kings. 
Through   the  worn  world  like  throb  of 

morning  drum, 
Pealed  the  fierce  shout, — the  new  Gods' 

reign  is  come; 
And  new-risen  stars,  ablaze     round  Man's 

new  bride, 
Came  down  to  sing  at  Freedom's  marriage 

feast, 
When  through  the  listening  lands  of  West 

and  East 

A  Daniel  rose  for  judgment  on  each  side 
Where  the  Atlantic  ceased. 

Twenty  rich  summers  glowed  along  his  veins 
When  from  New  Hampshire's  high-born 

hills  a  youth 

Came  down,  a  seeker  and  a  sayer  of  sooth, 
To  stand  beneath  these  elms,  and  shake  the 

reins 
That  steer  the  heart  of  boyhood's  fiery 

prime. 
They  called  him  Daniel  Webster   and  the 

chime 

Measured  the  sliding  hours  with  smooth,  slow 
stroke, 

*  A  Daniel  come  to  judgment,  yea,  a  Daniel."  Two  young 
champions  of  popular  freedom,  each  bearing  this  name, 
arose  almost  in  the  same  hour  on  either  side  of  the  Atlantic. 
In  1800,  while  the  bells  of  St.  Patrick's  Cathedral  were  ring- 
ing triumphantly  over  the  downfall  of  the  old  Irish  Parlia- 
ment, young  Daniel  O'Connell  rose  in  the  Corn  Exchange, 
Dublin,  and  delivered  his  maiden  speech.  In  1802  young 
Daniel  Webster  spoke  for  the  first  time,  and  in  the  spirit  of 
the  Irish  agitator's  life-long  political  principles. 


I '<»!•:  MS    OK    IIKM.'Y    I'.KUNA  1ID   CAKI'KNTKI,'. 


While  he  sat  registering  the  deed,  and 

wrought 
As  though  the  wide  world  watched  him: 

swift  in  thought, 
But  slow  in  speech;  yet  once,  when  once  he 

spoke, 
Then  an  archangel  taught. 

Twas  Magna  Charta's  morning  in  July, 
When,  in  that  temple  reared  of  old  to 

Truth, 

He  rose,  in  the  bronze  bloom  of  blood- 
bright  youth, 
To  speak,  what  he  re -spake  when  death  was 

nigh.* 
Strongly  he  stood,  Olympian-framed,  with 

front 
Like  some  carved  crag  where  sleeps  the 

lightning's  brunt, 
Black,  thunderous  brows,  and  thunderous 

deep-toned  speech 

Like  Pericles,  of  whom  the  people  said, 
That,  when  he  spake,  it  thundered;  round 

him  spread 
The  calm  of  summer  nights  when  the  stars 

teach 
In  music  overhead. 

Lift  up  thy  head,  behold  thy  citizen, 

0  Fryeburg  !     From  thy  cloistered  shades 

came  he, — 
Who  came  like  many  more  who  come  from 

thee, — 

To  teach  the  cities  how  the  hills  make  men. 
Guard  thy  unabdicated  pastoral  throne, 
God-kept  within  thy  God-made  mountain- 
zone, 

Of  Truth,  of  Love,  of  Peace,  the  worshipper; 
Keep  fresh  thy  double  garland,  and  hand 

down 
This  my  last  leaf  woven  in  thy  Webster's 

crown, 
And  leave  lean  Envy's  loathed,  unkennelled 

cur 
To  bark  at  his  renown. 


*  Webster,  in  his  last  speech  In  the  Senate,  repeated  the 
peroration  of  his  Fryeburg  "ration;  an  example  of  the  law 
under  which  many  other  supreme  artists  liiiv.-  U-en  le-l  t,, 
work  over  and  enlarge  the  lines  of  their  life's  first  efforts. 


A  VACATION   PRKLCDK. 


At  Athens,  on  the  second  day  of  the  Eleusinioo  festival, 
the  candidates  for  tlie  (Jreat  Mysteries  aaseuiljltnl,  and  wuit- 
ed  for  the  well-known  word  of  the  prophet.  Hierophaut  or 
Mystagogue,  as  their  religious  leader  was  vari<  >usly  called. 
At  the  cry,  "To  the  sea,  ye  initiates!"  (halade  nuistai),  they 
rose  and  went  down  to  the  shore,  where  they  received  bap- 
tismal purification,  and  thence  proceeded  to  the  temple  of 
Deineter  (the  Earth-mother)  at  Eleusis,  to  be  initiated  iu  thu 
greater  or  final  Mysteries  of  life  and  death. 

"  HENCE  to  the  sea  !  souls  true  and  tried, 
Plunge  in  the  Gods'  baptismal  tide  ! 
Thence  to  Demeter's  temple-stair 
And  learn  Life's  deeper  secrets  there  !  "' 

The  Prophet  speaks;  they  hear  the  call, 
They  rise  and  leave  thy  sacred  wall, 
Thy  homes  and  haunts  of  sweet  renown  ! 
Queen  City  of  the  Violet  Crown  ! 

Onward  with  heart-kept  vows  they  creep 
Round  the  grey,  olive-shaded  steep, 
Through  ways  that  beckon  lovingly 
Down  to  old  ^Egeus'  fabled  sea; 

That  sea  that  shines  and  shakes  afar, 
Inlaid  with  many  an  island-  star, 
Poseidon's  bright,  rock-jewelled  band 
Clasping  his  loved,  lost  Attic  land. 

"  Hence  to  the  sea  !"  that  cry  once  more 
Comes,  organ-voiced,  from  surf  and  shore, 
Comes  through  the  hum  and  hurrying  feet, 
The  toil  and  tumult  of  the  street. 

From  each  dull  brick  I  learn  the  call 
Flashed  as  from  old  Belshazzar's  wall; 
Market  and  church  and  street  and  store 
Echo  the  mandate,  "  To  the  shore  !  " 

With     Care's     sharp     thorn-wreath     daily 

crowned, 

Our  wave-girt  city  hears  the  sound, 
Ami  stoops  her  toil-worn  diadem. 
To  touch  the  healing  Ocean's  hem; 

And  take  new  strength  from  him  who  a 
With  his   waves  rocked   her,  swathed    and 

nursed. 

Who  now  with  l>lne.  lari:«',  wondering  eye 
Hails  her,  his  Venice  throned  on  high. 


790 


POEMS   OF   HENRY   BERNARD   CARPENTER. 


"  Hence  to  the  sea  ! "  the  summons  came 
O'er  fields  adust,  down  skies  of  flame; 
I  heard,  and  fondly  turned  to  thee, 

0  gentle,  glad,  all-gathering  Sea  ! 

1  saw  thee  spread  but  yestermorn, 
As  though  for  Venus  newly  born, 
A  couch  of  satin  soft  and  blue, 

O'er  which  the  sun-showers  dimpling  flew. 

To-day  how  changed  !  the  loud  winds  rise, 
The  storm  her  sounding  shuttle  plies, 
Weaves  a  white  water-shroud  beneath, 
And  all  the  sea-marge  answers,  "  Death." 

Through  sheeted  spray  what  sights  appear  ! 
Faces  look  out  and  shapes  of  fear; 
Mad  through  the  trampled  surge  abroad 
Revels  and  reels  the  Demon-god ; 

Whilst  o'er  his  snouts  that  wax  and  wane 
Swells  one  long  monotone  of  pain, 
As  o'er  some  city's  rabble  yell 
Tolleth  a  great  cathedral  bell. 

Is  this  the  deep-sea  peace  I  sought  ? 
Calm  days  by  holy  shores  of  Thought, 
Airs,  that  might  Hope's  own  clarion  fill. 
With  tones  divine  of  "  Peace,  be  still?" 

And  yet  to  me  these  tides  that  flow 
Are  but  as  clouds  o'er  worlds  below, 
Worlds  which  look  up  to  skies,  as  we 
Look  to  our  heaven's  o'erhanging  sea. 

Not  on  that  sea-floor,  but  beneath 
Its  snowy  shroud  and  funeral  wreath 
Peace  dwells.    What  kingdoms  calm  and  fair 
And  changeless  greet  my  guesses  there  ! 

Seeds  of  the  New  that  is  to  be 

Sleep  in  the  ooze  of  yon  grey  sea; 

Life,  Love,  all  sweet  and  speechless  things 

To  crown  the  heart's  imaginings, — 

Rich  hills,  green-skirted,  forest-zoned, 
Cliffs    on    which    slumbrous    Powers    are 

throned, 

High-pillared  shades,  with  splendor  laned, 
By  ruthless  woodman  unprofaned; 

Close-latticed  lights,  cool  shadowings, 
And  murmurs  of  all  pleasant  things, 


Fountains  that  chime  away  their  care* 
In  liquid  lapse  down  crystal  stairs; 

Glades  which  a  tender  twilight  fling 
Like  the  green  mist  of  groves  in  spring; 
Blameless  white  sands,  and  seas  of  pearl, 
Where  young-eyed  Dreams  their  sails  unfurl; 

Doors  opening  from  afar  with  tone 

Of  mystic  flutes  in  musings  lone, 

Low  chantings  thrilled  through  dim-lit  seas, 

Old  harp-notes,  half-heard  prophecies; 

Pale  temples  veiled  in  sapphire  gloom 
Where  the  great  ghosts  of  glorious  doom 
In  transport  list,  till  heaven-born  Fate 
Shall  ope  her  sire's  tremendous  gate; 

Caves  where  the  gentle,  gracious  Hours, 
Who  bring  all  good  things,  weave  strange 

flowers, 

And  faint  Hopes  wait  in  Lethe  grots, 
Brow-bound  with  fresh  forget-me-nots; 

Genii,  low  dwellers  of  the  glen, 
And  souls  forlorn  that  shall  be  men, 
Mute  lips  that  once  have  kissed  the  wrong, 
Which  Time  shall  purge  and  light  with  song; 

Strong  angels,  waiting  for  the  day 
When  they  shall  shoulder  seas  away 
And  show  to  God  new  blessed  hills 
Starred  with  undying  daffodils; 

When  Earth,  with  bridal  morning  strewn, 
Like  a  pure  goddess  grandly  hewn, 
Shall,  re-baptized  and  born  again, 
Rise  from  her  centuries'  trance  of  pain. 

Thus  in  thy  heart,  0  Deep,  are  stored 
Kings'  treasure- chambers,  unexplored; 
Thy  terrors,  tumults,  fears  are  found 
But  on  thy  surface,  in  thy  sound. 

"  Hence  to  the  sea  ! "  I  heard  that  call, 
And  left  the  world's  loud  palace-wall 
To  find  thee,  0  thou  vast  Unknown, 
By  shores  of  mystery  and  of  moan. 

Yet,  nameless  Dread,  that  seem'st  but  so, 
Calm  are  thy  depths  of  peace  below; 
Roll  dark  or  bright,  0  Spirit  Sea, 
Why  should  I  fear  to  sink  hi  thee  ? 


POEMS   OF   HENRY   BKKXAKI)    CARPENTER 


791 


THE  REED. 

KT  ARUNDINEM  IS  DEXTRAM  EJUS. 

Beneath  the  memnonian  shadows  of  Mem- 
phis it  rose  from  the  slime, 

A  reed  of  the  river,  self -hid,  as  though  shun- 
ning the  curse  of  its  crime, 

And  it  shook  as  it  measured  in  whispers  the 
lapses  of  tide  and  of  time, 

It  shuddered,  it  stooped,  and  was  dumb, 
wh«i  the  kings  of  the  eartli  passed 
along, 

For  what  could  this  reed  of  the  river  in  the 
race  of  the  swift  and  the  strong, — 

Where  the  wolf  met  the  bear  and  the  pan- 
ther, blood-bathed,  at  the  banquets 
of  wrong  ? 

These  loved  the  bright  brass,  the  hard  steel, 

and  the  gods  that  kill  and  condemn; 
Yea,  theirs  was  the  robe  silver-tissued,  and 

theirs  was  the  sun-colored  gem; 
If  they  touched  thee,  0  reed,  'twas  to  wing 

with  swift  death  thy  sharp  arrowy 

stem. 

Then  the  strong  took  the  corn  and  the  wine, 
and  the  poor,  who  had  scattered  the 
seed, 

Went  forth  to  the  wilderness  weeping,  and 
sought  out  a  sign  in  their  need, 

And  the  gods  laughed  in  rapturous  thun- 
der, and  showed  them  the  wind- 
shaken  reed. 

0  dower  of  the  poor  and  the  helpless  !    0  key 

to  Thought's  palace  unpriced  ! 
When  the  strong  mocked  with  cruel  crimson, 

and  spat  in  the  face  of  their  Christ, 
When  the   thorns  were  his  crown — in  his 

faint  palm  this  reed  for    a   sceptre 

sufficed ; 

This  reed  in  whose  fire-pith  Prometheus 
brought  life,  and  then  Art,  lie^an, 

When  Man,  the  god  of  time's  twilight,  grew 
godlike  by  dying  for  Man, 

Ere  Redemption  fell  bound  and  bleeding, 
priest- carved  to  the  priests'  poor  plan. 


Come  hither,  ye  kings  of  the  earth,  and  ye 
priests  without  pity,  draw  near, 

Ye  girded  your  loins  for  a  curse,  and  ye 
builded  dark  temples  to  Fear, 

Ye  gathered  from  rune-scroll  and  symbol 
great  syllables  deathful  and  drear. 

Then  ye  summoned  mankind  to  your  Idol, 
the  many  bowed  down  to  the  few, 

As  ye  told  in  loud  anthems  how  all  things 
were  framed  for  the  saints  and  for  you, 

"  Lord,  not  on  these  sun-blistered  rocks,  but 
on  Gideon's  fleece  falls  thy  dew." 

Man  was  taken  from  prison  to  judgment;  a 
bulrush  he  bent  at  your  nod; 

Ye  stripped  him  of  rights,  his  last  garment, 
and  bared  his  broad  back  for  the  rod, 

And  ye  lisped,  as  he  writhed  down  in  an- 
guish, "  This  woe  is  the  sweet  will  of 
God." 

But  lo  !   whilst  ye  braided  the  thorn-wreath 

for  Man  and  the  children  of  men, 
Whilst  ye  reft  him  of  worship  and  wealth, 

and  he  stood  mute  and  dazed  in  your 

den, 
A  reed-stalk  remained  for  a  sceptre;  ye  left 

in  his  hand  the  pen. 

Sweet  wooer,  strong  winner  of  kingship, 
above  crown,  crosier  and  sword. 

By  thee  shall  the  mighty  be  broken,  and  the 
spoil  which  their  might  hath  stored 

Shall  be  stamped  small  as  dust  and  be  wafted 
away  by  the  breath  of  the  Lord. 

His  decree  is  gone  forth,  it  is  planted,  and 
these  are  the  words  which  he  spake, — 

No  smouldering  flax  of  first  fancy,  no  full 
flame  of  thought,  will  he  sluke. 

No  bruised  reed  of  the  writer  shall  the 
strength  of  eternities  break. 

Behold  your  sign  and  your  sceptre.     Arise, 

imperial  reed, 
<io  forth  to  discrown  king  and  captain  and 

disinherit  the  creed; 
0  strike  through  the  iron  war-tower    ar 

cast  out  the  murderer's  seed; 


792 


POEMS  OF  HENRY   BERNARD   CARPENTER. 


Go  forth — like  the  swell  of  the  springtide, 
sweep  on  in  measureless  sw;iy, 

Till  raised  over  each  throned  falsehood,  in 
bright  omnipresence  like  day, 

Thou  shalt  britise  them  with  rod  of  iron  and 
break  them  like  vessels  of  clay. 


THEODOSIUS. 

ALL  things  are  beautiful  that  God  hath 
made, — 

Green  earth,  skies  grey  or  crimson,  sheen 
or  shade, 

The  golden  river-dust,  the  mid-sea  slime, 

The  mold-warp's  home,  and  hills  the  throne 
of  Time, 

Rich  dawn,  with  thrush,  and  saffron-flower- 
ing reed, 

And  darkness,  friend  of  death,  and  worm 
and  weed. 

Shadows  of  silence,  and  great  lights  of  sound 

Alike  are  dear  to  the  heaven  they  float 
around, 

And  God  hath  blest  them,  whether  in  field 
or  flood, 

In  earth  or  air,  and  called  them  very  good. 

But  ere  these  leave  the  embrace  of  their 
kind  Nurse, 

Man  clothes  them  with  the  garment  of  his 
curse, 

And  driving  out  with  flame-sword,  seraph- 
wise, 

He  disinherits  them  of  their  Paradise. 

'Tis  the  old  story  of  the  scapegoat  still, 

We  lay  on  other  lives  our  self -wrought  ill; 

Man  points  at  Woman,  Woman  at  her  feet, 

"  The  Serpent  tempted  me,  and  I  did  eat/' 

In  the  far  East,  as  story  telleth  us, 
Dwelt  the  great  Emperor  Theodosius, 
By  the  rough  Thracian  strait,  where  lo 

roamed 
Salt  fields  of  sea,   wind-fretted  and   o'er- 

foamed. 
All  power  was  his,  the  King's  twain-handed 

might, 


And  Life,   and   Law,   and  all,   save  sacred 

sight. 
But,  God  be  praised,  the  chance  that  seals 

one  sense, 

Stays  not  the  whole  flow  of  man's  providence. 
So  at  his  palace  door  a  bell  he  hung, 
Which,   when   it  woke   him   with   its   iron 

tongue, 

Cried  ever  in  his  ear,  "  0  Sire,  descend, 
And  give  me  justice,  and  be  misery's  friend." 
Then  would  you  hear  the  shuffling,  sightless 

feet 

Which  brought  him  to  the  hall  and  judg- 
ment seat, 

Where  he  sat  down,  this  Emperor  Theodose, 
And  sentence  gave  'mid  his  magnificoes. 
So  the  world  sought  him  as  some  isle  o'  the 

sea, 
Where  men  breathe  rights  and  all  the  men 

are  free. 

Now  fell  it  on  a  day  when  Spring's  new 
flame 

Pricked  bird  and  flower  and  leaf,  a  serpent 
came 

And  built  her  home  and  stowed  her  innocent 
freight 

In  a  green  plat,  hard  by  the  palace-gate, 

And  there  she  dwelt,  a  helpless,  harmless: 
thing, 

With  sweet,  strange  mother-love  encompass- 
ing 

And  coiled  in  sleep  about  her  little  ones, 

As  God's  vast  life  rings  round  his  stars  and 
suns. 

One  morn,  while  absent  from  her  dear 
abode, 

There  came  with  short,  light  leaps,  a  song- 
less  toad 

Through  thickening  grass-plumes,  to  the 
serpent  nest, 

Where  her  brood  lay  just  sleep-Warm  from 
her  breast, 

And  swallowing  these,  his  body  burdensome 

He  straight  lay  down  in  that  unchilded  home. 

Swift  came  the  serpent- mother  back  again; 

One  glance  around,  then  fierce  wifch  death- 
like pain, 


POEMS  OF  HKNKV  HKRNAKI)  CARPENTER. 


She  flashed  straight  at  the  murderer  of  her 

Joy> 

( ;<  id  -armed  with  right  to  cast  out  and  destroy, 
Not  yet:  for  oft  the  gods  are  kind  to  guilt, 
And  fools  grow  fat  where  the  pure  blood  lies 
spilt. 

Driven  out,  this  creature,  childless,  exiled, 
poor, 

Slow  wound  her  weak  folds  to  the  emperor's 
door, 

Where,  gathering  all  her  battle-broken 
strength 

She  flickered  up  and  writhed  her  sliding 
length 

Round  the  smooth  bell-rope  toward  the 
speechless  bell, 

Which,  drawing  down,  she  woke  the  sum- 
moning knell, 

"Descend  and  give  me  justice."  Straight 
uprose 

And  took  his  seat,  that  Emperor  Theodose, 

Saying,  "  Go,  bring  him  hither,"  and  one 
came, 

In  black  velure  and  taffeta  robe  of  flame, 

Peeping  with  outstretched  neck  and  watery 
laugh, 

Who  smote  the  snake  thrice  with  his  ivory 
staff, 

And  switched  her  from  the  grunsel,  and  re- 
turned. 

Scarce  had  the  sightless  Theodosius  learned 

From  the  cold  courtier's  tongue  the  serpent's 
crime, 

When  hark  !  the  bell  knolled  out  the  second 
time, 

"  Descend  and  give  me  justice,"  and  to  end 

The  full  appeal,  it  rang  once  more,  "  De- 
scend." 

Then  called  the  blind  king  to  his  seneschal, 
A  reverent  man,  of  face  angelical, 
With  love-lit  eyes,  voice  musical  and  low, 
White  hair  and  soft  step  like  the  falling 

snow; 
-t  Hie  thee,  and  fetch  this  thing  whatso  it 

be; 

Who  doeth  kind  deed,  the  only  king  is  he." 
And  with  soft  step  the  senior  went,  and  found 


Th<-  stricken  serpent  half-way  to  the  ground, 
And  caught  her  well-nigh  dead,  reft  of  all 

hope, 
Failing  through  faintness  from  the  throbbing 

rope, 

And  bore  her,  inly  pitying  her  woes, 
And  laid  her  down  before  King  Theodose. 

0  then,  I  ween,  a  work  right  marvellous 
Was  wrought  of  him,  who  somewhere  teach- 

eth  us, — 

Certes,  all  things  are  possible  with  God. 
Yet  men  will  say  in  time's  last  period 
This  was  not  so,  these  tales  are  light  as  sand, 
Faith-forged  in  Jewry  or  old  Grecian  Land, 
Not  knowing  how  in  antique  days,  by  oak 
And    fountain,   beasts   and   birds  together 

spoke, 

Under  the  forest's  shadow-woven  tent, 
In  session  sage  and  peaceful  parliament; 
Till  Man  came  and  henceforth  from  bird 

and  beast 

The  primal  word's  divisible  language  ceased, 
And  so  to  place  their  thoughts  above  our 

reach 
They    chose    their    free-born,    inarticulate 

speech. 
Yet    sometimes    these,    when    heavenward 

raised  by  wrong, 
Change  cry  for  speech,  as  men  change  speech 

for  song; 

Or,  as  when  Slavery's  bow  at  Man  is  bent, 
Man  cries  to  God,  and  then  is  eloquent, 
Nor  count  it  strange  that  He  who  once  came 

down 

In  tongue.of  fire  to  be  the  Prophet's  crown. 
And   shook   his  soul   as  with  the  rushing 

S.-uth, 
Should  ope  in  one  brief  speech  a  serpent's 

mouth. 

So  with  raised  head  the  serpent  thus  began 
"  Smite  me,  but  hear.     I  come  to  thee,  O 

M;in; 

For  unto  thee,  they  say,  the  seat  is  pven 
Of  Mediator-God  'twixt  us  and  heaven. 
In  thy  sere  autumn,  when  hopes  fade  and 

fly, 
Thou  yearnest  upward  to  the  listening  sky 


POEMS  OF  HENRY  BERNARD  CARPENTER. 


And  criest  and  sighest  and  sayest,  '  Lord, 

how  long  ? ' 
To  some  one,  whom  ye  call  the  Sweet  and 

Strong — 

What  that  one  is  to  thee,  art  thou  to  us, 
Girt   with  great  strength  and   knowledge 

glorious. 

Shall  Mercy  drop  to  thee  her  royal  meat 
Who  keepst  her  crumbs  from  them  that  kiss 

thy  feet. 
Think  not,  great  king,  that  we  who  roam 

and  range 
Wild  ways  of  life,    which   teach  us   uses 

strange, 

Are  aliens  to  what  makes  the  best  in  men, 
In  soldier,  statesman,  sire  and  citizen, — 
The  lover's  anguish  dipped  in  tides  of  death, 
Child-trust,  and  mother-love  that  fashioneth 
All  thought  and  thew,  life's  prodigality 
That  breathes  the  noble  rage  to  save  or  die; — 
These  which  are  ours  we  share  with  thee,  0 

Man, 

In  Life's  wide  palace  cosmopolitan. 
Hear  me.     There  came  a  toad  into  my  nest, 
Whiles  I  was  absent  on  a  needful  quest, 
And  killed  my  pretty  brood,  and  now  he 

keeps 
That  home  from  her  who  at  thy  footstool 

creeps. 
Full  well  I  know  that  something  just  and 

good 

Ere  many  suns  will  give  me  back  my  brood, 
But  give  me  now  the  lair  which  is  my  own,— 
Guard  my  ground  nest,  and  I  will  guard  thy 

throne." 

Long  mused  the  blind  king  Theodosius, 
But  when  at  last  his  heart  full  piteous 
Sent  its  red  message  to  his  cheek,  he  spake: — 
"Ah  me  !  sad  woes  ye  bear  for  human  sake, 
Poor  hunted  lives,  beast,  bird  and  creeping 

thing, 
From  Man  who  is  your  brother,  not  your 

king. 

But  chiefly  on  thy  head  that  lies  thus  low 
Have  we  laid  down  the  weight  of  all  our  woe. 
Give  ear  and  hear  me,  my  most  honored  lords, 
And  you,  ye  learned  clerks,  wise  in  your 

words, 


Stand  forth  and  answer  me:   Who  first  de- 
creed 

Discord  for  all  things  sown  of  mortal  seed  ? 
Who  blew  through  earth  the  ban  of  civil  war 
Which  flames  above  us,  reddening  Ares'  star  ? 
God,  will  ye  say  ?    Heaven  wot,  that  cannot 

be. 

Hear  Nature's  Miserere  Domim 
Go  up,  man-scorned,  an  awful  litany 
Folding  the  feet  of  God  with  folds  of  moan 
And  crying,  Our  eyes  look  unto  Thee  alone. 
Not  God.     Who  then  ?    Ye  durst  not  answer 

me — 
'Tis  Man,  who  blots  her  fountain,  slays  her 

tree, 
Blasts  her  sweet  river,  tears  her  breast  of 

green, 

And  calls  her  beasts  now  clean  and  now  un- 
clean, 

Stooping  her  names  of  serpent,  ape  and  dog 
To  suit  the  sins  of  man's  own  catalogue; 
For  through  man's  heart  distil  those  drops  of 

gall 
Which  must  o'erflow  and  on  some  creature 

fall. 

0  dull  of  spirit  and  cold  of  heart  to  make 
This  cleanser  of  the  dust,  the  earth-loving 

snake, 

The  authoress  of  your  ills,  the  fount  of  sin; 
Forgetting  in  your  doctrines'  battle-din 
How  God  ordained  that  since  the  world  began 
Each  thing  in  turn  should  be  the  friend  of 

Man. 

What !  shall  the  Lamb  that  healeth  all  of  us 
Tread  on  the  Snake  of  ^Esculapius  ? 
Say,  are  not  innocent  Wisdom  and  wise  Love 
Wedded  for  aye — the  Serpent  and  the  Dove  ? 
0  sweet  Lord  Christ,  when  thou  didst  come 

on  earth 

Thou  madest  the  stall  of  ox  thy  bed  of  birth ; 
When  in  chill  desert  thou  didst  leave  our 

feasts  [beasts;' 

To  share  Life's  hunger,  thou  wast  '  with  the 
When  on  to  Zion  Town  they  saw  thee  pass. 
'Twas  not  on  war-steed,  but  on  lowly  ass; 
And  when  to  win  us  worlds  by  thy  self -loss 
Thou  didst  lift  up  for  us  the  bitter  cross, 
Then  didst  thou  take  the  thorns  we  oft  had 

cursed 


1'OK.MS   OF    IIKNKY    BKRXARD  CAKI'FATKK. 


To  be  thy  crown,  of  all  great  crowns  tho  first. 
Help  me,  dear  Christ,  in  pity  thus  arrayed 
Like  thee,  to  love  all  things  which  God  hath 

made, 

So  Pain  shall  school  me  into  sympathy, 
And  what  I  should  have  been,  I  yet  shall  be." 

Then  Theodose  sent  one  from  all  the  rest 
To  reinstall  the  serpent  in  her  nest, 
Who  came  and  finding  there  the  murderer 
Crushed  him  and  cast  him  out;  and  some 

aver 
That  from  the  bruised  head  of  the  loathly 

thing 

There  oozed  a  sea-green  gem,  forth  issuing; 
Wherefore  and  how  it  boots  not  here  to  tell, — 
€ertes,  with  God  all  things  are  possible. 

After  these  things  it  fell  on  a  bright  day 
Near  the  calm  shut  of  eve,  this  blind  king 

lay, 

Wrapped  in  his  purple,  gold-embroidered 

pall, 

And  slept  a  space  in  the  same  palace  hall, 
When  lo  !  a  thing  most  rare  was  brought  to 

pass. 
As  though  new-raised  in  beauty  from  the 

grass 

That  serpent  through  the  palace  came  again, 
No  more  updrawing  her  loose  length  with 

pain, 

But  glittering  like  a  stream  with  rains  fresh- 
dewed, 
Amber,   and  silver-mooned,  and  rainbow- 

hued, 

Kyed  like  a  moist  large  planet  of  the  South 
That  shines  a  promise  of  rain  in  days  of 

drouth. 

Si )  swept  she  glorying  up  the  porphyry  floor, 
And  in  her  mouth  a  bright  great  emerald 

bore. 
Therewith,  (but  whence  it  came  none  ever 

knew,) 
Through  all  the  house  a  wondrous  music 

grew, 
Such  concords  as  are  heard  from  stop  and 

string 

At  heavenly  doors  by  spirits  first  entering, — 
Immortal  airs,  touches  of  mellow  sound 


That    came    in    long-drawn    sighs,    above, 

around, 

And  march-like  music  swoln  to  mighty  tone, 
Like  preludes  from  aerial  clarions  blown, 
And  whispers  as  of  multitudinous  feet, 
Which  died  away  with  waifs  of  scent  most 

sweet. 

Soul-charmed,  the  serpent  toward  King 

Theodose  crept, 

And  there  she  hung  above  him,  as  he  slept 
With  silent  face,  and  silent,  pale,  dead  eyes 
Turned  in,  as  'twere,  on  Life's  mute  mys- 
teries; 
Then,  as  the  downward-swaying  branch  lets 

fall 

Its  waxen  fruitage  to  the  lips  that  call, 
So   she    soft-stooping   o'er   his    sleep,    un- 
known,— 
Dropped  on  his  eyes  the  magic  emerald  stone. 

Meanwhile  blind  Theodosius  dreamed  a 

dream. 

In  the  high  heaven  he  saw  a  coming  gleam, 
Which  brightening  as  it  came  to  where  he 

lay, 

Opened  at  last  like  the  full  flower  of  day. 

It  was  God's  angel,  strong  Ithuriel, 

Armed  with  that  glowing  lance,  which,  sooth 

to  tell, 

Unlocks  all  doors  of  light  in  earth  or  skies, 
With  whose  bright  point  he  touched   the 

sightless  eyes, 
And  said,  "  Receive  thy  sight;"  thus  nnu-li 

he  spoke 
And  vanished,  and  King  Theodose  awoke. 

Opening   his   new-born    eyes   he    looked 

abroad, 

Oh  wonder  !  Oh  the  beautiful  earth  of  G<>'!  ! 
He  gazed  on  the  rich  picture,  fresh  and  fair. 
The  grateful  fields  of  green,  and  liquid  air, 
But  first  toward  heaven:   and  its  him-  gulfs 

of  sky.  [of  lijrht 

\V hat  sees  he  there  ?    Up  through  long  lanes 
Thy  city,  Lord,  rose  on  his  tranced  sight. 
Pillar  and  palace  built  of  mist  and  p-m. 
Ami  sun-ehul  wall  of  New  .lerusaleni. 
Where  men  walk  free  from  sin  and  terror 

and  tears, 


"96 


POEMS  OF  HENRY  BERNARD  CARPENTER. 


With  smile  sent  back  on  time  and  passed 

years. 

Then,  as  the  pageant  faded  from  his  eyes, 
He  watched  beneath  its  vanishing  traceries 
The  dawning  eventide  of  one  faint  star 
And  lilac  cloud's  flame-bordered  bank  and 

bar, 
And  lower  down,  the  green  wood's  tender 

gloom 
And  lawns  that  fed  on  dews  and  balm  and 

bloom, 
Whilst,  like  a  meteor,  through  his  palace 

door 
The  serpent  shivered  and  was  seen  no  more. 


BEYOND  THE  SNOW. 

BAKE  boughs;  athwart  each  suppliant  arm 

The  sun's  pale  stare  at  pale  November, 
No  autumn's  amorous  breath  to  warm 
His  red  last  leaf's  expiring  ember; 

House  after  house,  a  glimmering  street; 
A  herald  grain  of  coming  sleet; 
The  struggling  dayfires'  lessening  glow; 
Hour  when  light  ghost-winds  wailing  go, 
"When  men  least  hope  and  most  remember, 
Before  the  snow,  before  the  snow. 

A  village  cot;  eyes  fiery  blue, 

Blithe  voice  beneath  the  roof's  high  rafter, 
Ripe  cheek,  crisp  curls  of  chestnut  hue, 
Quick  heart  that  leaps  to  love  and  laughter 
That  feeds  on  all  from  star  to  sod, 
And  loving  all  things  lives  in  God; 
Light  feet  borne  daily  to  and  fro 
On  some  sweet  errand  none  may  know, 
Swift  sped  with  hopes  like  wings  to  waft 

her 
Along  the  snow,  along  the  snow. 

A  midnight  room;  the  smothered  speech 

Of  those  that  watch  with  tear-stained  faces; 
The  helpless  love-look  bent  by  each 

Who  stoops,  but  speaks  not,  and  embraces; 
Love  braving  Death  with  that  last  cry, 
"  She  is  mine,  she  is  mine,  she  shall  not 
die;" 


Then  homeward  steps  returning  slow 
To  the  great  tear's  unworded  woe, 
And  many  darkened  dwelling-places 
Across  the  snow,  across  the  snow. 

A  hollow  grave;  and  gathered  there 

Strong  breaking  hearts  that  bear  and  break 

not, 

Round  the  closed  eyes  and  lifeless  hair 
Life's  few  that  follow  and  forsake  not; 
Tears,  the  drink-offering  to  the  dead, 
The  bruised  heart's  grape-wine  softly 

shed; 

Long  downward  looks;  they  will  not  go, 
They  fain  would  sleep  with  her  below 
In  dreamless  rest  with  those  that  wake  not 
Beneath  the  snow,  beneath  the  snow. 

A  green  plot  sweet  with  shade  and  sound, 

A  white  porch  and  a  name  engraven, 
Where  Death  unveiled  as  Love  sits  crowned 
In  garden-lawns  with  lilies  paven, 
And  she  a  daughter  of  that  land, 
A  silent  rose  in  her  right  hand, 
And  in  her  left  a  scroll  where  glow 
Mysteries   of    might  which   man   shall 

know 

In  Love's  warm-shadowed  leafy  haven 
Beyond  the  snow,  beyond  the  snow. 


THE  SIRENS. 
ON  DE  BEAUMONT'S  PICTURE  "LES  SIRENES." 

DAINTY    sea-maids  !      bright-eyed    sirens  ! 

laughing  over  dead  men's  graves  ! 
What  has  drawn  you  from  the  inland  to  this 

wilderness  of  waves  ? 
Why  those  lucent  arms  uptossing  o'er  your 

shoulders  round  and  rare  ? 
Why  those  musical  throats  bent  back  beneath 

the  sunlight  of  your  hair  ? 
Oh,  the  bosoms'  rosy  treasures  tempting  to~ 

ward  their  fragrant  home  ! 
Oh,  the  ivory  thighs  unkirtled  on  the  white 

flowers  of  the  foam  ! 
Bitter  is  the  sea  about  you  with  the  brine 

of  daily  tears, 


POEMS  OF  HENRY   BERNARD   CARPENTER 


797 


In  the  sea-grave  lie  beneath  you  withered 
In -arts  and  wasted  years. 

Back  !  ye  deatlnvard-singing  Sirens  !  One 
by  Galilee's  calm  sea 

Calls  you  hence, — "  0  cease  your  angling, 
drop  your  nets,  and  follow  me,"- 

Calls  you  home  to  Love's  high  service  in  se- 
clusion's holy  glen, 

But  he  never  called  you  shoreward  to  be 
fishers  after  men. 


SONNET. 

JAMES  ABRAM  GARFIELD,  SEPTEMBER   19TH,  1881. 

Lo  !  as  a  pure  white  statue  wrought  with 

care 
By  some  strong  hand  that  moulds  with 

tear  and  sigh 
Beauty  more  beautiful  than  things  that 

die, 
And  straight  'tis  veiled;  and  whilst  all  men 

repair 

To  see  this  wonder  in  the  workshop,  there  ! 

Behold,  it  gleams  unveiled  to  curious  eye, 

Far-seen,  high-placed  in  Art's  pale  gallery, 

Where  all  stand  mute  before  a  work  so  fair; 

So  he,  our  man  of  men,  in  vision  stands, 

With  Pain  and  Patience  crowned  imperial; 

Death's  veil  has  dropped;  far  from  this 

house  of  woe 

He  hears  one  love-chant  out  of  many  lands, 
Whilst  from  his  mvstic  noon-height  he  lets 

fall 

His  shadow  o'er  these  hearts  that  bleed 
below. 


A  NEW  ENGLAND  WINTER  SONG. 
FOREFATHERS'  DAY,  DECEMBER  22. 

Win)  »•  nulled  thee  on  the  rock,  my  boy, 

Far,  far  from  the  sun-warm  South  ? 
Who  woke  thee  with  shout  and  shock,  my 
boy, 


And  spray  for  a  kiss  on  thy  mouth, 
As  tlio  l"\v  sad  shores  grew  dim  with  rain 
And  the  grey  sea  moaned  its  infinite  pain 
To  grey  grass  and  pale  sands,  thy  sole  do- 
main? 

Who  cradled  thee  on  the  rock  ? 

I  brought  thee  into  the  wilderness, 

When  thou  didst  cry  to  me, 
And  I  gave  thee  there  in  thy  sore  distress 

The  rock  and  the  cloud  and  the  sea; 
With  baptismal  waves  thy  limbs  were  wet, 
And  the  ragged  cloud  was  thy  coverlet, — 
Thus  saith  the  Lord  God :  Dost  thou  forget? 

I  cradled  thee  on  the  rock. 

Who  shadowed  thee  with  the  cloud,  my  boy, 
And  the  stars  forgat  to  shine,  [b°}*> 

And  the  sun  lay  as  dead  in  his  shroud,  my 
And  thy  tears  were  to  thee  for  wine  ? 

Who  took  from  thee  every  pleasant  thing, 

Sweet  sounds  that  are  drawn  from  stop  and 
string, 

Day's  dream  and  the  night's  glad  banqueting? 
Who  shadowed  thee  with  the  cloud  ? 

I  broke  thy  slumber  with  ciarion  storms, 

I  called  like  a  midnight  bell, 
Till  thou  saw'st  through  the  dark  the  spirit 
forms, 

Heaven's  glow  and  the  glare  of  hell; 
And  then,  that  thou  mightest  know  God's 

grace 

And  drink  his  love-wine  and  see  his  face, 
I  drew  thee  into  my  secret  place, — 

I  shadowed  thee  with  the  cloud. 

Who  fenced  thee  round  with  the  sea,  my  boy, 

And  locked  its  gates  amain? 
Who,  to  set  thy  fathers  free,  my  boy, 

Burst  the  bars  of  the  deep  in  twain. 
And  led  them  l>v  ways  they  know  not  of, 
When  the  black  storm  spread  its  wings  above 
And  thundered.  My  God  is  Liw.  not  Love  I 

Who  fenced  theo  round  with  the-  sea? 

I  set  thee  beyond  where  the  great  sea  ran, 

I  made  thee  to  dwell  apart, 
For  in  the  divisions  of  man  from  man 

Come  the  mighty  searchings  of  heart; 


ros 


POEMS  OF  HENRY   BERNARD   CARPENTER. 


I,  the  Lord,  who  moved  on  the  waters  old, 
Who  sought  for  a  heart  like  the  sea's  heart, 

—bold, 

Unchartered,  chainless  and  myriad-souled — 
I  fenced  thee  round  with  the  sea. 


ODE  TO  GENERAL  PORFIRIO  DIAZ.* 

EX -PRESIDENT  OF  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF 
MEXICO. 


OPEN  thy  storm-dark  doors,  dear  Northern 

Land, 

Star-diademed,  pale  Priestess  of  the  free, 
Wailed  round  by  wind  and  water  and  that 

grey  sea 
Whose  morning  psalm  salutes  his  Pilgrims' 

strand, 
0  thou  to  whom  all  great  things  thought 

and  done 
Are  dear,  all  fights  for  Freedom  lost  or 

won, 

Queen  of  the  earth's  free  states, 
Open  to  him  thy  gates, 
This  champion  of  the  children  of  the  Sun; 
To  him  who  with  his  king-destroying  rod 
Wiped    the   last   king-curse   from    the 

southern  sod, 

Bring  the  loud  welcome  which  the  free- 
man brings 
When  his  full  harp  is  struck  through 

all  its  strings 
With  music  born  of  God. 

II. 

He  comes  a  hero  to  a  heroes'  home. 

New  England's  hills,  peal  forth  your  thrice 

All  Hail, 

Far  as  the  Gulf,  till  every  seaward  sail 
Bends  low  to  hear,  and  Orizaba's  dome 
Heaves  his  flame-hearted  breast  of  barren 

brown 

And  breaks  the  frosts  that  bind  his  helmet- 
crown, 

*  Read  at  the  banquet  in  Boston,  April  llth,  1883. 


To  see  his  realm  re-born 
Which  late  the  old  worlds  could  scorn 
Now  nearer  to  life's  flowering  marge  of 

morn; 
To  see  his  country's  chief  and  chosen 

thereof 

In  war  and  peace  its  eagle  and  its  dove, 

Called  here  to  reap  the  far  fruits  of  past  pain 

And  bear  New  England's  blessing  to  New 

Spain 
With  the  strong  Northman's  love. 

in. 

The  Pine-tree  waves  her  peace-pledge  to  the 

Palm, 
Sending  sweet  grace  and  greeting,  not  as 

they 
Who  greet  and  give  not.     For  in  time's 

past  day, 
Ere    thy  quick    South    roused    from   their 

summer-calm 

Her  baby  Hopes  adream  on  wings  warm- 
furled, 

Our  seedplot  for  all  gardens  of  the  world 
Nursed  through  its  bud  and  birth 
One  tree  till  the  whole  earth 
Owned  its  circumferent  leaves  and  giant 

girth; 
Whence  winnowed  by  the  northwind's 

wings  of  power 
A  fire-seed  smote  thy  soil,  and  lo  !    a 

bower, 

A  blossom-blaze,  a  Maytime  glorious. 
0  gardener,  what  is  this  thou  bringest  us  ?' 
Our  freedom's  far-sown  flower. 

IV. 

0  Tree  of  Liberty,  thou  Tree  of  Life, 
AVithout  thee  what  were  all  the  golden 
South  ?  [mouth, 

The  Cid's  rich  song  from  ripe  Castilian 
The  eyes'  black  velvet  of  each  gay  girl-wife, 
The   scarlet   nopal,   jasmine's  earth-born 

star, 

The  low  bird-language  of  the  light  guitar 
Wooed  by  love's  wandering  hand, 
And  teocalli  grand 

With  scroll  and  sculptured  face  of  mild 
command, 


POEMS   OF  HENRY   BERNARD   CARPENTER. 


Queretaro's  wave-worn  arches,  one  long 

mile 

Of  marching  giants,  Viga's  floating  isle, 
Cholula's  hill-shrine  of  the  all -worshipped 

Sun, 

Huge  cypress  shade,  all  Aztec  spoils  in  one, 
Without  thee  were  most  vile. 

v. 

Look   whither   Nature  leads  thee,   soldier- 
priest; 
Not    South    to    soil    war-scourged    and 

thunder-scarred, 
Not    West    where    friendship    fails    thee 

ocean-barred, 

Not  to  the  palsied,  mad,  monarchic  East, 
Dazzling  with  sunlike  gems  of  gay  romance 
And  backward  gaze  fixed  in  tradition's 

trance, 

Who  sent  across  the  main 
The  monkish  spawn  of  Spain, 
And  Austria's  yellow  plague  and  black  Ba- 

zaine, 

To  lash  thy  land  with  battle's  gory  shower 

And  cage  thee  in  Puebla's  dungeon -tower, 

Whence  rushed  thy  eagle  spirit  new-fledged, 

and  burst  [cursed, 

The  death-folds  of  the  serpent  crowned  and 

When  hell  lost  half  her  power. 

VI. 

The  strongest  Gods  dwell  ever  in  the  North, 
In  labor's  land  and  sorrow's;  but  at  length 
Labor  and  sorrow  bring  the  perfect 

strength. 

See,  from  Ezekiel's  northern  hills  leaps  forth 
The  car  of  crystal  floor  and  sapphire 

throne, 

In  amber-colored  light  and  rainbow  zone, 
On  self-moved  beryl  wheels, 
Through  fire-mist  that  reveals 
Man,  its  great  charioteer,  aloft,  alone, 
Where  round   him  float   three   mystic 

shapes  divine, 
Cloven  foot  of  steer  and  starred  wing 

aquiline, 

And  lion's  regal  mane  ready  to  rise 
Like  slumbering  Law  on  all  its  enemies 
In  strength,  0  guest,  like  thine. 


VII. 

So  to  thy  home  sweeps  down  unconquerable 
Our  iron  chariot  of  the  prophet's  dream, 
Fire-fledged   and   clothed    in   cloud  and 

wreathed  with  steam, 

Flashed  like  a  poet's  thought  through  all- 
cleft  hill, 
Rent  rock  and  rolling  flood  and  fiery 

sand, 
Laden  with  Life's  humanities,  not  the 

brand 

Of  widow-making  war, 
To  blast  thy  fields  afar 
Like  burnings  of  the  intolerable  star. 
So   flies  the  thunder-bearing  steed  of 

flame 
Waking  each  southern  silence  with  his 

name* 
King  of   his  kinsmen  round  the  stormy 

cape, 
Whose  heart,  head,  hand  to  purpose,  plan 

and  shape, 
Win  him  a  conqueror's  fame. 

VIII. 

Thee,  latest-born,  self-liberated  State, 
Earth,  heaven  and  thy  two  Oceans  wait  to 

bless, 

Our  blessing  also  take,  with  love  not  less, 
As  of  thy  sister  ever  inseparate, 

And  take  thy  place  in  the  immemorial 

line 
Of  those  that  soared  and  sang  with  hopes 

like  thine, 

And  with  voice  piercing  strong 
And  clear  and  sweet  prolong 
The  choral  thunders  of  their  mighty  song, 
Till  earth's  new  man,  thrilled   by  the 

spirit  breeze, 

Shall  wake  to  morn's  mcmnonian  melo- 
dies, 
Bright  as  when  daybreak  from   his  rosy 

home 

Stains  with  his  blood-red  life  the  furrowed 
foam 
Of  sunward-surging  seas. 

*  Thomas  Nickeraon,  Esq.,  president  of  the  Mexican  Cen- 
tral Railroad 


LOSSES. 

UPON"  the  white  sea-sand 

There  sat  a  pilgrim  band, 
Telling  the  losses  that  their  lives  had  known; 

While  evening  waned  away 

From  breezy  cliff  and  bay, 
And  the  strong  tides  went  out  with  weary 
moan. 

One  spake,  with  quivering  lip, 

Of  a  fair  freighted  ship, 
With  all  his  household   to  the  deep  gone 
down; 

But  one  had  wilder  woe — 

For  a  fair  face,  long  ago, 
Lost  in  the  darker  depths  of  a  great  town. 

There  were  who  mourn'd  their  youth 

With  a  most  loving  ruth, 
For  its  brave  hopes  and  memories  ever  green; 

And  one  upon  the  west 

Turn'd  an  eye  that  would  not  rest, 
For  far-off  hills  whereon  its  joys  had  been. 

Some  talk'd  of  vanish'd  gold, 

Some  of  proud  honors  told, 
Some  speak  of  friends  that  were  their  trust 
no  more ; 

And  one  of  a  green  grave, 

Beside  a  foreign  wave, 
That  made  him  sit  so  lonely  on  the  shore. 

But  when  their  tales  were  done, 

There  spake  among  them  one, 
A  stranger,  seeming  from  all  sorrow  free; 

"  Sad  losses  have  ye  met, 

But  mine  is  heavier  yet ; 
For  a  believing  heart  hath  gone  from  me." 

"Alas!"  these  pilgrims  said, 
"  For  the  living  and  the  dead — 


For  fortune's  cruelty,  for  love's  sure  cross, 
For  the  wrecks  of  land  and  sea! 
But,  however  it  came  to  thee. 

Thine,  stranger,  is  life's  last  and  heaviest 
loss.'' 


SONGS  OF  OUE  LAND. 

SONGS  of  our  land,  ye  are  with  us  for  ever, 
The  power  and  the  splendor  of  thrones 

pass  away; 
But  yours  is  the  might  of  some  far  flowing 

river. 

Through   Summer's  bright  roses  or  Au- 
tumn's decay. 
Ye  treasure  each  voice  of  the  swift  passing 


And  truth  which  time  writeth  on  leaves 

or  on  sand  ; 

Ye  bring  us  the  thoughts  of  poets  and  sages, 
And  keep  them  among  us,  old  songs  of 

our  land. 

The  bards  may  go  down  to  the  place  of  their 

slumbers, 
The  lyre  of  the  charmer  be  hushed  in  the 

grave, 
But  far  in  the  future  the  power  of  their 

numbers 
Shall  kindle  the  hearts  of  our  faithful  and 

brave. 
It  will  waken  an  echo  in  souls  deep  and 

lonely, 
Like  voices  of  reeds  by  the  summer  breeze 

fanned  ; 

It  will  call  up  a  spirit  for  freedom,  when  only 
Her  breathings  are  heard  in  the  songs  of 
our  land. 


1 'OK MS  OF  FRANCES  BROWNE. 


801 


For  they  keep  a  record  of  those,  the  true- 
hearted, 
Who  fell  with  the  cause  they  had  vowed 

to  maintain; 

They  show  us  bright  shadows  of  glory  de- 
parted, 
Of  love  that  grew  cold  and  the  hope  that 

was  vain. 

The  page  may  be  lost  and  the  pen  long  for- 
saken, 
And  weeds  may  grow  wild  o'er  the  brave 

heart  and  hand ; 
But  ye  are  still  left  when  all  else  hath  been 

taken, 

Like  streams  in  the  desert,  sweet  songs  of 
our  land. 

Songs  of  our  land,  ye  have  followed   the 

stranger, 

With  power  over  ocean  and  desert  afar, 
Ye  have  gone  with  our  wanderers  through 

distance  and  danger, 

And  gladdened  their  path  like  a  home- 
guiding  star. 


With  the  breath  of  our  mountains  in  sum- 
mers long  vanished, 
And  visions  that  passed  like  a  wave  from 

the  sand, 
With  hope  for  their  country  and  joy  from 

her  banished. 

Ye  come  to  us  ever,  sweet  songs  of  our 
land. 

The  spring  time  may  come  with  the  song  of 

our  glory, 

To  bid  the  green  heart  of  the  forest  re- 
joice, 
But  the  pine  of  the  mountain  though  blasted 

and  hoary, 
And  the  rock  in  the  desert,  can  send  forth 

a  voice. 

It  was  thus  in  their  triumph  for  deep  deso- 
lations, 
While  ocean  waves  roll  or  the  mountains 

shall  stand, 
Still  hearts  that  are  bravest  and  best  of  the 


nations, 


[land. 


Shall  glory  and  live  in  the  songs  of  the 


THE  MUSTER  OF  THE  NORTH. 

A  BALLAD  OF  '61. 
I. 

"On,  mother,  have  you  heard  the  news?" 

"Oh,  father,  is  it  true?" 
"  Oh,  brother,  were  I  but  a  man  " — 

"  Oh,  husband,  they  shall  rue!" 
Thus,  passionately,  asked  the  boy, 

And  thus  the  sister  spoke, 
And  thus  the  dear  wife  to  her  mate, 

The  words  they  could  not  choke. 
"The  news!    what  news?"    "Oh,   bitter 
news — they've  fired  upon  the  flag — 
The  flag  no  foreign  foe  could  blast,  the  trai- 
tors down  would  drag." 

ii. 

"  The  truest  flag  of  liberty 

The  world  has  ever  seen — 
The  stars  that  shone  o'er  Washington 

And  guided  gallant  Greene! 
The  white  and  crimson  stripes  which  bode 

Success  in  peace  and  war, 
Are  draggled,  shorn,  disgraced,  and  torn — 

Insulted  star  by  star: 
That  flag  which  struggling  men  point  to, 

rebuking  kingly  codes, 
The  flag  of  Jones  at  Whitehaven,  of  Reid 
at  Fayal  Roads." 

in. 
"  Eh,  neighbor,  can'st  believe  this  thing  ?  " 

The  neighbor's  eyes  grew  wild; 
Then  o'er  them  crept  a  haze  of  shame, 

As  o'er  a  sad,  proud  child; 
His  face  grew  pale,^  he  bit  his  lip, 

Until  the  hardy  skin, 


By  passion  tightened,  could  not  hold 

The  boiling  blood  within; 
He  quivered  for  a  moment,  the  indignant 
stupor  broke,  [awoke. 

And  the  duties  of  the  soldier  in  the  citizen 

IV. 

On  every  side  the  crimson  tide 

Ebbs  quickly  to  and  fro; 
On  maiden  cheeks  the  horror  speaks 

With  fitful  gloom  and  glow; 
In  matrons'  eyes  their  feelings  rise, 

As  when  a  danger,  near, 
Awakes  the  soul  to  full  control 

Of  all  that  causes  fear; 

The  subtle  sense,  the  faith  intense,  of  wom- 
an's heart  and  brain, 

Give  her  a  prophet's  power  to  see,  to  suffer, 
and  maintain. 

v. 

Through  city  streets  the  fever  beats — 

O'er  highways,  byways,  borne — 
The  boys  grow  men  with  madness, 

And  the  old  grow  young  in  scorn; 
The  forest  boughs  record  the  vows 

Of  men,  heart -so  re,  though  strong; 
Th'  electric  wire,  with  words  of  fire, 

The  passion  speeds  along, 
Of  traitor  hordes  and  traitor  swords  from 

Natchez  to  Manassas, 

And  like  a  mighty  harp  flings  out  the  war- 
chant  to  the  masses. 

VI. 

And  into  caverned  mining  pits 

The  insult  bellows  down; 
And  up  through  the  hoary  gorges, 

Till  it  shouts  on  the  mountain's  crown ^ 


POEMS  OF  JOHN  SAVAGE. 


Then  foaming  o'er  the  table-lands, 

Like  a  widening  rapid,  heads; 
And  rolling  along  the  prairies, 

Like  a  quenchless  fire  it  spreads; 
From   workman's  shop    to   mountain    top 
there's  mingled  wrath  and  wonder, 
It  appalls    them    like  the    lightning,   and 
awakes  them  like  the  thunder. 

VII. 

The  woodman  flings  his  axe  aside; 

The  farmer  leaves  his  plough; 
The  merchant  slams  his  ledger  lids 

For  other  business  now; 
The  artisan  puts  up  his  tools, 
The  artist  drops  his  brush, 
And  joining  hands  for  Liberty, 
To  Freedom's  standard  rush; 
The  doctor  folds  his  suit  of  black,  to  fight 

as  best  he  may, 

And  e'en  the  flirting  exquisite  is  "  eager  for 
the  fray." 

VIII. 

The  students  leave  their  college  rooms, 

Full  deep  in  Greece  and  Home, 
To  make  a  rival  glory 

For  a  better  cause  near  home; 
The  lawyer  quits  his  suits  and  writs, 

The  laborer  his  hire, 
And  in  the  thrilling  rivalry 
The  rich  and  poor  aspire! 
And  party  lines  are  lost  amid  the  patriot 

commotion, 

As  wanton  streams  grow  strong  and  pure 
within  the  heart  of  ocean. 

IX. 

The  city  marts  are  echoless; 

The  city  parks  are  thronged; 
In  country  stores  there  roars  and  pours 

The  means  to  right  the  wronged; 
The  town  halls  ring  with  mustering; 

From  holy  pulpits,  too, 
Good  priests  and  preachers  volunteer 

To  show  what  men  should  do — 
To  show  that  they  who  preach  the  truth  and 

God  above  revere, 

Can  die  to  save  for  man  the  blessings  God 
has  sent  down  here. 


x. 

And  gentle  fingers  everywhere 

The  busy  needles  ply, 
To  deck  the  manly  sinews 

That  go  out  to  do  or  die; 
And  maids  and  mothers,  sisters  dear, 

And  dearer  wives,  outvie 
Each  other  in  the  duty  sad, 

That  makes  all  say  "  Good-by  "— 
The  while  in  every  throbbing  heart  that's 

passed  in  farewell  kiss 
Arises  pangs  of  hate  on  those  who  brought 
them  all  to  this. 

XL 

The  mustering  men  are  entering 

For  near  and  distant  tramps; 
The  clustering  crowds  are  centering 

In  barrack-rooms  and  camps; 
There  is  riveting  and  pivoting, 

And  furbishing  of  arms, 
And  the  willing  marching,  drilling, 
With  their  quick  exciting  charms, 
Half  dispel  the  subtle  sorrow  that  the  women 

needs  must  feel, 

When  e'en  for  Right  their  dear  ones  fight 
the  Wrong  with  steel  to  steel. 

XII. 

With  hammerings  and  clamorings, 

The  armories  are  loud; 
Toilsome  clangor,  joy,  and  anger, 

Like  a  cloud  enwrap  each  crowd: 
Belting,  buckling,  cursing,  chuckling, 

Sorting  out  their  "  traps"  in  throngs; 
Some  are  packing,  some  knapsack  ing, 

Singing  snatches  of  old  songs; 
Fifers  finger,  lovers  linger  to  adjust  a  badge 

or  feather. 

And  groups  of   drummers  vainly  strive  to 
reveille  together. 

Mil. 

And  into  many  a  haversack 
The  prayer-book  's  mutely  borne — 

Its  \vell-t  ImmU'd  leaves  in  faithfulnew 
I>\  wives  and  mothers  worn — 

And  round  full  many  a  pillared  neck. 
O'er  many  a  stalwart  breast, 


POEMS  OF  JOHN  SAVAGE. 


The  sweetheart  wife's — the  maiden  love's 

Dear  effigy's  caressed. 
God  knows  by  what  far  camp-fire  may  these 

tokens  courage  give, 

To  fearless  die  for  truth  and  home,  if  not 
for  them  to  live. 

XIV. 

And  men  who've  passed  their  threescore 
Press  on  the  ranks  in  flocks,         [years, 
Their  eyes,  like  fire  from  Hecla's  brow, 

Burn  through  their  snowy  locks; 
And  maimed  ones,  with  stout  hearts,  per- 
sist 

To  mount  the  belt  and  gun, 
And  crave,  with  tears,  while  forced  away, 

To  march  to  Washington. 
"  Why  should  we   not?     We  love  that  flag  ! 
Great  God ! " — they  choking  cry— 
"  We're  strong  enough!      We're  not  too  old 
for  our  dear  land  to  die! " 

xv. 

And  in  the  mighty  mustering, 

No  petty  hate  intrudes, 
No  rival  discords  mar  the  strength 

Of  rising  multitudes; 
The  jealousies  of  faith  and  clime 

Which  fester  in  success, 
Give  place  to  sturdy  friendships 

Based  on  mutual  distress; 
For  every  thinking  citizen  who  draws  the 

sword,  knows  well 

The  battle's  for  Humanity — for  Freedom's 
citadel ! 

XVI. 

O,  Heaven!  how  the  trodden  hearts, 

In  Europe's  tyrant  world, 
Leaped  up  with  new-born  energy 

When  that  flag  was  unfurled! 
How  those  who  suffered,  fought,  and  died, 

In  fields,  or  dungeon-chained, 
Prayed  that  the  flag  of  Washington 
Might  float  while  earth  remained! 
.And  weary  eyes  in  foreign  skies,  still  flash 

with  fire  anew, 

When  .some  good  blast  by  peak  and  mast 
unfolds  that  flag  to  view. 


XVII. 

And  they  who,  guided  by  its  stars, 
Sought  here  the  hopes  they  gave, 
Are  all  aglow  with  pilgrim  fire 
Their  happy  shrines  to  save. 
,     Here — Scots  and  Poles,  Italians,  Gauls, 

With  native  emblems  trickt; 
There — Teuton  corps,  who  fought  before 

Fur  Freiheit  und  fur  Liclit; 
While  round  the  flag  the  Irish  like  a  human 

rampart  go! 

They  found  Cead  mille  failtlie  here — they'll 
give  it  to  the  foe. 

XVIII. 

From  the  vine-land,  from  the  Rhine- land. 
From  the  Shannon,  from  the  Scheldt, 
From  the  ancient  homes  of  genius, 
From  the  sainted  home  of  Celt, 
From  Italy,  from  Hungary, 

All  as  brothers  join  and  come, 
To  the  sinew-bracing  bugle, 

And  the  foot- propelling  drum; 
Too  proud  beneath  the  starry  flag  to  die, 

and  keep  secure 

The  Liberty  they  dreamed  of  by  the  Danube, 
Elbe,  and  Suir. 

XIX. 

From  every  hearth  bounds  up  a  heart, 

As  spring  from  hill-side  leaps 
To  give  itself  to  those  proud  streams 

That  make  resistless  deeps! 
No  book-rapt  sage,  for  age  on  age, 

Can  point  to  such  a  sight 
As  this  deep  throb,  which  woke  from  rest 

A  people  armed  for  fight. 
Peal  out,  ye  bells,  the  tocsin  peal,  for  never 

since  the  day 

AVhen  Peter  roused  the  Christian  world  has 
earth  seen  such  array. 

xx. 

Which  way  we  turn,  the  eyeballs  burn 

With  joy  upon  the  throng; 
Mid  cheers  and  prayers,  and  martial  airs, 

The  soldiers  press  along; 
The  masses  swell  and  wildly  yell, 

On  pavement,  tree,  and  roof, 


POEMS  OF  JOHN   SAVAGE 


And   sun-bright   showers  of  smiles  and 

flowers 

Of  woman's  love  give  proof. 
Peal  out,  ye  bells,  from  church  and  dome, 

in  rivalrous  communion 
With  the  wild,  upheaving  masses,  for  the 
army  of  the  Union! 

XXI. 

Onward  trending,  crowds  attending, 

Still  the  army  moves — and  still: 
Arms  are  clashing,  wagons  crashing 
In  the  roads  and  streets  they  fill: 
O'er  them  banners  wave  in  thousands, 

Itound  them  human  surges  roar, 
Like  the  restless-bosomed  ocean, 

I  leaving  on  an  iron  shore: 
Cannons  thunder,  people  wonder  whence  the 

endless  river  comes, 

With  its  foam  of  bristling  bay'nets,  and  its 
cataracts  of  drums. 

XXII. 

"  God  bless  the  Union  army ! " 

That  holy  thought  appears 
To  symbolize  the  trustful  eyes 

That  speak  more  loud  than  cheers. 
"  God  bless  the  Union  army, 

And  the  flag  by  which  it  stands, 
May  it  preserve,  with  freeman's  nerve, 

What  freedom's  God  demands!" 
Peal    out,  ye    bells — ye   women,  pray;    for 

never  yet  went  forth 

So  grand  a  band,  for  law  and  land,  as  the 
muster  of  the  North. 


SHANE'S  HEAD. 

SCENE— Before  Dublin  Castle.    Night.  A  clansman  of  Shane 
O'Neill  discovers  his  chief's  head  upon  a  pole. 


GOD'S  wrath    upon  the   Saxon!   may   they 

never  know  the  pride, 
Of  dying  on  the  battle-field,  their  broken 

spears  beside; 


When  victory  gilds  the  gory  shroud  of  every 

fallen  brave, 
Or  death  no  tales  of  conquered  clans  cm 

whisper  to  his  grave. 
May  every  light  from  Cross  of  Christ  that 

saves  the  heart  of  man, 
Bo  hid  in  clouds  of  blood  before  it  reach  the 

Saxon  clan; 
For  sure,  0  God ! — and  you  know  all  whose 

thought  for  all  sufficed, — 
To  expiate  these  Saxon   sins,  they'd  want 

another  Christ. 


II. 

Is  it  thus,  0  Shane  the  haughty!   Shane  the 

valiant!  that  we  meet? 
Have  my  eyes  been  lit  by  Heaven  but  to 

guide  me  to  defeat  ? 
Have  /  no  chief — or  you  no  clan,  to  give  us 

both  defence, 
Or   must  I,   too,  be  statued  here  with  thy 

cold  eloquence? 
Thy  ghastly  head  grins  scorn  upon  old  Dub- 

1  ill's  Castle-tower, 
Thy  shaggy  hair  is  wind-tost,  and  thy  brow 

seems  rough  with  power; 
Thy  wrathful  lips,  like  sentinels,  by  foulest 

treach'ry  stung, 
Look  rage  upon  the  world  of  wrong,  but 

chain  thy  fiery  tongue. 

m. 

That  tongue  whose  Ulster  accent  woke  the 

ghost  of  Columbkill, 
Whose    warrior   words    fenced    round  with 

spears  the  oaks  of  Perry  Hill; 
Whose  reckless  tones  gave  life  and  death  to 

vassals  and  to  knaves, 
Ami  hunted  hordes  of  Saxon  into  holy  Irish 

graves. 
The  Scotch  marauders  whitened  when  his 

war-ery  met  th'-ir  ears, 
And  the  death-bird,  like  a  veiijrennro,  poised 

itl'ove  his  stormy  rherrs. 
Ay.  Shane,  across  the  thundering  sea,  out- 
chanting  it  your  tongue, 
Flung    wild    un-Sa\on  war-wlioopings    the 
<>n  Court  among. 


80G 


POEMS  OF  JOHN  SAVAGE. 


Just  think,  0  Shane!  the  same  moon  shines 

on  Liffey  as  on  Foyle, 
And  lights  the  ruthless  knaves  on  both,  our 

kinsmen  to  despoil; 
And  you  the  hope,   voice,   battle-axe,   the 

shield  of  us  and  ours, 
A  murdered,  trunkless,  blinding  sight  above 

these  Dublin  towers. 
Thy  face  is  paler  than  the  moon,  my  heart 

is  paler  still — 
My  heart?    I    had   no  heart — 'twas,  yours, 

'twas  yours!  to  keep  or  kill. 
And  you  kept  it  safe  for  Ireland,  Chief, — 

your  life,  your  soul,  your  pride, — 
But  they  sought  it  in  thy  bosom,  Shane — 

with  proud  O'Neill  it  died. 

v. 
You  were  turbulent   and  haughty,  proud, 

and  keen  as  Spanish  steel, 
But  who   had   right   of   these,   if  not  our 

Ulster's  Chief— O'Neill  ? 
Who  reared  aloft  the  "  Bloody  Hand"  until 

it  paled  the  sun, 
And  shed  such  glory  on  Tyrone,  as  chief 

had  never  done. 
He  was  "  turbulent"  with  traitors — he  was 

"  haughty"  with  the  foe — 
He  was  "cruel,"  say  ye  Saxons?     Ay!  he 

dealt  ye  blow  for  blow ! 
He  was  "  rough  "  and  "  wild,"  and  who's  not 

wild,  to  see  his  hearthstone  razed  ? 
He  was  "  merciless  as  fire  " — ah,  ye  kindled 

him, — he  blazed! 
He  was  "proud:"  yes,  proud  of  birthright, 

and  because  he  flung  away 
Your  Saxon  stars  of  princedom,  as  the  rock 

does  mocking  spray, 
He  was  wild,  insane  for  vengeance, — ay!  and 

preached  it  till  Tyrone 
Was  ruddy,   ready,   wild  too,   with    "  Bed 

hands  "  to  clutch  their  own. 

VI. 

*'  The  Scots  are  on  the  border,  Shane — ye 
saints,  he  makes  no  breath — 

I  remember  when  that  cry  would  wake  him 
up  almost  from  death: 


Art  truly  dead  and  cold?  0  Chief!  art  thou 

to  Ulster  lost  ? 
Dost  hear,  dost  hear?      By  Randolph  led, 

the  troops  the  Foyle  have  crossed! " 
He's  truly  dead!  he  must  be  dead!  nor  is  his 

ghost  about — 
And  yet  no  tomb  could  hold  his  spirit  tame 

to  such  a  shout: 
The  ]ple  face  droopeth  northward — ah!  his 

soul  must  loom  up  there, 
By  old  Armagh,  or  Antrim's  glynns,  Lough 

Foyle,  or  Bann  the  Fair! 
I'll  speed  me  Ulster-wards,  your  ghost  must 

wander  there,  proud  Shane, 
In  search  of  some  O'Neill,  through  whom  to 

throb  its  hate  again! 


WASHINGTON. 

i 

ART  in  its  mighty  privilege  receives 

Painter  and  painted  in  its  bonds  forever; 
A  girl  by  Eaphael  in  his  glory  lives — 
A  Washington  unto  his  limner  gives 

The  Ages'  love  to  crown  his  best  endeavor. 

ii. 

The  German  Emperor,  with  whose  counter- 
part 

The  gorgeous  Titian  made  the  world  ac- 
quainted, 

Boasted  himself  immortal  by  the  art; 
But  he  who  011  thy  features  cast  his  heart, 
Was    made    immortal    by    the   head    he 
painted ! 

in. 

For  thou  before  whose  tinted  shade  I  bow, 

Wert  sent  to  show  the  wise  of  every  nation 

How  a  young  world  might  leave  the  axe  and 

plough 
To  die  for  Truth  !     So  great,  so  loved  wert 

thou, 

That  he  who  touched  thee  won  a  reputa- 
tion. 


POEMS  OF  JOHN  SAVAGE. 


807 


IV. 

The  steady  fire  that  buttled  in  thy  breast, 
Lit  up  our  gloom  with    radiance,  good 

though  gory; 

Like  some  red  sun  which  the  dull  earth  ca- 
ressed 

Into  a  wealthy  adoration  blest 
To  be  its  glory's  great  reflected  glory. 

v. 

Thou — when  the  earthly  heaven  of   man's 

soul — 

The  heaven  of  home,  of  liberty,  of  honor — 
Shuddered  with  darkness — didst  the  clouds 

uproll 

And  burst  such  light  upon  the  nation's  dole 
That  every   State   still  feels  thy  breath 
upon  her. 

VI. 

Could  I   have  seen  thee  in  the  Council — 

bland, 
Firm  as  a  rock,  but  as  deep  stream  thy 

manner; 

Or  when,  at  trembling  Liberty's  command, 
Facing  grim  havoc  like  a  flag-staff  stand, 
And  squadrons  rolling  round  thee  like  a 
banner! 

VII. 
Could  I  have  been  with  thee  on  Princeton's 

morn! 
Or  swelled  with  silence  in  the  midnight 

muster; 

Behold  thee  ever,  every  fate  adorn — 
Or  on  retreat,  or  winged  victory  borne — 
The   warrior  throbbing  with  the   sage's 
lustre: 

VIII. 

Could  I  have  shouted  in  the  wild  acclaim 
That    rent    the    sky    o'er    Germantown 

asunder; 
Or  when,  like  cataract,  'gainst  the  sheeted 

flame 
You  dashed,  and  chill'd  the  victor- shout  to 

shame, 

On  Monmouth's  day  of  palsy-giving  thun- 
der: 


Could  I  have  followed  thee  through   town 

and  camp! 
Fought  where   you   led,  and   heard  the 

same  drums  rattle; 
Charged  with  a  wild   but  passion-steadied 

tramp, 
And  witnessed,  rising  o'er  death's  ghastly 

damp, 
The  stars  of  empire  through  the  clouds  of 

battle! 

x. 

Oh!  to  have  died  thus  'neath  thy  hero  gaze, 
And  won  a  smile,   my   bursting    youth 

would  rather 

Than  to  have  lived  with  every  other  praise, 
Saving  the  blessing  of  those  epic  days 

When  you  blest  all,  and  were  the  nation's 
father. 

XI. 

The  autumn  sun  caresses  Vernon's  tomb, 
Whose  presence  doth  the  country's  honor 

leaven 
Two  suns  they  are,   that  dissipate   man's 

gloom; 
For  one's  the  index  to  Earth's    free-born 

bloom, 
The  other  to  our  burning  hope  in  Heaven! 

XII. 

Thy  dust  may  moulder  in  the  hollow  rock: 
But  every  day  thy  soul  makes  some  new 

capture! 

Nations  unborn  will  swell  thy  thankful  flock, 
And  Fancy  tremble  that  she  cannot  mock 
Thy  history's  Truth  that  will  enchant  with 
rapture. 

XIII. 

How  vain  the  daring  to  compute  in  words 
The  height  of  homage  that  the  heart  would 

render! 

And  yet  how  proud — to  feel  no  speech  af- 
fords 

Harmonious  measure  to  the  subtle  chords 
That  fill  the  soul  beneath  thy  placiil  splen- 
dor! 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  D'ARCY  McGEE, 


DEATH  OF  THE  HOMEWARD  BOUND. 


PALER  and  thinner  the  morning  moon  grew, 
Colder  and  sterner  the  rising  wind  blew — 
The  pole  star  had  set  in  a  forest  of  cloud, 
And  the  icicles  crackled  on   spar  and  on 

shroud,  [cry, 

When  a  voice  from  below  we  feebly  heard 
"  Let  me  see,  let  me  see  my  own  land  ere  I 

die. 

u. 

"Ah  !  dear  sailor,  say  !  have  we  sighted  Cape 

Clear  ? 
Can  you  see  any  sign  ?    Is  the  morning  light 

near  ? 
You  are  young,   my  brave  boy !    thanks, 

thanks  for  your  hand,  [land. 

Help  me  up  till  I  get  a  last  glimpse  of  the 
Thank  God.  'tis  the  sun  that  now  reddens 

the  sky, 
I  shall  see,  I  shall  see  my  own  land  ere  I  die. 

in. 

"  Let  me  lean  on  your  strength,  I  am  feeble 
and  old, 

And  one  half  of  my  heart  is  already  stone- 
cold: 

Forty  years  work  a  change  !  when  I  first 
crossed  this  sea, 

There  were  few  on  the  deck  that  could  grap- 
ple with  me; 

But  my  youth  and  my  prime  in  Ohio  went  by, 

And  I'm  come  back  to  see  the  old  spot  ere  I 
die." 

*  All  the  poems  of  this  author  are  published  In  one  volume 
by  D.  &  J.  Sadlier  &  Co. ,  New  York. 


IV. 

'Twas  a  feeble  old  man,  and  he  stood  on  the 

deck, 
His  arm  round  a  kindly  young   mariner's 

neck — 

His  ghastly  gaze  fix'd  on  the  tints  of  the  east 
As  a  starveling  might  stare  at  the  sound  of  a 

feast; 

The  morn  quickly  rose  and  reveal 'd  to  his  eye 
The  land  he  had  pray'd  to  behold,  and  then 

die! 


v. 

Green,  green  was  the  shore,  though  the  year 

was  near  done — 
High  and  haughty  the  capes  the  white  surf 

dash'd  upon — 
A  gray  ruin'd  convent   was   down   by   the 

strand, 
And  the  sheep  fed  afar,  on  the  hills  of  the 

land! 
"  God  be  with  you,  dear  Ireland  ! "  he  gasp'd 

with  a  sigh; 
"  I  have  lived  to  behold  you — I'm  ready  to> 

die." 

YI. 

He  sunk  by  the  hour,  and  his  pulse  'gan  to 
fail, 

As  we  swept  by  the  headland  of  storied  Kin- 
sale; 

Off  Ardigna  Bay  it  came  slower  and  slower, 

And  his  corpse  was  clay-cold  as  we  sighted 
Tramore; 

At  Passage  we  waked  him,  and  now  he  doth 
lie 

In  the  lap  of  the  land  he  beheld  but  to  die. 


HOMEWAKD    BOUND. 

THE    RETURN    OF    THE    IRISH    EXILE. 


I'OKMN  OF  THOMAS  D'AIM'Y  Mc<,KK. 


THE  ANCIENT  RACE. 
i. 

WHAT  shall  become  of  the  ancient  race — 
Tlu1  noble  Celtic  island  race? 
Like  cloud  on  cloud  o'er  the  azure  sky, 
When  winter  storms  are  loud  and  high, 
Their  dark  ships  shadow  the  ocean's  face — 
What  shall  become  of  the  Celtic  race? 

II. 

What  shall  befall  the  ancient  race — 
The  poor,  unfriended,  faithful  race? 
Where  ploughman's  song  made  the  hamlet 

ring, 

The  village  vulture  flaps  his  wing; 
The  village  homes,  oh,  who  can  trace, — 
God  of  our  persecuted  race  ? 

in. 

What  shall  befall  the  ancient  race  ? 
Is  treason's  stigma  on  their  face  ? 
Be  they  cowards  or  traitors  ?     Go 
Ask  the  shade  of  England's  foe; 
See  the  gems  her  crown  that  grace; 
They  tell  a  tale  of  the  ancient  race. 

IV. 

They  tell  a  tale  of  the  ancient  race — 
Of  matchless  deeds  in  danger's  face; 
They  speak  of  Britain's  glory  fed 
On  blood  of  Celt  right  bravely  shed; 
Of  India's  spoil  and  Frank's  disgrace — 
They  tell  a  tale  of  the  ancient  race. 

v. 

Then  why  cast  out  the  ancient  race? 
(<r\m  want  dwelt  with  the  ancient  race; 
And  hell-born  laws,  with  prison  jaws, 
And  greedy  lords  with  tiger  maws 
Have  swallow'd — swallow  still  apace — 
The  limbs  and  the  blood  of  the  ancient  race. 

VI. 

Will  no  one  shield  the  ancient  race  ? 
They  fly  their  fathers'  burial-place; 


The  proud  lords  with  the  heavy  purse — 
Their  fathers'  shame-«-their  people's  curse — 
Demons  in  heart,  nobles  in  face — 
They  dig  a  grave  for  the  ancient  race  I 

VII. 

They  dig  a  grave  for  the  ancient  race — 

And  grudge  that  grave  to  the  ancient  race — 

On  highway  side  full  oft  were  seen 

The  wild  dogs  and  the  vultures  keen 

Tug  for  the  limbs  and  gnaw  the  face 

Of  some  starved  child  of  the  ancient  race  I 

VIII. 

What  shall  befall  the  ancient  race  ? 
Shall  all  forsake  their  dear  birth-place, 
Without  one  struggle  strong  to  keep 
The  old  soil  where  their  fathers  sleep  ? 
The  dearest  land  on  earth's  wide  space — 
Why  leave  it  so,  0  ancient  race  ? 

• 

IX. 

What  shall  befall  the  ancient  race  ? 
Light  up  one  hope  for  the  ancient  race  ? 
0  Priest  of  God — Soggurth  aroon  ! 
Lead  but  the  way — we'll  go  full  soon; 
Is  there  a  danger  we  will  not  face 
To  keep  old  homes  for  the  Irish  race  ? 

x. 

They  will  not  go,  the  ancient  race  ! 
They  must  not  go,  the  ancient  race  ! 
Come,  gallant  Celts,  and  take  your  stand — 
The    League— the    League — will    save    the 

land — 

The  land  of  faith,  the  land  of  grace, 
The  laud  of  Erin's  ancient  race  ! 

XI. 

They  will  not  go,  the  ancient  race  ! 
They  *luill  not  go,  the  ancient  race  ! 
The  cry  swells  loud  from  shore  to  shore, 
From  em'rald  vale  to  mountain  hoar — 
From  altar  high  to  market-place — 
They  shall  not  go,  the  ancient  race  I 


310 


POK.MS  OK  THOMAS  D'ARCY  McGEE. 


THE  EXILE'S  REQUEST. 

i. 
OH,  Pilgrim,  if  you  bring  me  from  the  far-off 

lands  a  sign, 
Let  it  be  some  token  still  of  the  green  old 

land  once  mine; 
A  shell  from  the  shores  of  Ireland  would  be 

dearer  far  to  me 
Than  all  the  wines  of  the  Rhine  land,  or  the 

art  of  Italic. 

ii. 
For  I  was  born  in  Ireland — I  glory  in  the 

name — 
I  weep  for  all  her  sorrows,  I  remember  well 

her  fame  ! 
And  still  my  heart  must  hope  that  I  may  yet 

repose  at  rest 
•On  the  Holy  Zion  of  my  youth,  in  the  Israel 

of  the  West. 

JIL 

Her  beauteous  face  is  furrow'd  with  sorrow's 

streaming  rains, 
Her  lovely  limbs  are  mangled  with  slavery's 

ancient  chains, 
Yet,  Pilgrim,  pass  not  over  with  heedless 

heart  or  eye 
The  island  of  the  gifted,  and  of  men  who 

knew  to  die. 

IV. 

Like  the  crater  of  a  fire-meant,  all  without 

is  bleak  and  bare, 
But  the  rigor  of  its  lips  still  show  what  fire 

and  force  were  there; 
Even  now  in  the  heaving  craters,  far  from 

the  gazer's  ken, 
The  fiery  steel  is  forging  that  will  crush  her 

foes  again. 

v. 

Then,  Pilgrim,  if  you  bring  me  from  the 

far-off  lands  a  sign, 
Let  it  be  some  token  still  of  the  green  old 

land  once  mine; 
A  shell  from  the  shores  of  Ireland  would  be 

dearer  far  to  me 
Than  all  the  wines  of  the  Rhine  land,  or  the 

art  of  Italic. 


THE  SEA-DIVIDED  GAELS, 
i. 

HAIL  to  our  Celtic  brethren  wherever  they 
may  be, 

In  the  far  woods  of  Oregon,  or  o'er  the  At- 
lantic sea — 

Whether  they  guard  the  banner  of  St.  George 
in  Indian  vales, 

Or  spread  beneath  the  nightless  North  ex- 
perimental sails — 

One  in  name  and  in  fame 
Are  the  sea-divided  Gaels. 

ii. 

Though  fallen  the  state  of  Erin,  and  changed 
the  Scottish  land — 

Though  small  the  power  of  Mona,  though 
unwaked  Lewellyn's  band — 

Though  Ambrose   Merlin's  prophecies  de- 
generate in  tales, 

And  the  cloisters  of  lona  are  bemoan'd  by 
northern  gales — 

One  in  name  and  in  fame 
Are  the  sea-divided  Gaels. 

in. 

In  Northern  Spain  and  Brittany  our  brethren 

also  dwell; 
Oh  !  brave  are  the  traditions  of  their  fathers 

that  they  tell; — 
The  eagle  and  the  crescent  in  the  dawn  of 

history  pales 
Before  their  fire,  that  seldom  flags,  and  never 

wholly  fails: 

One  in  name  and  in  fame 
Are  the  sea-divided  Gaels. 

IV. 

A  greeting  and  a  promise  unto  them  all  we 

send; 
Their  character  our  charter  is,  their  glory  is 

our  end; 
Their  friend  shall  be  our  friend,  our  foe 

whoe'er  assails 
The  past  or  future  honors  of  the  far-dispersed 

Gaels: 

One  in  name  and  in  fame 
Are  the  sea-divided  Gaels. 


I'oKMs  ()[•'  THOMAS  D'AKCV    MoGEB, 


811 


TIIK   (iol'.IIAN    SAKI{. 

Mi  stepp'd  a  nmn  out  of  the  ways  of  men, 
And  no  one  know  his  sept,  or  rank,  or 

name — 

Like  a  strong  stream  far  issuing  from  a  glen 
From  somo  sourco  unexplored,  the  master 

came; 
Gossips  there  were  who,  wondrous  keen  of 

ken, 
Surmised  that  lie  should    be  a  child  of 

shame  ! 

Others  declared  him  of  the  Druids — then 
Through  Patrick's  labors  fall'n  from  power 
and  fame. 

He  lived  apart  wrapp'd  up  in  many  plans — 

Ho  woo'd  not  women,  tasted  not  of  wine — 
He  shunn'd  the  sports  and  councils  of  the 
clans — 

Nor  ever  knelt  at  a  frequented  shrine. 
His  orisons  wore  old  poetic  ranns, 

Which  the  now  Ollavos  deem'd  an  evil  sign; 
To  most  he  seem'd  one  of  those  pagan  Khans 

Whoso  mystic  vigor  knows  no  cold  decline. 

He  was  the  builder  of  the  wondrous  towers, 
Which  tall,  and  straight,  and  exquisitely 

round, 
Bise  monumental  round  the  isle  once  ours, 

Index-like,  marking  spots  of  holy  ground. 
In  gloaming  glens,  in  |c:ii'y  lowland  bowers, 
On    rivers'   hanks,    these    Cloiteitchx    old 

•bound, 
Where     Art,    enraptured,    meditates     long 

hours, 

And    Science   flutters  like  a   bird  spell- 
bound ! 

I."  !  wheresoe'cr  these  pillar-towers  aspire, 

Heroes  and  holy  mon  repose  helow — 
The  bones  of  some  gloan'd  from  the  pagan 
pyre, 

Others  in  armor  lie,  us  fora  foe: 
It  WJIH  the  mighty  Maker's  life-desiro 

T«i  '•hrnniele  his  great  ancestors  BO; 
What  holier  duty,  what  achievement  higher 

Remaini  to  Hi  than  tins  he  i  im  -  doth  show? 


Yet  ho,  the  builder,  died  an  unknown  death; 

His  labor  done,  no  man  behold  him  n, 
Twas  thought  hi.s  body  faded  like  a  breath. 

Or,  like  a  sea-mist,  floated  off  Life'*  sh«  •!•••. 
Doubt  overhangs  his  fate,  and  faith,  and 
birth; 

His  works  alone  attest  his  life  and  lore; 
They  are  the  only  witnesses  he  hath 

All  else  Egyptian  darkness  covers  o'er. 

Men  call'd  him  Gobhan  Saer,  and  many  a  tale 

Yet  lingers  in  the  by-ways  of  the  land 
Of  how  ho  cleft  the  rock,  and  down  the  vale 
Led  the  bright   river,  child-like,   in  his 

hand; 

Of  how  on  giant  ships  he  spread  great  sail. 
And    many    marvels    else    by    him    first 

plann'd: 

But  though  these  legends  fade,  in  Innisfail 
His  name  and  towers  for  centuries  shall 
stand. 


THE  DEATH  OF  HUDSON.* 

THE  slayer  Ih-tith  is  everywhere,  and   many 

a  mask  hath  he, 
Many  and  awful  are  the  shapes  in  which  he 

sways  the  sea; 
Sometimes  within  a  rocky  aisle  he  lights  his 

candle  dim. 
And  sits  half-sheeted  in  the   foam,  chanting 

a  funeral  hymn; 
Full  oft,  amid  tho  roar  of  winds  we  hear  hi- 

awful  cry, 
Guiding  tho  lightning  to  its  prey  through 

the  beclouded  sky; 

Sometimes    he    hides    'neatli    Tropic    wavet, 
and.  as  the  ship  sails  o'er. 

He    h»Ms    her     fa<t     to    the   liel'V  Sill),   till    the 

crew  can  breathe  no  more. 


•The  Incident  on  which  t  hi*  I*IU<I  U  f..mi.liM  l«  rHnt.-,l  In 

.1   II 

Thci  limn-  ..f  Hi-  faithful  willi.r.  wlio  prrfVrrwl  ivrUIn 
U»«b»n<l<>miiKhlH.-nptHlii  In  l'l»  In*'  *•* 

iuiiliT.  n»  'l»ul.t. 


B12 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  D'ARCY  McGEE. 


There  is  no  land  BO  far  away  but  he  meeteth 

mankind  there — 
He  liveth  at  the  icy  pole  with  the  'berg  and 

the  shaggy  bear, 
He  smileth  from  the  southron  capes  like  a 

May  queen  in  her  flowers, 
He  falleth  o'er  the  Indian  seas,  dissolved  in 

summer  showers; 
But  of  all  the  sea-shapes  he  hath  worn,  may 

mariners  never  know 
Such  fate  as  Heinrich  Hudson  found,  in  the 

labyrinths  of  snow — * 
The  cold  north  seas'  Columbus,  whose  bones 

lie  far  interr'd  [ever  heard. 

Under  those  frigid  waters  where  no  song  was 

'Twas  when  he  sail'd  from  Amsterdam,  in 

the  adventurous  quest 
Of  an  ice-shored  strait,  through  which  to 

reach  the  far  and  fabled  West; 
His  dastard  crew — their  thin  blood  chill'd 

beneath  the  Arctic  sky — 
Combined  against  him  in  the  night;  his  hands 

and  feet  they  tie, 
And  bind  him  in  a  helmless  boat,  on  that 

dread  sea  to  sail — 
Ah,   me  !   an  earless,  shadowy  skiff,  as  a 

schoolboy's  vessel  frail. 

Seven  sick  men,  and  his  only  son,  his  com- 
rades were  to  be, 
But  ere  they  left  the  Crescent's  side,  the 

chief  spoke,  dauntlessly: 

"Ho,  mutineers  !   I  ask  no  act  of  kindness 

at  your  hands — • 

My  fate  I  feel  must  steer  me  to  Death's  still- 
silent  lands; 
But  there  is  one  man  in  my  ship  who  sail'd 

with  me  of  yore, 
By  many  a  bay  and  headland  of  the  New 

World's  eastern  shore; 
From  India's  heats  to  Greenland's  snows  he 

dared  to  follow  me, 
And  is  HE  turn'd  traitor  too,  is  HE  in  league 

with  ye?" 
Uprose  a  voice  from  the  mutineers,  "  Not  I, 

my  chief,  not  I — 
I'll  take  my  old  place  by  your  side,  though 

all  be  sure  to  die." 


Before  his  chief  could  bid  him  back,  he  is 

standing  at  his  side; 
The  cable's  cut — away  they  drift,  over  the 

midnight  tide. 
No  word   from  any  lip  came   forth,   their 

strain'd  eyes  steadily  glare 
At  the  vacant  gloom,  where  late  the  ship  had 

left  them  to  despair. 
On  the  dark  waters  long  was  seen  a  line  of 

foamy  light — 
It  pass'd,  like  the  hem  of  an  angel's  robe, 

away  from  their  eager  sight. 
Then  each  man  grasp'd  his  fellow's  hand, 

some  sigh'd,  but  none  could  speak, 
While  on,  through  pallid  gloom,  their  boat 

drifts  moaningly  and  weak. 

Seven  sick  men,  dying,  in  a  skiff  five  hun- 
dred leagues  from  shore  ! 
Oh  !   never  was  such  a  crew  afloat  on  this 

world's  waves  before; 
Seven  stricken  forms,  seven  sinking  hearts 

of  seven  short-breathing  men, 
Drifting  over  the  sharks'  abodes,  along  to  the 

white  bear's  den. 
Oh  !  'twas  not  there  they  could  be  nursed  in 

homeliness  and  ease  ! 
One  short  day  heard  seven  bodies  sink,  whose 

souls  God  rest  in  peace  ! 
The  one  who  first  expired  had  most  to  note 

the  foam  he  made, 
And  no  one  pray'd  to  be  the  last,  though 

each  the  blow  delay'd. 

Three  still  remain.    "  My  son  !  my  son  !  hold 

up  your  head,  my  son  !  [is  gone." 
Alas  !  alas  !  my  faithful  mate,  I  fear  his  life 
So  spoke  the  trembling  father — two  cold 

hands  in  his  breast, 
Breathing  upon  his  dead  boy's  face,  all  too 

soft  to  break  his  rest. 
The  roar  of  battle  could  not  wake  that  sleeper 

from  his  sleep; 
The  trusty  sailor  softly  lets  him  down  to  the 

yawning  deep; 
The  fated  father  hid  his  face  while  this  was 

being  done, 
Still  murmuring  mournfully  and  low,  "  My 

son,  my  only  son." 


I'OF.MS  OF  THOMAS  D'AKCV    M,  GEE, 


813 


Another  night;  uncheerily,  beneath  that 
heartless  sky,  [passing  by, 

The  iceberg  sheds  its  livid  light  upon  them 

And  each  beholds  the  other's  face,  all  spectre- 
like  and  wan, 

And  even  in  that  dread  solitude  man  fear'd 
the  eye  of  man  ! 

Afar  they  hear  the  beating  surge  sound  from 
the  banks  of  frost, 

Many  a  hoar  cape  round  about  looms  like  a 
giant  ghost, 

And,  fast  or  slow,  as  they  float  on,  they  hear 
the  bears  on  shore 

Trooping  down  to  the  icy  strand,  watching 
them  evermore. 

The  morning  dawns;    unto  their  eyes  the 

light  hath  lost  its  cheer; 
Nor  distant  sail,  nor  drifting  spar  within 

their  ken  appear. 
Embay'd  in  ice  the  coffin-like  boat  sleeps  on 

the  waveless  tide, 

Where  rays  of  deathly-cold,  cold  light  con- 
verge from  every  side. 
Slow  crept  the  blood  into  their  hearts,  each 

manly  pulse  stood  still, 
Huge  haggard  bears  kept  watch  above  on 

every  dazzling  hill. 
Anon  the  doom'd  men  were  entranced,  by 

the  potent  frigid  air, 
And  they  dream,  as  drowning  men   have 

dreamt,  of  fields  far  off  and  fair. 

What  phantoms  fill'd  each  cheated  brain,  no 

mortal  ever  knew; 
What  ancient  storms  they  weather'd  o'er, 

what  seas  explored  anew; 
What  vast  designs  for  future  days — what 

home  hope,  or  what  fear — 
There  was  no  one  'mid  the  ice-lands  to  chron- 

cle  or  hear. 

So  still  they  sat,  the  weird  faced  seals  be- 
thought them  they  were  dead, 
And  each   raised  from  the  waters  up  his 

cautious  wizard  head, 
Then  circled  round  the  arrested  boat,  like 

vampires  round  a  grave, 
Till  frighted  at   their   own   resolve  —  they 

plunged  beneath  the  wave. 


Evening  closed  round  the  moveless  boat,  still 

sat  entranced  the  twain, 
When  lo  !   the  ice  unlocks  its  arms,  the  tide 

pours  in  amain  ! 
Away  upon  the  streaming  brine  the  feeble 

skiff  is  borne, 

The  shaggy  monsters  howl  behind  their  fare- 
wells all  forlorn. 
The  crashing  ice,  the  current's  roar,  broke 

Hudson's  fairy  spell, 
But  never  more  shall  this  world  wake  his 

comrade  tried  so  well  ! 
His  brave  heart's  blood  is  chill'd  for  aye,  yet 

shall  its  truth  be  told, 
When  the  memories  of  kings  are  worn  from 

marble  and  from  gold. 

Onward,    onward,    the   helpless   chief — the 

dead  man  for  his  mate  ! 
The  shark  far  down  in  ocean's  depth  feels 

the  passing  of  that  freight, 
And  bounding  from  his  dread  abyss,  he  snuffs 

the  upper  air, 
Then  follows  on  the  path  it  took,  like  lion 

from  his  lair.  [company, 

0  God  !   it  was  a  fearful  voyage  and  fearful 
Nor  wonder  that  the  stout  sea-chief  quiver'd 

from  brow  to  knee. 
Oh  !  who  would  blame  his  manly  heart,  if 

e'en  it  quaked  for  fear, 
While  whirl'd  along  on  such  a  sea,  with  such 

attendant  near  ! 

The  shark  hath  found  a  readier  prey,  and 

turn'd  him  from  the  chase; 
The  boat  hath  made  another  bay — a  drearier 

pausing  place — 
O'er  arching  piles  of  blue-vein'd  ice  admitted 

to  its  still, 
White,  fathomless  waters,  palsied  like  the 

doom'd  man's  fetterM  will. 
Powerless  he  sat — that  chief  escaped  so  oft 

by  sea  and  land — 
Death  breathing  o'er  him — all  so  weak  he 

eould  not  lift  a  hand. 
Even  his  bloodless  lips  refused  a  last  short 

prayer  to  spea  k . 
But  angels  listen  at  the  heart  when  the  voice 

of  man  is  weak. 


814 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  D'AKCY  McGEE. 


His  heart  and  eye  were  suppliant  turn'd  to 

the  ocean's  Lord  on  high, 
The  Boreal  is  lustres  were  gathering  in  the 

sky; 
From  South  and  North,  from  East  and  West, 

they  cluster 'd  o'er  the  spot 
Where  breathed  his  last  the  gallant  chief 

whose  grave  man  seeth  not; 
They  mark'd  him  die  with  steadfast  gaze,  as 

.  though  in  heaven  there  were 
A  passion  to  behold  how  he  the  fearful  fate 

would  bear; 
They  watch'd  him  through  the  livelong  night 

— these  couriers  of  the  sky, 
Then  fled  to  tell  the  listening  stars  how  'twas 

they  saw  him  die. 


He  sleepeth  where  old  Winter's  realm  uc 

genial  air  invades, 
His  spirit  burneth  bright  in  heaven  among 

the  glorious  shades, 

Whose  God-like  doom  on  earth  it  was  crea- 
tion to  unfold, 
Spanning  this  mighty  orb  of  ours  as  through 

the  spheres  it  roll'd. 
His  name  is  written  on  the  deep,  the  rivers 

as  they  run 
Will  bear  it  timeward  o'er  the  world,  telling 

what  he  hath  done; 
The  story  of  his  voyage  to  Death,  amid  the 

Arctic  frosts, 
Will  be  told  by  mourning  mariners  on  earth's 

most  distant  coasts. 


PUBLISHER'S    SUPPLEMENT 


TO   THE 


SECOND    EDITION. 


^publisher's    S 


POEMS  OF  LADY  DUFFERIK 


LAMENT  OF  THE  IRISH  EMIGRANT. 

I '  M  sittin'  on  the  stile,  Mary, 

Win-re  we  sat  side  by  side 

On  a  bright  May  mornin'  long  ago, 

When  first  you  were  my  bride; 

The  corn  was  springin'  fresh  and  green, 

And  the  lark  sang  loud  and  high — 

And  the  red  was  on  your  lip,  Mary, 

And  the  love-light  in  your  eye. 

The  place  is  little  changed,  Mary, 

The  day  is  bright  as  then, 

The  lark's  loud  song  is  in  my  ear, 

And  the  corn  is  green  again ; 

But  I  miss  the  soft  clasp  of  your  hand, 

And  your  breath,  warm  on  my  cheek, 

And  I  still  keep  list'ning  for  the  words 

You  never  more  may  speak. 

'Tis  but  a  step  down  yonder  lane, 
And  the  little  church  stands  near, 
The  church  where  we  were  wed,  Mary, 
I  see  the  spire  from  here; 
But  the  graveyard  lies  between,  Mary, 
And  my  step  might  break  your  rest — 
For  I've  laid  you,  darling,  down  to  sleep, 
With  your  baby  on  your  bn-ast. 

I'm  very  lonely  now,  Mary, 

For  the  poor  make  no  new  friends; 

But  oh!  they  love  the  better  still 

The  few  our  Father  sends! 

And  you  were  all  I  had,  Mary. 

My  blessin'  and  my  pride ; 

There's  nothin'  left  to  care  for  now, 

Since  my  poor  Mary  died. 


Yours  was  the  good,  brave  heart,  Mary, 
That  still  kept  hoping  on, 
When  the  trust  in  God  had  left  my  soul, 
And  my  arm's  young  strength  was  gone; 
There  was  comfort  ever  on  y<ntr  lip, 
And  the  kind  look  on  your  brow — 
I  bless  you,  Mary,  for  that  same, 
Though  you  cannot  hear  me  now. 

I  thank  you  for  the  patient  smile 
When  your  heart  was  fit  to  break, 
When  the  hunger  pain  was  gnawin'  there, 
And  you  hid  it,  for  my  sake! 
I  bless  you  for  the  pleasant  word. 
When  your  heart  was  sad  and  sore — 
Oh!  I'm  thankful  you  are  gone,  Mary, 
Where  grief  can't  reach  you  more. 

I'm  biddin'  you  a  long  farewell, 

My  Mary — kind  and  true ! 

But  I'll  not  forget  you,  darling! 

In  the  land  I'm  goin'  to. 

They  say  there's  bread  and  work  for  all, 

And  the  sun  shines  always  there — 

But  I'll  not  forget  old  Ireland, 

Were  it  fifty  times  as  fair! 

And  often  in  those  grand  old  woods 

I'll  sit  and  shut  my  eyes, 

And  my  heart  will  travel  back  again 

To  the  place  when-  Mary  lies; 

And  I'll  think  I  see  the  little  stile 

Where  we  sat  side  by  side. 

And  the  springin'  corn,  and  the  bright  May 

morn, 
When  first  you  were  my  bride. 


816 


A  POEM   BY   BISHOP   BERKELEY. 


TERENCE'S  FAREWELL. 

So,  my  Kathleen,  you're  going  to  leave  me 
All  alone  by  myself  in  this  place, 
But  I'm  sure  you  will  never  deceive  me, 
Oh,  no,  if  there's  truth  in  that  face. 
Though  England's  a  beautiful  city, 
Full  of  illigant  boys,  oh,  what  then — 
You  wouldn't  forget  your  poor  Terence, 
You'll  come  back  to  ould  Ireland  again. 

Och,  those  English,  deceivers  by  nature, 
Though  maybe  you'd  think  them  sincere, 
They'll  say  you're  a  sweet  charming  creature, 
But  don't  you  believe  them,  my  dear. 
No,  Kathleen,  agra! '  don't  be  minding 
The  flattering  speeches  they'll  make, 
Just  tell  them  a  poor  boy  in  Ireland 
Is  breaking  his  heart  for  your  sake. 


It's  a  folly  to  keep  you  from  going, 
Though,  faith,  it's  a  mighty  hard  case—- 
For, Kathleen,  you  know  there's  no  knowing 
When  next  I  shall  see  your  sweet  face. 
And  when  you  come  back  to  me,  Kathleen, 
None  the  better  we'll  be  off,  then— 
You'll  be  spaking  such  beautiful  English, 
Shure  I  won't  know  my  Kathleen  again. 

Eh,  now,  where's  the  need  of  this  hurry— 
Don't  flutter  me  so  in  this  way— 
I've  forgot,  in  the  grief  and  the  flurry, 
Every  word  I  was  maning  to  say; 
Now  just  wait  a  minute,  I  bid  ye, — 
Can  I  talk  if  ye  bother  me  so  ? 
Oh,  Kathleen,  my  blessing  go  wid  ye, 
Ev'ry  inch  of  the  way  that  you  go. 


1  My  Love. 


A  POEM  BY  BISHOP  BERKELEY. 


ON  THE  PROSPECT  OF  PLANTING 
ARTS  AND  LEARNING  IN  AMER- 
ICA. 

THE  Muse,  disgusted  at  an  age  and  clime 
Barren  of  every  glorious  theme, 

In  distant  lands  now  waits  a  better  time 
Producing  subjects  worthy  fame. 

In  happy  climes,  where  from  the  genial  sun 
And  virgin  earth  such  scenes  ensue, 

The  force  of  Art  by  Nature  seems  outdone, 
And  fancied  beauties  by  the  true; 

In  happy  climes,  the  seat  of  innocence, 
Where  Nature  guides  and  virtue  rules, 
52 


Where  men  shall  not  impose  for  truth  and 

sense 
The  pedantry  of  courts  and  schools. 

There  shall  be  sung  another  golden  age, 

The  rise  of  empire  and  of  arts, 
The  good  and  great  inspiring  epic  rage, 

The  wisest  heads  and  noblest  hearts. 

Not  such  as  Europe  breeds  in  her  decay ; 

Such  as  she  bred  when  fresh  and  young, 
When  heavenly  flame  did  animate  her  clay, 

By  future  poets  shall  be  sung. 

Westward  the  course  of  empire  takes  its  way ; 

The  four  first  acts  already  past, 
A  fifth  shall  close  the  drama  with  the  day; 

Earth's  noblest  offspring  is  the  last. 


POEMS  OF  JOHN  FRAZER. 

(J.   DE   JEAK) 


THE   POET  AND   HIS  SON. 

COME  forth,  my  son,  into  the  fields — 

What  is  there  in  the  crowd 
Of  hearts,  or  scenes,  the  city  yields, 

To  make  young  spirits  proud  ? 
Girt  by  mankind,  we  dream  a  God 

May  in  the  skies  abide; 
But  oh !  he  must  be  all  a  clod, 
Who  feels  not  on  the  fragrant  sod 

God  walketh  by  his  side! 

Could  I  withdraw  thee  from  the  cold, 

The  mean,  the  base,  the  stern, 
And  sellish  craft  that  young  and  old 

From  grasping  crowds  must  learn; 
How  gladly  to  some  rural  nook 

Would  I  transplant  thy  mind ; 
From  Nature's  brow  and  Sage's  book, 
To  learn  that  highest  lore — to  look 

With  love  upon  mankind ! 

Field,  forest,  glen,  rock,  hill,  and  stream, 

Green  robe  and  snowy  shroud — 
The  calm,  the  storm,  the  lightning  gleam, 

The  sea,  the  sky,  the  cloud — 
Are  volumes  the  Eternal  One 

Hath  sent  us  from  above, 
For  every  heart  to  study  on. 
And  learn  to  suffer,  seek,  and  shun, 

In  charity  and  love. 

The  weak  may  there  be  taught  to  cope, 

The  mighty  to  beware; 
The  fond  to  doubt,  the  slave  to  hope, 

The  tyrant  to  despair — 
Changing  and  changeless,  that  which  dies, 

Ami  that  no  death  can  mar. 
Silent  and  sounding,  wild  ami  wise, 
I'.rt'ore  each  mood  of  passion  rise 

A  Beacon,  or  a  Bar. 


My  son,  to  these  rich  volumes  oft 

From  throngs  and  streets  retire; 
So  shall  thy  spirit  soar  aloft 

From  low  and  base  desire. 
And  when  thy  country,  chained  or  free, 

From  city  and  green  sod 
Arrays  the  people's  majesty, 
Thy  soul,  in  truth  and  wisdom,  be 

A  soul  that  spoke  with  God. 


THE   HOLY    \\KLLS. 

THE  holy  wells — the  living  wells — the  cool, 

the  fresh,  the  pure — 
A  thousand  ages  rolled  away,  and  still  those 

founts  endure, 
As  full  and  sparkling  as  they  flowed,  ere 

slave  or  tyrant  trod 
The  emerald  garden,  set  apart  for  Irishmen 

by  God! 
And  while  their  stainless  chastity  and  lasting 

life  have  birth, 

Amid  the  oozy  cells  and  caves  of  gross,  ma- 
terial earth, 
The  scripture  of  creation   holds  no  fairer 

type  than  they 
That  an  immortal  spirit  can  be  linked  with 

human  clay! 

How  sweet,  of  old,  the  bubbling  gush — no 
less  to  an  tiered  race, 

Than  to  the  hunter,  and  the  hound,  that 
smote  them  in  the  ch 

In  forest  depths  the  water-fount  beguiled 
the  Druid's  l«>\r. 

From  that  celestial  fount  of  fire  which  warned 
from  worlds  above; 

Inspired  apostles  took  it  for  »  •  the 

ring, 

When  sprinkling  round  baptismal  life— sal- 
vation—from the  spring; 


818 


POEMS   OF  JOHN  FRAZER  (J.  DE  JEAN). 


And  in  the  sylvan  solitude,  or  lonely  moun- 
tain cave, 

Beside  it  passed  the  hermit's  life,  as  stainless 
as  its  wave. 

The  cottage  hearth,  the  convent  wall,  the 

battlemented  tower, 
Grew  up  around  the  crystal  springs,  as  well 

as  flag  and  flower ; 

The  brooklime  and  the  water-cress  were  evi- 
dence of  health, 
Abiding  in  those  basins,  free  to  poverty  and 

wealth : 
The  city  sent  pale  sufferers  there  the  faded 

brow  to  dip, 
And  woo  the  water  to  depose  some  bloom 

upon  the  lip ; 
The  wounded  warrior  dragged  him  towards 

the  unforgotten  tide, 
And  deemed  the  draught  a  heavenlier  gift 

than  triumph  to  his  side. 

The  stag,  the  hunter,  and  the  hound,  the 
Druid  and  the  saint, 

And  anchorite  are  gone,  and  even  the  linea- 
ments grown  faint, 

Of  those  old  ruins,  into  which,  for  monu- 
ments, had  sunk 

The  glorious  homes  that  held,  like  shrines, 
the  monarch  and  the  monk ; 

So  far  into  the  heights  of  God  the  mind  of 
man  has  ranged, 

It  learned  a  lore  to  change  the  earth — its 
very  self  it  changed 

To  some  more  bright  intelligence;  yet  still 
the  springs  endure, 

The  same  fresh  fountains,  but  become  more 
precious  to  the  poor! 

For  knowledge  has  abused  its  powers,  an 
empire  to  erect 

For  tyrants,  on  the  rights  the  poor  had 
given  them  to  protect; 

Till  now  the  simple  elements  of  nature  are 
their  all, 

That  from  the  cabin  is  not  filched,  and  lav- 
ished in  the  hall —  • 


And  while  night,  noon,  or  morning  meal  no 

other  plenty  brings, 
No  oeverage  than  the  water  draught  from 

old,  spontaneous  springs, 
They,  sure,  may  deem  them  holy  wells,  that 

yield,  from  day  to  day, 
One  blessing  which  no  tyrant  hand  can  taint, 

or  take  away. 


THE    REJECTION. 

THE  lady  sigh'd  at  twilight  hour— 

The  high-born  lover  came, 
Whose  absence  long  had  made  her  bow'r 

The  lamp  without  the  flame. 
But  still  the  maiden  sigh'd — in  sooth, 

A  heavy  heart  she  bore ; 
Though  much  she  loved  the  blue-eyed  youth, 

She  lov'd  their  country  more ! 

He  ne'er  upon  his  own  green  land, 

Except  in  scorn  had  smil'd  ; 
Nor  rais'd  an  arm,  save  when  his  hand, 

That  might  adorn,  defil'd. 
Till  as  the  banded  nation  rose, 

He  shrunk  into  his  shame — 
At  best,  too  fond  of  self-repose 

To  strike  for  nobler  fame. 

And  when  he  breath'd  of  love  to  last, 

Entwin'd  with  high  renown, 
It  seem'd  as  tho'  the  night  breeze  pass'd 

And  shook  the  dew-drops  down ; 
So  fast  the  tears,  dark,  pure  and  cold, 

From  her  droop'd  lashes  fell ; — 
Alas !  that  hearts,  to  bless  the  bold, 

Should  love  the  base  too  well ! 

"  Sweet  girl,"  he  cried,  "  in  happier  climes, 

I  weave  our  bow'r  of  bliss ; 
I  fear  the  feuds — I  count  the  crimes — 

I  spurn  a  land  like  this. 
And  ere  the  storms  that  o'er  it  low'r 

May  burst,  I  come  for  thee." 
"  Then  seek,"  she  said,  "  to  bless  the  bow'r, 

A  gentler  bride  than  me. 


A    I'oKM    BY    KOBE11T   EMMKT. 


"  Dost  thou  forswear  the  glorious  hope 

Thy  meanest  vassals  show; 
And,  ev'n  in  love,  refuse  to  cope 

With  mine — our  country's  foe? 
The  land  has  many  a  lofty  claim 

OH  all  who  drank  her  breast; 
And  cowards  share  the  despot's  shame, 

Who  fly  her  while  oppress'd. 

"A  daisy  necklace  from  the  field, 

Where  first  my  footsteps  trod, 
With  him,  whose  sword  and  spirit  shield 

From  every  lord — but  God — 
That!  rather  than  with  pearly  wreath, 

In  happier  lands  to  shine, 
With  one  who  only  dares  to  breathe 

His  recreant  thoughts  in  mine ! 


"  I  deem'd  that  men  mistold  thy  deeds, 

AVhen  wondering  thou  hast  thriven; 
While  many  an  honest  bosom  bleeds, 

Thy  power  has  crush'd  or  riven; 
But  crimes  in  him,  whose  lips  avow 

The  coward  on  his  crest, 
Are  merely  fruitage  of  the  bough, 

More  ripen'd  than  the  rest. 

"  I  would  that  I  had  lov'd  thee  less — 

And  less  my  love  had  shown ! 
But  here  I  trample  tenderness — 

Go  forth — but  go  alone ! 
And  Heaven,  that  gives  the  ocean  bird 

The  oil  to  prune  its  wings, 
Will  not  dismiss  my  pray'r  unheard, 

To  heal  the  heart  it  stings." 


A  POEM  BY  ROBERT  EMMET. 


ARBOR  HILL.1 

No  rising  column  marks  this  spot, 

Where  many  a  victim  lies ; 
But  oh !  the  blood  that  here  has  streamed, 

To  heaven  for  justice  cries. 

It  claims  it  on  the  oppressor's  head, 

Who  joys  in  human  woe, 
Who  drinks  the  tears  by  misery  shed, 

And  mocks  them  as  they  flow. 

It  claims  it  on  the  callous  judge, 
WThose  hands  in  blood  are  dyed, 

Who  arms  injustice  with  the  sword, 
The  balance  throws  aside. 

It  claims  it  for  his  ruined  isle, 
Her  wretched  children's  grave; 

Where  withered  Freedom  droops  her  head, 
And  man  exists — a  slave. 

0  sacred  justice !  free  this  land 

From  tyranny  abhorred ; 
Resume  thy  balance  and  thy  seat — 

Resume — but  sheathe  thy  sword. 


1  Arbour  Hill,  in  tli»-  city  of  Dublin,  is  the  site  of  a  military 
prison.    Into  the  burying-ground  which  is  attached  were  cast 


No  retribution  should  we  seek — 
Too  long  has  horror  reigned  ? 

By  mercy  marked  may  Freedom  rise, 
By  cruelty  unstained. 

Nor  shall  a  tyrant's  ashes  mix 
With  those  our  martyred  dead  : 

This  is  the  place  where  Erin's  sons 
In  Erin's  cause  have  bled. 

And  those  who  hen-  arc  laid  at  rest, 
Oh !  hallowed  be  each  name ; 

Their  memories  are  forever  blest — 
Consigned  to  endless  fame. 

Unconsecrated  is  this  ground, 

Unblest  by  holy  hands; 
No  bell  here  tolls  its  solemn  sound, 

No  monument  here  stands. 

But  here  the  patriot's  tears  are  shed, 
The  poor  man's  blessing  given : 

These  consecrate  the  virtuous  dead. 
These  waft  their  fame  to  heav.  n. 


the  bodie*  of  many  of  tli  -h-.t  in  ''.«*.    The  follow- 

ing  lim-s  \vrr<-  written  l>y  the  patriot-martyr,  Hubert  Einmet. 
It  Is  belicv,  ,|  to  !M>  the  only  |«»-m  <>f  Kmmet'a  extaiit. 


A  POEI  BY  R.  A,  MILLIKEN, 


THE   GROVES   OF  BLARNEY. 

THE  groves  of  Blarney 
They  look  so  charming, 
Down  by  the  purling 

Of  sweet  silent  streams; 
Being  banked  with  posies 
That  spontaneous  grow  there, 
Planted  in  order 

By  the  sweet  rock  close. 
'Tis  there's  the  daisy 
And  the  sweet  carnation, 
The  blooming  pink, 

And  the  rose  so  fair; 
The  daffy  down  dilly — 
Likewise  the  lily, 
All  flowers  that  scent 

The  sweet  fragrant  air. 

'Tis  Lady  Jeifers 
That  owns  this  station ; 
Like  Alexander, 

Or  Queen  Helen  fair; 
There's  no  commander 
In  all  the  nation, 
For  emulation, 

Can  with  her  compare. 
Such  walls  surround  her, 
That  no  nine  pounder 
Could  dare  to  plunder 

Her  place  of  strength ; 
But  Oliver  Cromwell, 
Her  he  did  pommel, 
And  made  a  breach 

In  her  battlement. 

There's  grand  walks  there, 
For  speculation, 
And  conversation 

In  sweet  solitude. 
'Tis  there  the  lover 
May  hear  the  dove,  or 
The  gentle  plover 

In  the  afternoon. 


And  if  a  lady 

Would  be  so  engaging 

As  to  walk  alone  in 

Those  shady  bowers, 
'Tis  there  the  courtier, 
He  may  transport  her 
Into  some  fort,  or 

All  under  ground. 
For  'tis  there's  a  cave  where 
No  daylight  enters, 
But  cats  and  badgers 

Are  for  ever  bred ; 

Being  mossed  by  nature, 
That  makes  it  sweeter 
Than  a  coach  and  six, 

Or  a  feather  bed. 
'Tis  there  the  lake  is, 
"Well  stored  with  perches, 
And  comely  eels  in 

The  verdant  mud; 
Besides  the  leeches, 
And  groves  of  beeches, 
Standing  in  order 

For  to  guard  the  flood. 

There's  statues  gracing 
This  noble  place  in — 
All  heathen  gods 

And  nymphs  so  fair: 
Bold  Neptune,  Plutarch, 
And  Nicodemus, 
All  standing  naked, 

In  the  open  air! 
So  now  to  finish 
This  brave  narration, 
Which  my  poor  geni 

Could  not  entwine; 
But  were  I  Homer, 
Or  Nebuchadnezzar, 
'Tis  in  every  feature 

I  would  make  it  shine. 


POEMS  BY  THE  HON,  MRS.  NORTON. 


THE   MOTHER'S   HEART. 

WHEN  first  thou   earnest,  gentle,  shy  and 

fond, 
My  eldest-born,   first   hope,  and   dearest 

treasure, 
My  heart  received  thee  with  a  joy  beyond 

All  that  it  had  yet  felt  for  earthly  pleasure, 
Nor  thought  that  any  love  again  might  be 
So  deep  and  strong  as  that  I  felt  for  thee. 

Faithful  and  fond,  with  sense  beyond  thy 

years, 

And  natural  piety,  that  lean'd  to  heaven; 
Wrung  by  a  harsh  word  suddenly  to  tears, 

Yet  patient  of  rebuke  when  justly  given; 
Obedient, — easy  to  be  reconciled ; 
And  meekly  cheerful, — such  wert  thou,  my 
child! 

Not  willing  to  be  left;  still  by  my  side 
Haunting  my  walks,  while  summer-day  was 

dying; 

Nor  leaving  in  thy  turn ;  but  pleased  to  guide 
Thro'  the  dark  room  where  I  was  sadly 

lying, 

Or  by  the  couch  of  pain,  a  sitter  meek, 
Watch  the  dim  eye,  and  kiss  the  feverish 
cheek. 

Oh !  boy,  of  such  as  thou  are  oftenest  made 
Earth's  fragile  idols!  like  a  tender  flower. 
No  strength  in  all  thy  freshness, — prone  to 

fade, — 

And    bending   weakly    to    the    thunder- 
shower; 
Still,  round  the  loved,  thy  heart  found  force 

to  bind, 
And  clung,  like  woodbine  shaken  in  the  wind ! 


Then  THOU,  my  merry  love;— bold  in  thy 

glee, 

Under  the  bough,  or  by  the  firelight  danc- 
ing* 

With  thy  sweet  temper,  and  thy  spirit  free, 
Didst  come,  as  restless  as  a  bird's  wing 

glancing, 

Full  of  a  wild  and  irrepressible  mirth. 
Like  a  young  sunbeam  to  the  gladden'd  eartli ! 

Thine  was  the  shout !  the  song !  the  burst  of 

joy! 

Which  sweet  from  childhood's  rosy  lips  re- 

soundeth ; 

Thine  was  the  eager  spirit  naught  could  cloy, 
And  the  glad  heart  from  which  all  grief 

reboundeth; 

And  many  a  mirthful  jest  and  mock  reply. 
Lurk'd  in  the  laughter  of  thy  dark  blue  eye! 

And  thine  was  many  an  art  to  win  and  Mess. 
The  cold  and  stern  to  joy  and  fondness 
warming; 

The  coaxing  smile; — the  frequent  soft  ca- 
ress,— 

The  earnest  tearful  prayer  all  wrath  dis- 
arming ! 

Again  my  heart  a  new  affection  found, 

But  thought  that  love  with  ///»•"  had  readied 
its  bound. 

At  length  THOU  earnest;  thou  the  last  and 

least; 

Nicknamed  "the  Emperor,"  by  thy  laugh- 
ing brothers, 

Because  a  haughty  spirit  swell'd  thy  breast, 
And  thou  didst  seek  to  rule  and  sway  the 

others ; 

Mingling  with  every  playful  infant  wile 
A  mimic  majesty  that  made  us  smile: — 


822 


POEMS   BY  THE   HON.  MRS.    NORTON. 


And  oh !  most  like  a  regal  child  wert  thou ! 
An  eye  of  resolute  and  successful  schem- 
ing; 
Fair  shoulders — curling  lip — and  dauntless 

brow — 
Fit  for  the  world's  strife,  not  for  Poet's 

dreaming : 

And  proud  the  lifting  of  thy  stately  head, 
And  the  firm  bearing  of  thy  conscious  tread. 

Different  from  both !     Yet  each  succeeding 

claim, 

I,  that  all  other  love  had  been  forswearing, 
Forthwith  admitted,  equal  and  the  same; 

Nor  injured  either  by  this  love  comparing; 
Nor  stole  a  fraction  for  the  newer  call, — 
But  in  the  mother's  heart  found  room  for 
ALL! 


LOVE   NOT. 

LOVE  not,  love  not,  ye  hapless  sons  of  clay ; 
Hope's  gayest  wreaths  are  made  of  earthly 

flow'rs — 

Things  that  are  made  to  fade  and  fall  away, 
When  they  have  blossomed  but  a  few  short 

hours. 

Love  not,  love  not ! 

Love  not,  love  not !  The  thing  you  love  may 

die — 

May  perish  from  the  gay  and  gladsome  earth; 
The  silent  stars,  the  blue  and  smiling  sky, 
Beam  on  its  grave  as  once  upon  its  birth. 
Love  not,  love  not ! 

Love  not,  love  not !  The  thing  you  love  may 

change ; 

The  rosy  lip  may  cease  to  smile  on  you; 
The    kindly-beaming   eye   grow    cold    and 

strange ; 

The  heart  still  warmly  beat,  yet  not  be  true. 
Love  not,  love  not ! 


Love  not,  love  not!  Oh  warning  vainly  said 
In  present  years,  as  in  the  years  gone  by; 
Love  flings  a  halo  round  the  dear  one's  head, 
Faultless,  immortal — till  they  change  or  die. 
Love  not,  love  not! 


THE   TRYST. 

I  WENT,  alone,  to  the  old  familiar  place 

Where  we  often  met, — 

When  the  twilight  soften'd  thy  bright  and 
radiant  face 

And  the  sun  had  set. 

All  things  around  seem'd  whispering  of  the 
past, 

With  thine  image  blent — 
Even  the  changeful  spray  which  the  torrent 
cast 

As  it  downward  went! 
I  stood  and  gazed  with  a  sad  and  heavy  eye 

On  the  waterfall — 
And  with  a  shouting  voice  of  agony 

On  thy  name  did  call ! 


With  a  yearning  hope,  from  my  wrung  and 
aching  heart 

I  call'd  on  thee — 
And  the  lonely  echoes  from  the  rocks  above 

They  answer'd  me ! 
Glad  and  familiar  as  a  household  word 

Was  that  cherish'd  name^ 
But  in  that  grieving  hour,  faintly  heard, 

'Twas  not  the  same ! 
Solemn  and  sad,  with  a  distant  knelling  cry, 

On  my  heart  it  fell — 
'Twas  as  if  the  word  "  Welcome  "  had  been 
answer'd  by 

The  word  "Farewell!" 


POEMS  OF  JOHN  KEEGAN. 


CAOCH   O'LEARY. 

ONE  winter's  day,  long,  long  ago, 
When  I  was  a  little  fellow, 
A  fifer  wandered  to  our  door, 
Grey-headed,  blind,  and  yellow; 
And,  oh !  how  glad  was  my  young  heart, 
Though  earth  and  sky  looked  dreary, 
To  see  the  stranger  and  his  dog — 
Poor  Pinch  and  Caoch  O'Leary. 

And  when  he  stowed  away  his  bag, 

Cross-barred  with  green  and  yellow, 

I  thought  and  said :  in  Ireland's  ground 

There's  not  so  fine  a  fellow. 

And  Fineen  Burke  and  Shaun  Magee, 

And  Eily,  Kate  and  Mary, 

Rushed  in  with  panting  haste  to  see 

And  welcome  Caoch  O'Leary. 

Oh,  God  be  with  those  happy  times! 
Oh,  God  be  with  my  childhood ! 
When  I  bare-headed  roamed  all  day, 
Bird-nesting  in  the  wildwood. 
I'll  not  forget  those  sunny  hours, 
However  years  may  vary; 
Pll  not  forget  my  early  friends, 
Nor  honest  Caoch  O'Leary. 

Poor  Caoch  and  Pinch  slept  well  that  night, 

And  in  the  morning  early 

He  called  me  up  to  hear  him  play 

"  The  Wind  that  shakes  the  Barley." 

And  then  he  stroked  my  flaxen  hair, 

And  cried,  "God  bless  my  deary." 

And  how  I  wept  when  he  said  "  Farewell, 

And  think  of  Caoch  O'Leary! " 

And  seasons  came  and  went,  and  still 
Old  Caoch  was  not  forgotten, 
Although  we  thought  him  dead  and  gone, 
And  in  the  cold  grave  rotten; 


And  often,  when  I  walked  and  talked 
With  Eily,  Kate  and  Mary, 
We  thought  of  childhood's  rosy  hours, 
And  prayed  for  Caoch  O'Leary. 

Well,  twenty  summers  had  gone  past, 
And  June's  red  sun  was  sinking, 
When  I,  a  man,  sat  by  my  door, 
Of  twenty  sad  things  thinking. 
A  little  dog  came  up  the  way, 
His  gait  was  slow  and  weary, 
And  at  his  tail  a  lame  man  limped — 
'Twas  Pinch  and  Caoch  O'Leary! 

Old  Caoch,  but,  oh!  how  woe-begone! 
His  form  was  bowed  and  bending, 
His  fleshless  hands  were  stiff  and  wan, 
Aye — Time  was  even  blending 
The  colors  on  his  threadbare  bag — 
And  Pinch  was  twice  as  hairy 
And  thin-spare  as  when  first  I  saw 
Himself  and  Caoch  O'Leary. 

"  God's  blessing  here ! "  the  wanderer  cried,. 

"  Far,  far  be  hate's  black  viper ! 

Does  anybody  here  about 

Remember  Caoch  the  Piper?" 

With  swelling  heart  I  grasped  his  hand; 

The  old  man  murmured,  "  Deary! 

Are  you  the  silky-headed  child 

That  loved  poor  Caoch  O'Leary  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  I  said ;  the  wanderer  wept 
As  if  his  heart  was  breaking — 
"And  where,  avic  inachree"  he  sobbed, 
"  Is  all  the  merry-making 
I  found  here  twenty  years  ago  ?  " 
"  My  tale,"  I  sighed, "  might  weary; 
Enough  to  say  there's  none  but  me 
To  welcome  Caoch  O'Leary." 


S24 


POEMS  OF  JOHN  KEEGAN. 


"  Vo,  vo,  vo !  "  the  old  man  cried, 
And  wrung  his  hands  in  sorrow — 
'"  Pray  lead  me  in,  asthore  machree, 
And  I'll  go  home  to-morrow. 
My  peace  is  made, — I'll  calmly  leave 
'This  world  so  cold  and  dreary, 
And  you  shall  keep  my  pipes  and  dog, 
And  pray  for  Caoch  O'Leary." 

With  Pinch  I  watched  his  bed  that  night, 

Next  day  his  wish  was  granted ; 

He  died — and  Father  James  was  brought, 

And  the  Requiem  Mass  was  chanted. 

'The  neighbors  came;  we  dug  his  grave 

Near  Eily,  Kate  and  Mary, 

And  there  he  sleeps  his  last  sweet  sleep — 

•God  rest  you  Caoch  O'Leary! 


THE  "HOLLY  AND   IVY"   GIRL. 

"  COME  buy  my  nice  fresh  Ivy,  and  my  Holly 

sprig  so  green ; 
I  have  the  finest  branches  that  ever  yet  were 

seen. 
Come  buy  from  me,  good  Christians,  and  let 

me  home,  I  pray, 
And  I'll  wish  you  '  Merry  Christmas  times, 

and  a  happy  New  Year's  Day.' 

"Ah !  won't  you  take  my  Ivy  ? — the  loveli- 
est ever  seen ! 

Ah !  won't  you  have  my  Holly  boughs  ? — all 
you  who  love  the  Green ! 

Do ! — take  a  little  bunch  of  each,  and  on  my 
knees  I'll  pray 

That  God  may  bless  your  Christmas  and  be 
with  you  New  Year's  Day. 

"  This  wind  is  black  and  bitter,  and  the  hail- 
stones do  not  spare 

My  shivering  form,  my  bleeding  feet,  and 
stiff  entangled  hair; 

Then,  when  the  skies  are  pitiless,  be  merci- 
ful, I  say — 

So  Heaven  will  light  your  Christmas  and  the 
coming  New  Year's  Day." 


'Twas  thus  a  dying  maiden  sung,  while  the 

cold  hail  rattled  down, 
And  fierce  winds  whistled  mournfully  o'er 

Dublin's  dreary  town; — 
One  stiff  hand  clutched  her  Ivy  sprigs  and 

Holly  boughs  so  fair, 
With  the  other  she  kept  brushing  the  hail 

drops  from  her  hair. 

So  grim  and  statue-like  she  seemed,  'twas 
evident  that  Death  [impeded  breath 

Was  lurking  in  her  footsteps — while  her  hot, 

Too  plainly  told  her  early  doom — though  the 
burden  of  her  lay 

Was  still  of  life  and  Christmas  joys  and  a 
happy  New  Year's  Day. 

'Twas  on  that  broad,  bleak  Thomas  street  I 

heard  the  wanderer  sing, 
I  stood  a  moment  in  the  mire,  beyond  the 

ragged  ring — 
My  heart   felt    cold    and    lonely  and    my 

thoughts  were  far  away, 
Where   I  was  many  a   Christmas-tide  and 

Happy  New  Year's  Day. 

I  dreamed  of  wandering  in  the  woods  among 
the  Holly  Green ;  [with  Ivy  screen ; 

I  dreamed  of  my  own  native  cot  and  porch 

I  dreamed  of  lights  forever  dimm'd — of 
hopes  that  can't  return — 

And  dropped  a  tear  on  Christmas  fires  that 
never  more  can  burn. 

The  ghost-like  singer  still  sung  on,  but  no 
one  came  to  buy; 

The  hurrying  crowd  passed  to  and  fro,  but 
did  not  heed  her  cry; 

She  uttered  one  low,  piercing  groan-c-then 
cast  her  boughs  away — 

And  smiling,  cried—"  I'll  rest  with  God  be- 
fore the  New  Year's  Day !  " 
*          *  *          *          *          * 

On  New  Year's  Day  I  said  my  prayers  above 
a  new  made  grave,  [muring  wave; 

Dug  decently  in  sacred  soil,  by  Liffey's  mur- 

The  minstrel  maid  from  Earth  to  Heaven 
has  winged  her  happy  way, 

And  now  enjoys,  with  sister  saints,  an  end- 
less New  Year's  Day. 


A    1'OKM    BY    LADY 


825 


THE   IRISH    K'KAI'Kirs    HARVEST 
HYMN. 

ALL  hail !  Holy  Mary,  our  hope  and  our  joy ! 
Smile  down,  blessed   Queen!    on  the  poor 

Irish  boy, 
Who  wanders  away  from  his  dear  belov'd 

home; 

Oh,  Mary !  be  with  me  wherever  I  roam. 
Be  with  me,  Oh !  Mary, 
Forsake  me  not,  Mary, 
But  guide  me,  and  guard  me,  wherever  I 

roam. 

From  the  home  of  my  fathers  in  anguish  I 

g°> 

To  toil  for  the  dark-livered,  cold-hearted  foe, 
Who  mocks  me,  and  hates  me,  and  calls  me 

a  slave, 

An  alien,  a  savage,  all  names  but  a  knave; 
But,  blessed  be  Mary, 
My  sweet,  Holy  Mary, 
The  bodagh,1  he  never  dare  call  me  a  knave. 

Fom  my  mother's  mud  sheeling,  an  outcast  I 

fly, 

With  a  cloud  on  my  heart  and  a  tear  in  my 
eye! 


1  Bodayh,  a  clown,  a  churl. 


Oh !  I  burn  as  I  think  as  if  Some  One  would 

say, 
"  Revenge  on  your  tyrants" — but  Mary,  I  pray 

From  my  soul's  depth,  Oh !  Mary, 

And  hear  me,  sweet  Mary, 
For  Union  and  Peace  to  old  Ireland  I  pray. 

The  land  that  I  fly  from  is  fertile  and  fair, 
And  more  than  I  ask  for  or  wish  for  is  there — 
But  I  must  not  taste  the  good  things  that  I 

see, 
"  There's  nothing  but  rags  and  green  rushes 

for  me."  > 

Oh!  mild  Virgin  Mary, 
Oh!  sweet  Mother  Mary, 
Who  keeps  my  rough  hand  from  red  murder 

but  thee  ? 

But  sure  in  the  end  our  dear  freedom  we'll 
gain,  [sanach  stain. 

And  wipe  from  the  Green  Flag  each  Sas- 
And  oh !  Holy  Mary,  your  blessing  we  crave, 
Give  hearts  to  the  timid,  and  hands  to  the 

brave. 

And  then,  Mother  Mary, 
Our  own  blessed  Mary, 
Light  liberty's  flame  in  the  hut  of  the  slave. 


1  Taken  literally  from  a  conversation  with  a  young  peasant 
on  his  way  to  reap  the  harvest  in  England. 


A  POEM  BY  LADY  MORGAN. 


KATE  KEARNEY. 

OH  !  did  you  ne'er  hear  of  Kate  Kearney  ? 
She  lives  on  the  banks  of  Killarney:        [fly, 
From  the  glance  of  her  eye,  shun  danger  and 
For  fatal's  the  glance  of  Kate  Kearney. 

For,  that  eye  is  so  modestly  beaming,      [ing. 
You'd  ne'er  think  of  mischief  she's  dream- 
Yet,  oh!  I  can  tell,  how  fatal's  the  spell 
That  lurks  in  the  eye  of  Kate  Kearney. 


Oh !  should  you  e'er  meet  this  Kate  Kear- 
ney, 

Who  lives  on  the  banks  of  Killarney, 
Beware  of  her  smile ;  for  many  a  wile 
Lies  hid  in  the  smile  of  Kate  Kearney. 

Though  she  looks  so  bewitchingly  simple 
Yet  there's  mischief  in  every  dimple, 
And  who  dares  inhale  her  sigh's  spicy  gale, 
Must  die  by  the  breath  of  Kate  Kearney. 


A  POEM  BY  DR,  CAMPION, 


"  NINETY-EIGHT." 

IN  the  old  marble  town  of  Kilkenny, 

With  its  abbeys,  cathedrals,  and  halls, 
Where  the  Norman  bells  ring  out  at  nightfall, 

And  the  relics  of  gray  crumbling  walls 
Show  traces  of  Celt  and  of  Saxon, 

In  bastions,  and  towers,  and  keeps,  ^ 
And  graveyards  and  tombs  tell  the  living 

Where  glory  or  holiness  sleeps; 
Where  the  Nuncio  brought  the  Pope's  bless- 
ing, 

And  money  and  weapons  to  boot, 
While  Owen  was  wild  to  be  plucking 

The  English  clan  up  by  the  root. 
Where  regicide  Oliver  revelled, 

With  his  Puritan,  ironside  horde, 
And  cut  down  both  marble  and  monarchy, 

Grimly  and  grave— with  the  sword. 
There,  in  that  old  town  of  history, 

England,  in  famed  Ninety-eight, 
Was  busy  with  gallows  and  yoemen, 

Propounding  the  laws  of  the  State. 

They  were  hanging  a  young  lad — a  rebel- 
On  a  gibbet  before  the  old  jail, 

And  they  marked  his  weak  spirit  to  falter, 
And  his  white  face  to  quiver  and  quail ; 

And  he  spoke  of  his  mother,  whose  dwelling 
Was  but  a  short  distance  away — 

A  poor,  lorn,  heart-broken  widow— 
And  he  her  sole  solace  and  stay. 

"  Bring  her  here,"  cried  the  chief  of  the  yeo 

men, 
"A  lingering  chance  let  us  give 

To  this  spawn  of  a  rebel,  to  babble, 
And  by  her  sage  council  to  live." 

And  quick  a  red  trooper  went  trotting 
From  the  town  to  the  poor  cabin  door, 

And  he  found  the  old  lone  woman  sitting 
And  spinning  upon  the  bare  floor. 


Your  son  is  in  trouble,  old  damsel! 

They  have  him  within  in  the  town, 
Lnd  he  wishes  to  see  you;  so  bustle, 

And  put  on  your  tucker  and  gown/' 

'he  old  woman  stopped  from  the  spinning,. 

With  a  frown  on  her  deep  wrinkled  brow; 
I  know  how  it  is— cursed  yeoman ! 

I  am  ready— I'll  go  with  you  now." 
He  seized  her,  enraged,  by  the  shoulder, 

And  lifting  her  up  on  his  steed, 
Struck  the  spurs,  and  they  rode  to  the  city, 

Eight  ahead,  and  with  clattering  speed. 

They  stopped  at  the  foot  of  the  gallows, 
And  the  mother  confronted  the  son— 
And  she  hugged  his  young  heart  to  her  bosom, 

And  kissed  his  face,  pallid  and  wan— 
And,  as  the  rope  dangled  before  her, 

She  held  the  loop  fast  in  her  hand— 
For,  though  her  proud  soul  was  unblenching, 

Her  frail  limbs  were  failing  to  stand. 
And  while  the  raw  yeomen  came  crowding 

To  witness  the  harrowing  scene, 
The  brave  mother  flushed  to  the  forehead, 

And  spoke  with  the  air  of  a  queen— 
"  My  son,  they  are  going  to  hang  you, 

For  loving  your  faith  and  your  home, 
And  they  called  me  to  urge  you,  and  save 

you — 
And,  in   God's  name,  I've  answered  and 

come; 

They  murdered  your  father  before  you, 
And  I  knelt  on  the  red  reeking  sod— 
And  I  watched  his  hot  blood  steaming  up- 
ward, 

To  call  down  the  vengeance  of  God. 
No  traitor  was  he  to  his  country- 
No  blot  did  he  leave  on  his  name— 
And  I  always  could  pray  at  his  cold  grave, 
Oh!  the  priest  could  kneel  there  without 
shame." 


POEMS  OF  MRS.  K.  I.  ODOHERTY. 


827 


"  To  hell  with  your  priests  and  your  rebels," 
The  captain  cried  out  with  a  yell, 

While,  from  the  tall  tower  in  the  temple, 
Rang  out  the  sweet  Angelus  bell. 

"Blessed    Mother!"     appealed    the    poor 

widow, 

"  Look  down  on  my  child,  and  on  me !  " 
"  Blessed  mother!  "  sneered  out  the  vile  yeo- 
man— 
"  Tell  your  son  to  confess — and  be  free ! " 

"  Never,  never ! — he'll  die  like  his  father — 
My  boy,  give  your  life  to  the  Lord ; 

But,  of  treason  to  Ireland,  mavourneen, 
Never  breathe  one  dishonoring  word." 

His  white  cheek  flushed  up  at  her  speaking, 
His  heart  bounded  up  at  her  call — 

And  his  hushed  spirit  seemed,  at  awaking, 
To  scorn  death,  yeoman  and  all. 

"  I'll  die,  and  I'll  be  no  informer — 

My  kin  I  will  never  disgrace, 
And  when  God  let's  me  see  my  poor  father, 

I  can  lovingly  look  in  his  face." 

"  You'll  see  him  in  hell ! "  cried  the  yeoman, 
As  he  flung  the  sad  widow  away — 

And  the  youth  in  a  moment  was  strangling 
In  the  broad  eye  of  shuddering  day. 


"  Give  the  gallows  a  passenger  outside," 

A  tall  Hessian  spluttered  aloud, 
As  he  drove  a  huge  nail  in  the  timber, 

'Mid  the  curses  and  cries  of  the  crowd. 
Then  seizing  the  poor  bereaved  mother, 

He   passed   his    broad    belt    'round    her 

throat, 

While  her  groaning  was  lost  in  the  drum- 
beat, 

And    her    shrieks    in    the    shrill    bugle 

note. 
And  mother  and  son  were  left  choking, 

And  struggling  and  writhing  in  death, 
While  angels  looked  down  on  the  murder, 

And  devils  were  wrangling  beneath. 


For  this,  cries  the  exile  defiant — 

For  this,  cries  the  Patriot  brave — 
For  this,  cries  the  lonely  survivor 

O'er  many  a  horror-marked  grave ; 
For  this,  cry  the  Priest  and  the  Peasant — 

The  student,  the  lover,  the  lost, 
The  stalworth,  who  pride  in  their  vigor, 

The  frail,  as  they  give  up  the  ghost. 
For  this  we  curse  Saxon  dominion, 

And  join  in  the  world-wide  cry 
That  wails  up  to  heaven  for  vengeance 

Thro'  every  blue  gate  of  the  sky ! 


POEMS  OF  MRS,  K,  I,  O'DOHERTY, 

(EYA.) 


SHADOWS. 
WHERE  is  the  blackbird  singing 

The  live  long  day  ? 
Wlu're  is  the  clear  stream  ringing 

This  golden  May  ? 

Ah!  I  know  where  the  bird  is  singintr. 
And  I  know  where  the  stream  is  ringing, 
For  my  heart  to  that  spot  is  clinging, 

Far,  far  away ! 


Lightly  the  silver  rushes 

Wave  to  and  fro ; 
Thick  are  the  hazel  bushes, 

Black  the  sloe; 

Sweet  are  the  winds  that  whist  K-. 
Green  are  the  boughs  that  rustle, 
There  where  tin-  wild  birds 

In  Gleumaloe! 


828 


POEMS   OF   MRS.   K.   I.   O'DOHEKTY. 


Faint  are  the  murmurs  humming 
Through  breeze  and  stream, 

Dim  are  the  shadows  coming — 
A  fairy  dream ! 

Harp  notes  are  heard  to  tinkle, 

Voices  of  spirits  mingle, 

Deep  in  each  hollow  dingle, 
Where  violets  gleam ! 


Ah !  but  the  years  are  dreary 

Since  long  ago — 
Ah !  but  this  heart  is  weary, 

Sweet  Glenmaloe! 
Thinking  of  visions  faded, 
Lightsome  and  glad  that  made  it — 
Hopes  that  for  aye  are  shaded, 

So  well  I  know! 


Still  is  the  blackbird  singing 

The  live-long  day; 
Still  are  the  waters  ringing 

This  golden  May — 
But,  ah!  not  for  me  that  singing, 
Nor  the  stream  with  its  silver  ringing, 
Tho'  my  heart  to  that  spot  is  clinging 

Far,  far  away ! 


THE   PEOPLE'S   CHIEF. 

COME  forth,  come  forth,  0  Man  of  Men !  to 

the  cry  of  the  gathering  nations, 
We  watch  on  the  tower,  we  watch  on  the  hill, 

pouring  our  invocations — 
Our  souls  are  sick  of  sounds  and  shades,  that 

mark  our  shame  and  grief, 
We  hurl  the  Dagons  from  their  seats  and  call 

the  lawful  chief. 


Come  forth,  come  forth,  0  Man  of  Men !  to 
the  frenzy  of  our  imploring, 

The  winged  despair  that  no  man  can  bear, 
up  to  the  heavens  are  soaring — 


Come !  Faith  and  Hope  and  Love  and  Trust, 

upon  their  centre  rock ; 
The  wailing  millions  summon  thee  amid  the 

earthquake  shock ! 

We've  kept  the  weary  watch  of  years,  with 

a  wild  and  heart-wrung  yearning, 
But  thy  Advent  we  sought  in  vain,  calmly 

and  purely  burning; 
False  meteors   flash'd  across  the  sky,  and 

falsely  led  us  on ; 
The  parting  of  the  strife  is  come — the  spell 

is  o'er  and  gone ! 

The  storms  of  enfranchised  passions  rise  as 

the  voice  of  the  eagle's  screaming, 
And  we  scatter  now  to  the  earth's  four  winds 

the  memory  of  our  dreaming; 
The  clouds  but  veil  the  lightning's  bolt — 

sybilline  murmuring 
In  hollow  tones  from  out  the  depths — the 

People  seek  their  King! 

Come  forth,  come  forth,  Anointed  One !  nor 
blazon  nor  banners  bearing — 

No  "  ancient  line  "  be  thy  seal  or  sign,  the- 
crown  of  humanity  wearing — 

Spring  out  as  lucent  fountains  spring  exult- 
ing from  the  ground — 

Arise,  as  Adam  rose  from  God,  with  strength 
and  knowledge  crown'd. 

The  leader  of  the  world's  wide  host  guiding 

our  aspirations, 
Wear  thou  the  seamless  garb  of  Truth  sitting 

among  the  nations ! 
Thy  foot  is  on  the  empty  forms  around  in 

shivers  cast — 
We  crush  ye  with  the  scorn  of  scorn,  exuvise 

of  the  past. 

The  future's  closed  gates  are  now  on  their 

ponderous  hinges  jarring, 
And  there  comes  a  sound  as  of  winds  and 

waves  each  with  the  other  warring; 
And  forward  bends  the  list'ning  world,  as  to 

their  eager  ken 
From  out  that  dark  and  mystic  land  appears 

the  Man  of  Men ! 


POEMS  OF  ELLEN  DOWNING, 


ST.  AGNES. 

HER  cheek  was  not  a  shade  more  pale — 

She  wore  no  look  of  pride; 
She  gently  drew  the  amber  veil 

Of  her  long  hair  aside. 

No  stern  defiance  taught  her  eye 

To  smile  upon  the  glaive; 
She  simply  felt  it  sweet  to  die, 

And  meant  not  to  be  brave. 

She  scarcely  seemed  the  angry  eyes 

Of  her  stern  judge  to  see; 
She  scarcely  heard  the  muttered  cries 

Reversing  his  decree. 

She  scarcely  felt  the  lightning  stroke 

Which  hurled  her  on  the  sod. 
'Twas  a  short  dream,  fron*  which  she  woke 

To  her  embracing  God. 

Her  love  had  been  a  virgin  love, 

Her  brow  a  virgin  brow, 
And  virgins  twine  her  wreath  above 

And  seek  her  shrine  below. 

Death  found  her  in  her  bridal  dress, 

And  heard  her  bridal  vows; 
She  passed  in  bridal  tenderness 

To  her  eternal  Spouse. 


I  LOVE  YOU. 

I  LOVE  you — 'tis  the  simplest  way 

The  thing  I  feel  to  tell; 
Yet,  if  I  told  it  all  the  day, 

You'd  never  guess  how  well. 
You  are  my  comfort  and  my  light, 

My  very  life  you  seem  ; 
I  think  of  you  nil  day — all  night 

'Tis  but  of  you  I  dream. 


There's  pleasure  in  the  slightest  word 

That  you  can  speak  to  me ; 
My  soul  is  like  the  /Eolian  chord, 

And  vibrates  still  to  thee ; 
I  never  read  the  love-song  yet, 

So  thrilling  fond,  or  true, 
But  in  my  beating  heart  I've  met 

Some  kindred  thoughts  of  you. 

I  bless  the  shadow  on  your  face, 

The  light  upon  your  hair; 
I  like  to  sit  for  hours  and  trace 

The  passing  changes  there : 
I  love  to  hear  your  voice's  tone, 

Although  you  should  not  say 
A  single  word  to  dream  upon 

When  that  had  died  away. 

Oh !  you  are  kindly  as  the  beam 

That  warms  where'er  it  plays : 
And  you  are  gentle  as  the  gleam 

Of  happy  future  days; 
And  you  are  strong  to  do  the  right, 

And  swift  the  wrong  to  flee; 
And  if  you  were  not  half  so  bright, 

You're  all  the  world  to  me. 


THE  GRAVE  OF  MACCAUK  \. 

AND  this  is  thy  grave,  MacCaurn. 

Here  by  the  pathway  lorn-; 

Where  the  thorn  blossoms  are  blending 

Over  thy  mouldered  stone. 

Alas!  for  the  sons  of  glory; 

<  Mi !  thou  of  the  darkened  brow, 

Ami  the  eagle  plume,  ami  the  )>eltcd  clans, 

It  is  here  thou  art  sleeping  now  ? 

0  Wllil   is  the  split.   M:ie<  'illlHI, 

III  whieh  they  have  laid  thee  low. 


330 


A   POEM  BY  MICHAEL  J.  BALFE. 


The  field  where  thy  people  triumphed 
Over  a  slaughtered  foe; 
And  loud  was  the  banshees  wailing, 
And  deep  was  the  clansmen's  sorrow. 
When  with  bloody  hands  and  burning  tears 
They  buried  thee  here,  MacCaura. 

And  now  thy  dwelling  is  lonely — 
King  of  the  rushing  horde; 
And  now  thy  battles  are  over — 
Chief  of  the  shining  sword. 
And  the  rolling  thunder  echoes 


O'er  torrent  and  mountain  free, 
But  alas !  and  alas !  MacCaura, 
It  will  not  awaken  thee. 

Farewell  to  thy  grave,  MacCaura, 
Where  the  slanting  sunbeams  shine, 
And  the  briar  and  waving  fern 
Over  thy  slumbers  twine; 
Thou  whose  gathering  summons 
Could  awaken  the  sleeping  glen ; 
MacCaura !  alas  for  thee  and  thine, 
'Twill  never  be  heard  again. 


A  POEI  BY  MICHAEL  J,  BALFE, 


KILLARNEY. 

I. 

BY  Killarney's  lakes  and  fells, 

Em'rald  isles  and  winding  bays, 
Mountain  paths  and  woodland  dells, 

Mem'ry  ever  fondly  strays. 
Bounteous  nature  loves  all  lands, 

Beauty  wanders  ev'rywhere, 
Footprints  leaves  on  many  strands, 

But  her  home  is  surely  there ! 
Angels  fold  their  wings  and  rest 
In  that  Eden  of  the  West, 
Beauty's  home,  Killarney, 
Ever  fair  Killarney. 

II. 

Innisfallen's  ruined  shrine 

May  suggest  a  passing  sigh, 
But  man's  faith  can  ne'er  decline, 

Such  God's  wonders  floating  by — 
Castle  Lough  and  Glena  bay, 

Mountains  Tore  and  Eagle's  Nest ; 
Still  at  Muckross  you  must  pray, 

Though  the  monks  are  now  at  rest. 
Angels  wonder  not  that  man 
There  would  fain  prolong  life's  span- 
Beauty's  home,  Killarney, 
Ever  fair  Killarney. 


III. 

No  place  else  can  charm  the  eye 

With  such  bright  and  varied  tints, 
Every  rock  that  you  pass  by 

Verdure  broiders  or  besprints. 
Virgin  there  the  green  grass  grows, 

Ev'ry  morn  Spring's  natal  day, 
Bright  hued  berries  daff  the  snows, 

Smiling  winters  frown  away. 
Angels,  often  pausing  there, 
Doubt  if  Eden  were  more  fair — 
Beauty's  home,  Killarney, 
Ever  fair  Killarney. 

IV. 

Music  there  for  echo  dwells, 

Makes  each  sound  a  harmony, 
Many  voic'd  the  chorus  swells, 

Till  it  faints  in  ecstasy. 
With  the  charmful  tints  below 

Seems  the  Heav'n  above  to  vie, 
All  rich  colors  that  we  know 

Tinge  the  cloud  wreaths  in  that  sky. 
Wings  of  angels  so  might  shine 
Glancing  back  soft  light  divine; 
Beauty's  home,  Killarney, 
Ever  fair  Killarney. 


POEMS  OF  CHARLES  J,  KICKHAM, 


PATRICK   SHEEHAN. 

MY  name  is  Patrick  Sheehan, 

My  years  are  thirty-four, 
Tipperary  is  my  native  place, 

Not  far  from  Galtymore; 
I  mine  of  honest  parents — 

But  now  they're  lying  low 
And  many  a  pleasant  day  I  spent 

In  the  Glen  of  Aherlow. 

My  father  died,  I  closed  his  eyes 

()>ttxif/t!  our  cabin  door — 
The  landlord  and  the  sheriff  too 

Were  there  the  day  before — 
And  then  my  loving  mother, 

And  sisters  three  also, 
Wi-re  forced  to  go  with  broken  hearts 

From  the  Glen  of  Aherlow. 

For  three  long  months  in  search  of  work, 

I  wandered  far  and  near ; 
I  went  then  to  the  poor-house 

For  to  see  my  mother  dear; 
The  news  I  heard  nigh  broke  my  heart. 

But  still,  in  all  my  woe, 
I  blessed  the  friends  who  made  their  graves 

In  the  Glen  of  Aherlow. 

Bereft  of  home,  and  kith,  and  kin- 
Wit  h  plenty  all  around — 

I  starved  within  my  cabin, 
And  slept  upon  the  ground ; 

But  cruel  as  my  lot  was, 
I  ne'er  did  hardship  know. 

'Till  I  joined  the  English  army, 
Far  away  from  Aherlow. 

"Rouse  up  there,"  says  the  Corporal. 

"You  la/y  Hirish  hound. 
Why,  don't  you  hear,  you  sleepy  dog, 

The  call  *  to  arms '  sound  ?  " 


Alas,  I  had  been  dreaming 

Of  days  long,  long  ago, 
I  woke  before  Sebastopol, 

And  not  in  Aherlow. 

I  groped  to  find  my  musket — 
How  dark  I  thought  the  night, 

0  blessed  God,  it  was  not  dark, 
It  was  the  broad  daylight ! 

And  when  J  found  that  I  was  Mind 
My  tears  began  to  flow. 

1  longed  for  even  a  pauper's  grave 
In  the  Glen  of  Aherlow. 

0  blessed  Virgin  Mary. 

Mine  is  a  mournful  tale, 
A  poor  blind  prisoner  here  I  am, 

In  Dublin's  dreary  jail: 
Struck  blind  within  the  trenches 

Where  I  never  feared  the  foe; 
And  now  I'll  never  see  again 

My  own  sweet  Aherlow. 

A  poor  neglected  mendicant 

I  wandered  through  the  street. 
My  nine  months'  pension  now  being  out, 

I  beg  from  all  I  meet. 
As  I  joined  my  country's  tyrants 

My  face  I'll  never  show 
Among  the  kind  old  neighbors, 

In  the  Glen  of  Aherlow. 

Then  Irish  youths — dear  countrymen — 

Take  heed  of  what  I  say, 
For  if  you  join  the  English  ranks 

You'll  surely  rue  the  day: 
And  whenever  you  are  tempted 

A  soldiering  to  go, 
Remember  poor  blind  Sheelian 

Of  the  Glen  of  Aherlow. 


832 


POEMS   OF  CHARLES  J.  KICKHAM. 


THE  IRISH    PEASANT    GIRL. 

SHE  lived  beside  the  Anner, 

At  the  foot  of  Slievenamon, 
A  gentle  peasant  girl, 

With  mild  eyes  like  the  dawn. 
Her  lips  were  dewy  rose-buds, 

Her  teeth  of  pearls  rare; 
And  a  snow-drift  'neath  a  beechen-bough, 

Her  neck  and  nut-brown  hair. 


How  pleasant  'twas  to  meet  her 

On  Sunday,  when  the  bell 
Was  filling  with  its  mellow  tones 

Lone  wood  and  grassy  dell. 
And  when,  at  eve,  young  maidens 

Strayed  the  river  bank  along, 
The  widow's  brown-haired  daughter 

Was  loveliest  of  the  throng. 


0  brave,  brave  Irish  girls ! 

We  well  may  call  you  brave;— 
Sure  the  least  of  all  your  perils 

Is  the  stormy  ocean  wave; — 
When  ye  leave  your  quiet  valleys, 

And  cross  the  Atlantic's  foam, 
To  hoard  your  hard-won  earnings 

For  the  helpless  ones  at  home. 


Write  word  to  my  dear  mother — 

Say,  we'll  meet  with  God  above : 
And  tell  my  little  brothers 

I  send  them  all  my  love. 
May  the  angels  ever  guard  them, 

Is  their  dying  sister's  pray'r; 
And  folded  in  the  letter 

Was  a  braid  of  nut-brown  hair. 


Ah !  cold  and  well-nigh  callous 

This  weary  heart  has  grown, 
For  thy  hapless  fate,  dear  Ireland, 

And  for  sorrows  of  my  own; 
Yet  a  tear  my  eye  will  moisten, 

When  by  Anner-side  I  stray, 
For  the  lily  of  "  the  Mountain-foot/' 

That  withered  far  away. 


RORY   OF  THE   HILLS. 

THAT  rake  up  near  the  rafters, 

Why  leave  it  there  so  long  ? 
The  handle  of  the  best  of  ash, 

Is  smooth,  and  straight,  and  strong; 
And,  mother,  will  you  tell  me, 

Why  did  my  father  frown, 
When  to  make  the  hay,  in  summer-time, 

I  climbed  to  take  it  down  ? 
She  looked  into  her  husband's  eyes, 

While  her  own  with  light  did  fill. 
"  You'll  shortly  know  the  reason,  boy !  " 

Said  Rory  of  the  Hill. 

The  midnight  moon  is  lighting  up 

The  slopes  of  Sliav-na-man — 
Whose  foot  affrights  the  startled  hares 

So  long  before  the  dawn  ? 
He  stopped  just  where  the  Anner's  stream 

Winds  up  the  woods  anear, 
Then  whistled  low  and  looked  around 

To  see  the  coast  was  clear. 
A  sheeling  door  flew  open — 

In  he  stepped  with  right  good  will — 
"  God  save  all  here,  and  bless  your  work," 

Said  Rory  of  the  Hill. 

Right  hearty  was  the  welcome 

That  greeted  him,  I  ween, 
For  years  gone  by  he  fully  proved 

How  well  he  loved  the  Green ; 
And  there  was  one  among  them 

Who  grasped  him  by  the  hand- 
One  who  through  all  that  weary  time 

Roamed  on  a  foreign  strand; 
He  brought  them  news  from  gallant  friends 

That  made  their  heart-strings  thrill — 
"  My  soul !  I  never  doubted  them !  " 

Said  Rory  of  the  Hill. 

They  sat  around  the  humble  board, 

Till  dawning  of  the  day, 
And  yet  no  song  nor  shout  I  heard— 

No  revellers  were  they; 
Some  brows  flushed  red  with  gladness, 

While  some  were  grimly  pale : 
But  pale  or  red,  from  out  those  eyes 

Flashed  souls  that  never  quail ! 


A   POEM   BY   MRS.   CRAWFORD. 


888 


"And  sing  us  now  about  the  vow, 

They  swore  for  to  fulfill  "- 
"  You'll  read  it  yet  in  history,"- 

Said  Rory  of  the  Hill. 

Next  day  the  ashen  handle, 

He  took  down  from  where  it  hung, 
The  toothed  rake,  full  scornfully, 

Into  the  fire  he  flung; 
And  in  its  stead  a  shining  blade, 

Is  gleaming  once  again — 
(Oh!  for  a  hundred  thousand  of 

Such  weapons  and  such  men !) 
Right  soldierly  he  wielded  it, 

And  going  through  his  drill — 
"Attention,  charge,  front,  point,  advance ! " 

Cried  Rory  of  the  Hill. 

She  looked  at  him  with  woman's  pride, 

With  pride  and  woman's  fears : 
She  flew  to  him,  she  clung  to  him, 

And  dried  away  her  tears ; 


He  feels  her  pulse  beat  truly ; 

While  her  arms  around  him  twine 
"  Now  God  be  praised  for  your  stout  heart, 

Brave  little  wife  of  mine." 
He  swung  his  first-born  in  the  air, 

While  joy  his  heart  did  fill — 
"  You'll  be  a  Freeman  yet,  my  boy," 

Said  Rory  of  the  Hill. 

Oh !  knowledge  is  a  wondrous  power, 

And  stronger  than  the  wind; 
And  thrones  shall  fall,  and  despots  bow 

Before  the  might  of  mind ; 
The  poet,  and  the  orator, 

The  heart  of  man  can  sway, 
And  would  to  the  kind  heavens 

That  WTolfe  Tone  were  here  to-day. 
Yet  trust  me,  friends,  dear  Ireland's  strength 

Her  truest  strength,  is  still, 
The  rough  and  ready  roving  boys, 

Like  Rory  of  the  Hill. 


A  POEM  BY  MRS.  CRAWFORD. 


KATHLEEN    MAVOURNEEN.1 

KATHLEEN  MAVOURNEEN!   the  gray  dawn 

is  breaking, 

The  horn  of  the  hunter  is  heard  on  the  hill, 
The  lark  from  her  light  wing  the  bright  dew 
is  shaking,  [still ! 

Kathleen  Mavourneen!  what,  slumbering 
Ah !  hast  thou  forgotten  soon  we  must  sever  ? 
Oh !  hast  thou  forgotten  this  day  we  must 

part! 

It  may  be  for  years,  and  it  may  be  for  ever — 
Oh !  why  art  thou  silent,  thou  voice  of  my 

heart  ? 

It  may  be  for  years,  and  it  may  be  for  ever — 
Then  why  art  thou  silent,  Kathleen  Mavour- 
neen ? 


1  This  poem  was  written  by  M  rs.  Crawford,  a  native  of 
Cavau,  Ireland,  the  music  being  by  Crouch. 


Kathleen    Mavourneen!    awake    from    thy 

slumbers, 
The  blue  mountains  glow  in  the  sun's  golden 

light, 
Ah !  where  is  the  spell  that  once  hung  on 

my  numbers  ? 

Arise  in  thy  beauty,  thou  star  of  my  night. 
Arise  in  thy  lirauty,  thou  star  of  my  night ! 
Mavourneen,  Mavourneen,  my  sad  tears  are 

falling 
To  think  that  from  Eriii  and  thee  I  must 

part, 

It  may  be  for  years,  and  it  may  be  for  e\ 
Thru  why  art  thou  silent,  thou  voice  of  my 

heart  ? 

It  may  be  for  years,  and  it  may  be  for  ever, — 
Then  why  art  thou  silent,  Kathleen  Mavour- 
neen y 


A  POEI  BY  FATHER  BURKE, 


THE   IRISH   DOMINICANS. 

THIS  land  of  ours  was  famous  once — no  land 

was  ever  more — 
For  saintliness  so  pure,  so  bright,  as  well  as 

learned  lore : 
And   strangers    from   a   sunny   clime   were 

wafted  to  our  shore, 
In  bearing  meek  and  quaintest  garb  as  ne'er 

was  seen  before — 
And  these  were  the  Dominicans  six  hundred 

years  ago. 


They  came  with  vigil  and  with  fast,  men 
versed  in  prayer  and  read 

In.  all  the  sacred  books,  and  soon  through- 
out the  land  they  spread. 

The  people  blessed  them  as  they  passed  •  low 
bowed  each  tonsured  head, 

So  meek  'twas  like  the  saints,  as  they  shall 
raise  them  from  the  dead; 

For  holy  were  De  Gusman's  son's  sons  five 
hundred  years  ago. 


And  soon  their  learned  voice  was  heard  in 
pulpit  and  in  choir, 

While  through  the  glorious  Gothic  aisle  re- 
sounds their  midnight  prayer. 

The  orphan  found  beneath  their  roof  a  par- 
ent's tender  care, 

While  boldly  in  their  country's  cause  they 
raised  their  voice,  for  there 

Was  Irish  blood  in  Dominic's  sons  four  hun- 
dred years  ago. 

When  heresy  swept  o'er  the  land  like  a  de- 
stroying flood, 

And  tyrants  washed  their  reeking  hands  in 
.martyrs'  holy  blood, 


St.  Dominic's  children  then,  like  men,  em- 
braced the  stake,  and  stood 

Before  the  burning  pile  as  'twere  the  Sa- 
viour's holy  rood, 

And  kissed  their  habits  as  they  bled,  three 
hundred  years  ago. 

And   while  the  altars  fed  the   flame,  and 

Christ  was  mocked  again, 
Their   faithful   voices    still   were   heard    in 

mountain's  cave  and  glen : 
And  thus  was  saved  our  country's  faith,  and 

thus  the  Lamb  was  slain, 
And  ne'er  was  Ireland's  title  more  the  "  Isle 

of  Saints  "  than  when 
The  preacher  found  a  martyr's  grave,  two 

hundred  years  ago. 


And  thus  for  full  three  centuries  they  fought 

the  holy  fight, 
In  city  and  on  mountain  side,  from  Cashel's 

sacred  height; 
True  to  their  country  and  their  God,  each 

man  a  burning  light. 
They  kept  a  nation's  life-blood  warm  and 

saved  the  crozier's  might — 
For  mitres  shone  on  preachers'  brows  one 

hundred  years  ago. 


Now,  men  of  Ireland,  raise  your  thoughts  to 

that  bright  realm  above, 
Where  Christian  faith  and  hope  are  lost  in 

all  absorbing  love, 
And  blend  the  serpent's  prudence  with  the 

sweetness  of  the  dove, 
And,  faithful  to  our  land  and  creed,  in  their 

bright  footsteps  move, 
Who  fought  and  bled  and  conquered  all  these 

centuries  ago. 


POEMS  OF  JOHN  F,  O'DONNELL 


THE   GREEN   GIFT. 

JUST  twenty  years  through  spring  have  blown 

Since,  on  one  shining  Patrick's  Day, 
A  dear,  far  comrade  sent  to  me, 
Across  the  yeasty  leagues  of  sea, 

Through  surge  and  wind,  to  Canada, 
A  letter  rudely  scribbled  o'er 

With  little  of  the  penman's  art, 
Freighted  with  songs,  and — what  is  more — 

An  Irish  Shamrock  in  its  heart. 

I  kissed  it  twenty — fifty  times; 

The  deliqate  and  flowerless  spray ; 
And  Limerick  and  its  castled  skies 
Rose  up  distinct  before  my  eyes, 

Under  the  heaven  of  Canada. 
I  saw  the  Shannon  westward  run, 

The  hills  of  Clare  fade  off  in  blue, 
The  glamour  of  the  autumn  sun 

Across  the  woodlands  of  Tervoe. 

That  morn  my  soul,  refreshed  and  light, 

Devised  in  summer-mooded  way, 
In  what  thick  nook  of  forest  gloom 
My  gift  should  take  both  root  and  bloom 

I'.clow  the  clouds  of  Canada. 
Seeking,  I  found  a  pleasant  spot, 

From  pulses  of  the  sea-breeze  wet, 
And  (here  in  shadows,  cedar-wrought. 

My  precious  plant  I  fondly  set. 

Dear  is  that  little  haunt  to  me, 

Where  sometimes  Mary  comes  to  pray. 
And  hears  the  passing  of  her  beads 
Timed  by  the  crepitating  reeds, 

Under  the  stars  of  Canada. 
Then!  sleep  my  loved  ones  and  my  lost — 

The  shapes  that  vanished  long  ago- 
Above  them  cedar  boughs  arts  crost,     [blow. 

And  round  their   graves   the    shamrocks 


For,  look  you,  ere  the  first  year  died, 

And  on  the  pine's  bark  fell  the  grey, 
Which  comes  like  winter  to  our  trees, 
Ere  yet  the  sap  begins  to  freeze, 

Deep  in  the  woods  of  Canada; 
The  shamrock's  tendrils  woke  to  flower, 

Rich  as  the  cowslip's  inmost  p 
And  made  a  little  golden  bower 

Around  my  daily  hermitage. 

Ireland  is  many  a  sail  afar, 

Beyond  the  rising  of  the  day,- 
And  many  a  long  and  weary  year 
Has  perished  since  I  first  stood  here, 

Amid  the  wastes  of  Canada: 
Yet  when  I  see  these  little  flowers 

From  emerald  into  orange  run. 
My  thoughts  go  racing  with  the  hours, 

Behind  the  sea,  behind  the  sun, 

Away  to  where  my  own  land  1; 

Below  the  morning's  rising  ray — 
Away  to  mountain  peaks  that  hold 
The  Hying  clouds  in  tangled  fold — 

Away,  away  from  Canada. 
I  see  the  Irish  mouths  and  • 

I  leap  through  fields  of  long  ago. 
And  in  my  heart  wells  glad  surprise. 

And  at  my  feet  the  shamrocks  blow. 

Let  me  rest  with  them  when  the  mist 

Of  solid  darkness  fills  my  way. 
Still  feel  their  roots  about  my  heart. 
Of  me  and  mine  close-knitted  part. 

Under  the  grass  of  Canada. 
And  though  around  my  headstone  beat 

The  whitening  bret-7.es  of  the  foam. 
One  thought  will  make  the  last  hoursw. 

I  shall  not  die  ></  fur  from   home. 


836 


POEMS   OF  JOHN  F.   O'DONNELL. 


OK  THE   RAMPART— LIMERICK. 

CHEERILY  rings  the  boatman's  song 

Across  the  dark  brown  water; 
His  mast  is  slant,  his  sail  is  strong, 
His  hold  is  red  with  slaughter — 
With  beeves  that  cropped  the  field  of  Glynn, 

And  sheep  that  pricked  their  meadows, 
Until  the  sunset-cry  trooped  in 
The  cattle  from  the  shadows. 
He  holds  the  foam-washed  tiller  loose, 

And  hums  a  country  ditty; 
For,  under  clouds  of  gold  turned  puce, 
Gleam  harbor,  mole,  and  city; 
0  town  of  manhood !  maidenhood ! 

By  thee  the  Shannon  flashes — 
There    Freedom's    seed    was    sown    in 

blood, 
To  blossom  into  ashes. 


St.  Mary's,  in  the  evening  air, 

Springs  up  austere  and  olden; 
Two  sides  its  steeple  gray  and  bare, 

Two  sides  with  sunset  golden. 
The  bells  roll  out,  the  bells  roll  back, 

For  lusty  knaves  are  ringing; 
Deep  in  the  chancel,  red  and  black, 
The  white-robed  boys  are  singing. 
The  sexton  loiters  by  the  gate 

With  eyes  more  blue  than  hyssop, 
A  black-green  skull-cap  on  his  pate, 
And  all  his  mouth  a-gossip. 

This  is  the  town  beside  the  flood — 
The  walls  the  Shannon  washes — 
Where  Freedom's    seed   was    sown    in 

blood, 
To  blossom  into  ashes. 


The  streets  are  quaint,  red-bricked,  antique, 

The  topmost  stories  curving, 
With,  here  and  there,  a  slated  leak, 

Through  which  the  light  falls  swerving. 
The  angry  sudden  light  falls  down 

On  path  and  middle  parquet, 
On  shapes  weird  as  the  ancient  town, 

And  faces  fresh  for  market. 


They  shout,  they  chatter,  disappear, 
Like  imps  that  shake  the  valance 
At  midnight,  when  the  clock  ticks  queer, 
And  time  has  lost  its  balance. 
This  is  the  town  beside  the  flood 
Which  past  its  bastions  dashes, 
Where    Freedom's    seed   was   sown    in 

blood 
To  blossom  into  ashes. 


Oh,  how  they  talk,  brown  country  folk, 

Their  chatter  many-mooded, 
With  eyes  that  laugh  for  equivoque, 
And  heads  in  kerchiefs  snooded! 
Such  jests,  such  jokes,  whose  plastic  mirth 

But  Heine  could  determine — 
The  portents  of  the  latest  birth, 

The  points  of  Sunday's  sermon, 
The  late  rains  and  the  previous  drouth, 

How  oats  were  growing  stunted, 
How  keels  fetched  higher  prices  south, 
And  Captain  Watson  hunted. 
This  is  the  town  beside  the  flood 

Whose  waves  with  memories  flashes, 
Where    Freedom's    seed   was    sown   in 

blood ; 
To  blossom  into  ashes 


How  thick  with  life  the  Irish  town ! 

Dear  gay  and  battered  portress, 
That  laid  all  save  her  honor  down, 
To  save  the  fire-ringed  fortress. 
Here  Sarsfield  stood,  here  lowered  the  flag 

That  symbolized  the  people — 
A  riddled  rag,  a  bloody  rag, 

Plucked  from  St.  Mary's  steeple. 
Thick  are  the  walls  the  women  lined 

With  courage  worthy  Roman, 
When,  armed  with  hate  sublime,,  if  blind, 
They  scourged  the  headlong  foemen. 
This  is  the  town  beside  the  flood, 
That  round  its  ramparts  flashes, 
Where    Freedom's    seed   was   sown    in 

blood. 
To  blossom  into  ashes. 


I'OKMS    OF   .IOHN    K.    (ASHY. 


837 


This  part  is  mine :  to  live  divorced 

Where  foul  November  gathers, 
With  other  sons  of  thine  dispersed 

Brave  city  of  my  fathers — 
To  gaze  on  rivers  not  mine  own, 

And  nurse  a  wasting  longing, 
Where  Babylon,  with  trumpets  blown, 

South,  North,  East,  West  comes  thronging, 


To  hear  distinctly,  if  afar, 

The  voices  of  thy  people — 
To  hear  through  crepitating  jar 
The  sweet  bells  of  thy  steeple. 
To  love  the  town,  the  hill,  the  wood, 

The  Shannon's  stormful  flashes, 
Where  Freedom's  seed  was  sown  in  blood, 
To  blossom  into  ashes. 


POEMS  OF  JOHN  K.  CASEY. 


DONAL  KENNY. 

""  COME,  piper,  play  the  ( Shaskan  Reel,' 

Or  else  the  '  Lasses  on  the  heather,' 
And,  Mary,  lay  aside  your  wheel 

Until  we  dance  once  more  together. 
At  fair  and  pattern  oft  before 

Of  reels  and  jigs  we've  tripped  full  many; 
But  ne'er  again  this  loved  old  floor 

Will  feel  the  foot  of  Donal  Kenny. 

Softly  she  rose  and  took  his  hand, 

And  softly  glided  through  the  measure, 
While,  cluetering  round,  the  village  band 

Looked  half  in  sorrow,  half  in  pleasure. 
Warm  blessings  flowed  from  every  lip 

As  ceased  the  dancers'  airy  motion : 
O  Blessed  Virgin!  guide  the  ship 

Which    bears    bold    Donal     o'er    the 
ocean ! 

"  Now  God  be  with  you  all ! "  he  sighed, 

Adown  his  face  the  bright  tears  flowing — 
"  God  guard  you  well,  avic,"  they  cried, 

"  Upon  the  strange  path  you  are  going." 
So  full  his  breast,  he  scarce  could  speak  -- 

With  burning  grasp  the  stretched  hands 

taking, 
He  pressed  a  kiss  on  every  cheek, 

And  sobbed  as  if  his  heart  was  breaking. 

"  Boys,  don't  forget  me  when  I'm  gone, 
For  sake  of  all  the  days  passed  over — 

The  days  you  spent  on  heath  ami  hawn. 
With  Ihnnil  Umiilh,  the  rattlin'  rover. 


Mary,  agra,  your  soft  brown  eye 

Has  willed  my  fate  "  (he  whispered  lowly) ; 
"Another  holds  your  heart :  good-bye ! 

Heaven  grant  you  both  its  blessings 
holy!" 

A  kiss  upon  her  brow  of  snow, 

A  rush  across  the  moonlit  meadow, 
Whose  broom-clad  hazels,  trembling  slow. 

The  mossy  boreen  wrapped  in  shadow; 
Away  o'er  Tully's  bounding  rill, 

And  far  beyond  the  Inny  river : 
One  cheer  on  Carrick's  rocky  hill. 

And  Donal  Kenny's  gone  for  ever. 


THE   RISING  OK   THK  Mnn\. 

OH!  then,  tell  me,  Shane  O'Farrell,  tell  me 

where  you  hurry  so  ? 
Hush, ma  boudial!  husband  listen-  and  his 

cheeks  won-  all  aglow— 
I    bear   orders    from    the    Captain:  get   you 

ready  (jiiiek  and  soon: 
For  the  pikes  must  be  together  by  the  risiif 

of  the  moon. 

OHOBU& 

My  the   risin'  of  the  Moon,  by  the  risin' of 
the  Moon; 

For    the    pikes    must     meet    together    by    till' 

risin'  of  the  Moon. 


838 


POEMS   OF  FEANCIS  DAVIS. 


Oh!  then,  tell  me,  Shane  O'Farrell,  where 

the  gatherin'  is  to  be  ? 
In  the  ould  spot,  by  the  river,  right  well 

known  to  you  and  me. 
One  word  more :  for  signal-token  whistle  up 

the  marchin'  tune, 
With  your  pike  upon  your  shoulder,  by  the 

risin'  of  the  Moon. 

By  the  risin'  of  the  Moon,  etc. 

Out  from  many  a  mud-wall  cabin,  eyes  were 
watching  thro'  that  night ; 

Many  a  manly  heart  was  throbbing  for  that 
blessed  warning  light; 

Murmurs  passed  along  the  valley,  like  a  ban- 
shee's lonely  croon; 

And  a  thousand  pikes  were  flashing  by  the 
risin'  of  the  Moon. 

By  the  risin'  of  the  Moon,  etc. 


Down  along  yon   singing  river,  that   dark 

mass  of  men  was  seen ; 
High  above  their  shining  weapons  floats  their 

own  beloved  green. 
Death  to  every  foe  and  traitor !  forward  strike 

the  marchin'  tune! 
And  hurrah,  my  boys,  for  freedom !  'tis  the 

risin'  of  the  Moon. 

'Tis  the   risin'  of  the  Moon,  etc. 

Well  they  fought  for  poor  Ould  Ireland,  and 

full  bitter  was  their  fate; 
Oh !  what  glorious  pride  and  sorrow  fill  the 

name  of  Ninety-eight ! 
But  yet,  thank  God !  there's  beating  hearts 

in  manhood's  burning  noon, 
Who  will  follow  in  their  footsteps  by  the 

risin'  of  the  Moon. 

By  the  risin'  of  the  Moon,  etc. 


POEMS  OF  FRANCIS  DAYIS. 


NANNY. 

OH  !  for  an  hour  when  the  day  is  breaking 
Down  by  the  shore,  when  the  tide  is  making ! 
Fair  as  a  white  cloud,  thou,  love,  near  me, 
None  but  the  waves  and  thyself  to  hear  me : 
Oh,  to  my  breast  how  these  arms  would  press 

thee; 

Wildly  my  heart  in  its  joy  would  bless  thee; 
Oh,  how  the  soul  thou  hast  won  would  woo 

thee, 
Girl  of  the  snow-neck !  closer  to  me. 

Oh,  for  an  hour  as  the  day  advances, 

(Out  where  the  breeze  on  the  broom-bush 

dances,) 

Watching  the  lark,  with  the  sun-ray  o'er  us, 
Winging  the    notes  of    his    heaven-taught 

chorus ! 

Oh,  to  be  there,  and  my  love  before  me, 
Soft  as  a  moonbeam  smiling  o'er  me ; 
Thou  wouldst  but  love,  and  I  would  woo  thee : 
Girl  of  the  dark  eye !  closer  to  me. 


Oh,  for  an  hour  where  the  sun  first  found  us, 
(Out  in  the  eve  with  its  red  sheets  round  us;) 
Brushing  the  dew  from  the  gale's  soft  wing- 
lets, 

Pearly  and  sweet  with  thy  long  dark  ringlets : 
Oh,  to  be  there  on  the  sward  beside  thee, 
Telling  my  tale  though  I  know  you'd  chide 

me; 
Sweet  were  thy  voice  though  it  should  undo 

me — 
Girl  of  the  dark  locks !  closer  to  me. 


Oh,  for  an  hour  by  night  or  by  day,  love, 
Just  as  the  heavens  and  thou  might   say, 

love; 

Far  from  the  stare  of  the  cold-eyed  many, 
Bound    in    the   breath   of  my  dove-souled 

Nanny ! 

Oh,  for  the  pure  chains  that  have  bound  me, 
Warm  from  thy  red  lips  circling  round  me ! 
Oh,  in  my  soul,  as  the  light  above  me, 
Queen  of  the  pure  hearts,  do  I  love  thee ! 


A   POEM   BY   DENNY   LANK. 


ON  AGAIN. 

AND  so  the  would-be  storm  is  past, 

And  true  men  have  outlived  it; 
Can  truth  be  bowed  by  falsehood's  blast? 

They're  slaves  who  e'er  believed  it : 
Let  cravens  crawl  and  adders  hiss, 

And  foes  look  on  delighted ! 
To  one  and  all  our  answer's  this, 
We're  wronged  and  must  be  righted. 
Then  on  again, 
A  chain's  a  chain, 
Although  a  king  should  make  it : 
Be  this  our  creed, 
A  slave  indeed 
Is  he  who  dare  not  break  it. 

Tis  not  in  slander's  poisonous  lips 

To  kill  the  patriot's  ardor; 
Their  blight  may  reach  the  blossom-tips, 

But  not  the  fount  of  verdure : 
For  he  who  feels  his  country's  dole, 

By  naught  can  be  confounded, 
But  onward  sweeps  his  fearless  soul, 


Though  dentil  l>c  walking  round  it. 

Then  on  again, 

A  chain's  a  chain, 
Although  a  king  should  make  it: 

A  slave,  though  f !•«•»•< I, 

Were  he  indeed 
Who  dare  not  try  to  break  it. 


And  while  ye  guard  against  the  shoals 

That  hide  each  past  endeavor, 
Give  freemen's  tongues  to  true  men's  souls, 

Or  damn  the  terms  for  ever: 
Let  baseness  wander  through  the  dark, 

And  hug  its  own  restriction, 
But  oh !  be  ours  the  guiding  spark 
Produced  by  mental  friction ! 
Then  on  again, 
A  chain's  a  chain, 
Although  a  king  should  make  it: 
Be  this  our  creed, 
A  slave  indeed 
Is  he  who  dare  not  break  it. 


A  POEM  BY  DENNY  LANE, 


KATE   OF   ARRAGLEX. 
WHEN  first  I  saw  thee,  Kate, 
That  summer  ev'ning  late, 
Down  at  the  garden  gate 

Of  Arraglen, 
I  felt  I'd  ne'er  before 
.Seen  one  so  fair,  astliore, 
I  fear'd  I'd  never  more 

See  thee  again — 
I  stopped  and  gazed  at  tli> 
My  footfall  luckily 
Reach'd  not  thy  ear,  though  we 

Stood  there  so  near: 
While  from  thy  lips  a  strain, 
Soft  as  the'summer  rain, 
Sad  as  a  lover's  pain 

Fell  on  my  ear. 


I've  heard  the  lark  in  .June. 
The  harp's  wild  plaintive  tune, 
The  thrush,  that  aye  too  .-oon 

Gives  o'er  his  strain— 
I've  heard  in  hush'd  delight 
The  mellow  horn  at  night, 
Waking  the  echoes  light 

Of  wild  Loch  Lene; 
But  neither  echoing  horn, 
Nor  thrush  upon  the  thorn. 
Nor  lark  at  early  morn. 

Hymning  in  air. 
Nor  harper's  lay  divine. 
K'er  witeh'd  this  heart  of  mine, 
Like  that  sweet  voice  of  thine. 

That  ev'ning  there. 


,840 


POEMS   OF   MICHAEL  JOSEPH   BARRY. 


And  when  some  rustling,  dear, 

Fell  on  thy  listening  ear, 

You  thought  your  brother  near, 

And  named  his  name ; 
I  could  not  answer,  though, 
As  luck  would  have  it  so, 
His  name  and  mine,  you  know, 

Were  both  the  same — 
Hearing  no  answering  sound, 
You  glanced  in  doubt  around, 
With  timid  look,  and  found 

It  was  not  he; 
Turning  away  your  head, 
And  blushing  rosy  red, 
Like  a  wild  fawn  you  fled 

Far,  far  from  me. 

The  swan  upon  the  lake, 
The  wild  rose  in  the  brake, 
The  golden  clouds  that  make 

The  west  their  throne, 
The  wild  ash  by  the  stream, 
The  full  moon's  silver  beam, 
The  ev'ning  star's  soft  gleam, 

Shining  alone ; 


The  lily  rob'd  in  white, 
All,  all  are  fair  and  bright ; 
But  ne'er  on  earth  was  sight 

So  bright,  so  fair, 
As  that  one  glimpse  of  thee, 
That  I  caught  then,  machree, 
It  stole  my  heart  from  me 

That  ev'ning  there. 

And  now  you're  mine  alone, 
That  heart  is  all  my  own — 
That  heart  that  ne'er  hath  known 

A  flame  before ; 
That  form  of  mould  divine, 
That  snowy  hand  of  thine, 
Those  locks  of  gold,  are  mine 

For  evermore. 
Was  lover  ever  seen 
As  blest, as  thine,  Kathleen ? 
Hath  lover  ever  been 

More  fond,  more  true  ? 
Thine  is  my  every  vow ! 
For  ever,  dear,  as  now, 
Queen  of  my  heart  be  thou, 

Mo  ceirlin  ruadli. 


POEMS  OF  MICHAEL  JOSEPH  BARRY. 


THE   SWORD. 
I. 

WHAT  rights  the  brave  ? 

The  sword! 
What  frees  the  slave  ? 
The  sword ! 
What  cleaves  in  twain 
The  Despot's  chain 

And  makes  his  gyves  and  dungeons  vain  ? 
The  sword ! 

OHORUS.—  Then  cease  thy  proud  task  never 
While  rests  a  link  to  sever, 
Guard  of  the  free, 
We'll  cherish  thee, 
And  keep  thee  bright  forever. 


II. 

What  checks  the  knave  ? 

The  sword ! 
What  smites  to  save  ? 

The  sword ! 

What  wreaks  the  wrong 
Unpunished  long, 
At  last,  upon  the  guilty  strong  ? 

The  sword ! 


III. 

What  shelters  right  ? 

The  sword ! 
What  makes  it  might  ? 

The  sword! 


Chorus. 


POEMS   OF   MICHAEL  JOSEPH   BARRY. 


What  strikes  the  crown 
Of  tyrants  down, 

And  answers  with  its  flash  their  frown  ? 
The  sword ! 

Chorus. 

IV. 

Still  be  thou  true, 

Good  sword! 
We'll  die  or  do, 

Good  sword! 
Leap  forth  to  light 
If  tyrants  smite 

And  trust  our  arms  to  wield  thee  right, 
Good  sword! 

Chorus. 


HYMN   OF   FREEDOM. 

I. 

GOD  of  Peace!  before  Thee, 

Peaceful,  here  we  kneel, 
Humbly  to  implore  Thee 

For  a  nation's  weal : 
Calm  her  sons'  dissensions, 

Bid  their  discord  cease, 
End  their  mad  contentions, 

Hear  us,  God  of  Peace ! 


II. 

God  of  Right!  preserve  us 

Just — as  we  are  strong; 
Let  no  passion  swerve  us 

To  one  act  of  wrong — 
Let  no  thought,  unholy, 

Come  our  cause  to  blight — 
Thus  we  pray  thee,  lowly — 

Hear  us,  God  of  Right ! 

III. 

God  of  Vengeance !  smite  us 
\Vitli  thy  shaft  sublime, 

If  one  bond  unite  us 

Forged  in  fraud  or  crime! 


But,  if  humbly  kneeling, 
We  implore  thine  ear, 

For  our  rights  appealing — 
God  of  Nations !  lu-ar. 


THE    WEXFORD    MASSACRE— CROM- 
\\  KLL,  1649. 

THEY  knelt  around  the  cross  divine, 

The  matron  and  the  maid — 
They  bowed  before  redemption's  sign, 

And  fervently  they  prayed— 
Three  hundred  fair  and  helpless  ones, 

Whose  crime  was  this  alone, 
Their  valiant  husbands,  sires  and  sons 

Had  battled  for  their  own. 

Had  battled  bravely,  but  in  vain. 

The  Saxon  won  the  fight, 
And  Irish  corses  strewed  the  plain 

Where  valor  slept  with  right ; 
And  now  that  man  of  demon  guilt 

To  fated  Wexford  flew, 
The  red  blood  reeking  on  his  hilt. 

Of  hearts  to  Erin  true! 

He  found  them  there — the  young,  the  old, 

The  maiden  and  the  wife; 
Their  guardians  brave  in  death  were  cold, 

Who  dared  for  them  the  strife. 
They  prayed  for  mercy,  God  on  high ! 

Before  Thy  cross  they  prayed ; 
And  ruthless  Cromwell  bade  them  tin- 

To  glut  the  Suxon  blade! 

Three  hundred  fell!     The  stitlcil  prayers 

Were  quenched  in  woman's  blood; 
Nor  youth  nor  age  could  move  to  span- 

From  slaughter's  crimson  flood. 
Hut  nations  keep  a  stern  account 

Of  deeds  that  tyrants  do. 
And  iruilth'ss  blood  to  lu'avrn  will  mount. 

And  heaven  avenge  it,  too! 


POEMS  OF  JUDGE  JOHN  O'HAGAK 


OUKSELVES  ALONE. 

I. 

THE  work  that  should  to-day  be  wrought 

Defer  not  till  to-morrow; 
The  help  that  should  within  be  sought — 

Scorn  from  without  to  borrow. 
Old  maxims  these — yet  stout  and  true — 

They  speak  in  trumpet  tone, 
To  do  at  once  what  is  to  do 

And  trust  OURSELVES  ALONE. 

II. 

Aye !  bitter  hate,  or  cold  neglect, 

Or  lukewarm  love,  at  best, 
Is  all  we've  found,  or  can  expect, 

We  aliens  of  the  west. 
No  friend,  beyond  her  own  green  shore, 

Can  Erin  truly  own, 
Yet  stronger  is  her  trust,  therefore, 

In  her  brave  sons  ALONE. 

III. 

Eemember  when  our  lot  was  worse — 

Sunk,  trampled  to  the  dust; 
'Twas  long  our  weakness  and  our  curse, 

In  stranger  aid  to  trust. 
And  if,  at  length,  we  proudly  trod 

On  bigot  laws  o'erthrown, 
Who  won  that  struggle  ?     Under  God, 

Ourselves — OURSELVES  ALONE. 

IV. 

Oh,  let  its  memory  be  enshrined 

In  Ireland's  heart  for  ever! 
It  proves  a  banded  people's  mind 

Must  win  in  just  endeavor; 
It  shows  how  wicked  to  despair, 

How  weak  to  idly  groan — 
If  ills  at  other's  hands  ye  bear, 

The  cure  is  in  YOUR  OWN. 


V. 

The  "  foolish  word  impossible  " 

At  once,  for  aye,  disdain ; 
No  power  can  bar  a  people's  will 

A  people's  right  to  gain, 
Be  bold,  united,  firmly  set, 

Nor  flinch  in  word  or  tone — 
We'll  be  a  glorious  nation  yet, 

EEDEEMED — ERECT — ALONE. 


PADDIES  EVEEMORE. 

THE  hour  is  past  to  fawn  or  crouch 

As  suppliants  for  our  right ; 
Let  word  and  deed  unshrinking  vouch 

The  banded  millions'  might : 
Let  them  who  scorned  the  fountain  rill 

Now  dread  the  torrent's  roar, 
And  hear  our  echoed  chorus  still, 

We're  Paddies  evermore. 

What,  though  they  menace  ?  suffering  men 

Their  threats  and  them  despise ; 
Or  promise  justice  once  again  ? 

We  know  their  words  are  lies : 
We  stand  resolved  those  rights  to  claim 

They  robbed  us  of  before, 
Our  own  dear  nation  and  our  name, 

As  Paddies  evermore. 

Look     round  —  the     Frenchman     governs 
France, 

The  Spaniard  rules  in  Spain 
The  gallant  Pole  but  waits  his  chance 

To  break  the  Eussian  chain ; 
The  strife  for  freedom  here  begun 

We  never  will  give  o'er, 
Nor  own  a  land  on  earth  but  one — 

We're  Paddies  evermore. 


POEMS   OF  JUDGE  JOHN   O'HAGAN. 


S43 


That  strong  and  single  love  to  crash 

The  despot  ever  tried — 
A  fount  it  was  whose  living  gush 

His  hated  arts  defied. 
'Tis  fresh  as  when  his  foot  accursed 

\V;is  planted  on  our  shore, 
And  now  and  still,  as  from  the  first, 

We're  Paddies  evermore. 

What  recked  we  though  six  hundred  years 

Have  o'er  our  thraldom  rolled  ? 
The  soul  that  roused  O'Connor's  spears 

Still  lives  as  true  and  bold. 
The  tide  of  foreign  power  to  stem 

Our  fathers  bled  of  yore ; 
And  we  stand  here  to-day,  like  them, 

True  Paddies  evermore. 

Where's  our  allegiance  ?     With  the  land 

For  which  they  nobly  died ; 
Our  duty  ?     By  our  cause  to  stand, 

Whatever  chance  betide; 
Our  cherished  hope  ?    To  heal  the  woes 

That  rankle  at  her  core ; 
Our  scorn  and  hatred  ?     To  her  foes, 

Like  Paddies  evermore. 

The  hour  is  past  to  fawn  or  crouch 

As  suppliants  for  our  right; 
Let  word  and  deed  unshrinking  vouch 

The  banded  millions'  might; 
Let  them  who  scorned  the  fountain  rill 

Now  dread  the  torrent's  roar, 
And  hear  our  echoed  chorus  still, 

We're  Paddies  evermore. 


DEAR  LAND. 

WHEN  comes  the  day,  all  hearts  to  weigh, 

If  stanch  they  be,  or  vile, 
Shall  we  forget  the  sacred  debt 

We  owe  our  mother  isle  ? 
My  native  heath  is  brown  beneath, 

My  native  waters  blue ; 
Hut  crimson  red  o'er  both  shall  spread 

Ere  I  am  false  to  you, 

Dear  land — 

Ere  I  am  false  to  you. 


When  I  behold  your  mountains  bold — 

Your  noble  lakes  and  streams — 
A  mingled  tide  of  grief  and  pride 

Within  my  bosom  teems, 
I  think  of  all,  your  long,  dark  thrall — 

Your  martyrs  brave  and  true ; 
And  dash  apart  the  tears  that  start — 

Wre  must  not  weep  for  you, 

Dear  land — 

We  must  not  weep  for  you. 


My  grandsire  died  his  home  beside, 

They  seized  and  hanged  him  there; 
His  only  crime,  in  evil  time, 

Your  hallowed  green  to  wear. 
Across  the  main  his  brothers  twain 

Were  sent  to  pine  and  rue ; 
And    still    they   turn'd,   with    hearts    that 
burned, 

In  hopeless  love  to  you, 

Dear  land — 

In  hopeless  love  to  you. 


My  boyish  ear  still  clung  to  hear 

Of  Erin's  pride  of  yore, 
Ere  Norman  foot  had  dared  pollute 

Her  independent  shore ; 
Of  chiefs,  long  dead,  who  rose  to  head 

Some  gallant  patriot  few, 
Till  all  my  aim  on  earth  became 

To  strike  one  blow  for  you, 

Dear  land — 

To  strike  one  blow  for  you. 


Wrhat  path  is  best  your  rights  to  wrest 
Let  <»tlirr  heads  divine; 

By  work  or  word,  with  voice  or  sword, 
To  follow  them  be  mine. 

The  breast  that  xe;il  and  hatred  steel, 
No  terror  can  subdue; 

If  death  should  come,  that  martyrdom, 
Were  sweet,  endured  for  you. 

Dear  land- 
Were  sweet,  endured  for  you. 


POEMS  OF  JOHN  KELLS  INGRAM, 


THE   MEMOEY   OF  THE  DEAD. 

I. 

WHO  fears  to  speak  of  Ninety-eight  ? 

Who  blushes  at  the  name  ? 
When  cowards  mock  the  patriot's  fate, 

Who  hangs  his  head  for  shame  ? 
He's  all  a  knave,  or  half  a  slave, 

Who  slights  his  country  thus ; 
But  a  true  man,  like  you,  man, 

Will  fill  your  glass  with  us. 

II. 

We  drink  the  memory  of  the  brave, 

The  faithful  and  the  few- 
Some  rest  far  off  beyond  the  wave- 
Some  sleep  in  Ireland,  too ; 
All — all  are  gone — but  still  lives  on 

The  fame  of  those  who  died — 
All  true  men,  like  you,  men, 
Remember  them  with  pride. 

III. 

Some  on  the  shores  of  distant  lands 

Their  weary  hearts  have  laid, 
And  by  the  stranger's  heedless  hands 

Their  lonely  graves  were  made ; 
But,  though  their  clay  be  far  away 

Beyond  the  Atlantic  foam — 
In  true  men,  like  you,  men, 

Their  spirit's  still  at  home. 

IV. 

The  dust  of  some  is  Irish  earth; 

Among  their  own  they  rest; 
And  the  same  land  that  gave  them  birth 

Has  caught  them  to  her  breast; 
And  we  will  pray  that  from  their  clay 

Full  many  a  race  may  start 
Of  true  men,  like  you,  men, 

To  act  as  brave  a  part. 


V. 

They  rose  in  dark  and  evil  days 

To  right  their  native  land ; 
They  kindled  here  a  living  blaze 

That  nothing  shall  withstand, 
Alas!  that  might  can  vanquish  right, 

They  fell  and  pass'd  away — 
But  true  men,  like  you,  men, 

Are  plenty  here  to-day. 

VI. 

Then  here's  their  memory — may  it  be 

For  us  a  guiding  light, 
To  cheer  our  strife  for  liberty, 

And  teach  us  to  unite. 
Through  good  and  ill  be  Ireland's  still, 

Though  sad  as  theirs  your  fate, 
And  true  men,  be  you,  men, 

Like  those  of  Ninety-eight. 


TWO   SONNETS. 

Dr.  John  Kells  Ingram,  F.  T.  C.  D.,  the  author  of  the 
above  poem,  "  Who  fears  to  speak  of  '98,"  after  a  silence  of 
more  than  30  years,  wrote,  a  few  years  ago,  after  the  death 
of  Gen.  Colley,  in  the  Boer  War,  a  sonnet  in  reply  to  the  fol- 
lowing lines  by  the  Protestant  Archbishop  of  Dublin,  which 
appeared,  on  the  occasion,  in  a  Dublin  journal. 

IN   MEMOEIAM,   G.    P.    COLLEY. 

GENTLE  and  brave,  well  skilled  in  that  dread 
lore 

Which  mightiest  nations  dare  now  to  un- 
learn ; 

Fair  lot  for  thee  had  leapt  from  Fortune's 
urn; 

Just  guerdon  of  long  toil;  and  more  and 
more 

We  counted  for  her  favorite  was  in  store; 

Not  failing  in  fond  fancy  to  descry 

Victorious  wreath  and  crowns  of  victory 

Which  in  our  thought  thy  brows  already 
wore, 


POEMS  OF  M.  J.   M'CANN. 


840 


But  He  who  portions  out  our  good  and  ill 
Willed  an  austerer  glory  should  be  thine, 
And  nearer  to  the  Cross  than  to  the  Crown ; 
Then  lay,  ye  mourners,  there  your  burden 

down, 

And  hear  calm  voices  from  the  inner  shrine 
Which  whisper,  Peace;  and  say,  Be  still,  be 

still. 

R.  C.  D. 

ON    READING  THE    SONNET   BY   "  R.    C.    D.," 
ENTITLED  "IN  MEMORIAM,   G.    P.    C." 

Yes !  mourn  the  soul,  of  high  and  pure  intent, 
Humane  as  valiant,  in  disastrous  fight, 
Laid  low  on  far  Majuba's  bloody  height ! 


Yet,  not  his  death  alone  must  we  lament, 
But  more  such  spirit  on  evil  mission  sent. 
To  back  our  broken  faith  with  armed  might, 
And  the  unanswered  plea  of  wounded  right 
Strike  dumb  by  warfare's  brute  arbitrament. 
And  while  these  deeds  are  done  in  England's 

name, 

Religion  unregardf ul  keeps  her  cell ; 
The  tuneful  note  that  wails  the  dead,  we 

hear; 
Where  are  the  sacred  thunders  that  should 

swell 

To  shame  such  foul  oppression,  and  proclaim 
Eternal  justice  in  the  nation's  ear '". 

J.  K.  I. 


POEMS  OF  1,  J,  M'CANN, 


O'DONNELL  ABU! 

PROUDLY  the  note  of  the  trumpet  is  sound- 
ing, 

Loudly  the  war-cries  arise  on  the  gale, 
Fleetly  the  steed  by  Lough  Swilly  is  bounding, 
To  join  the  thick  squadrons  in  Saimear's 
green  vale. 

On,  every  mountaineer, 
Strangers  to  flight  and  fear ! 
Rush  to  the  standard  of  dauntless  Red 
Hugh! 

Bonaght  and  Gallowglass 
Throng  from  each  mountain-pass ! 
On  for  old  Erin — O'Donnell  abu ! 

Princely  O'Neill  to  our  aid  is  advancing, 

With  many  a  chieftain  and  warrior-clan: 
A  thousand  proud  steeds  in  his  vanguard  are 

prancing, 

'Neath  the  borders  brave  from  the  banks 
of  the  Bann — 

Many  a  heart  shall  quail 
Under  its  coat  of  mail : 
Deeply  the  merciless  foeman  shall  rue, 
When  on  his  ear  shall  ring, 
Borne  on  the  breeze's  wing,     [abu ! 
TyrconnelPs  dread  war-cry — O'Donnell 


Wildly  o'er  Desmond  the  war- wolf  is  howling^ 

Fearless  the  eagle  sweeps  over  the  plain, 
The  fox  in  the  streets  of  the  city  is  prowl- 
ing— 

All,  all  who  would  scare  them  are  banished 
or  slain! 

Grasp,  every  stalwart  hand, 
Hackbut  and  battle-brand — 
Pay  them  all  back  the  deep  debt  so  long 
due: 

Norris  and  Clifford  well 
Can  of  Tyrconnell  tell- 
Onward  to  glory — O'Donnell  abu ! 

Sacred  the  cause  that  Clan-Conaill's  defend- 
ing— 
The  altars  we  kneel  at,  and  homes  of  our 

sires : 

Ruthless  the  ruin  the  foe  is  extending — 
Midnight  is  red  with  the  plunderer's  tires \ 
On,  with  O'Donnell,  then ! 
Fight  the  old  fight  again, 
Sons  of  Tyrconm-ll  all  valiant  and  true! 
Make  the  false  Saxon  fcc-1 
Krin's  avenging  steel! 
Strike   for    your    country! — O'Donm-11 
abu! 


846 


POEMS   OF   M.  J.   McCANN. 


THE   BATTLE   OF  EATHDEUM. 

THE  BAED   OF   PHELIM  McPHEAGH 

—Canit.     1599. 

The  gallant  Pheagh  M1  Hugh  O'Byrne,  prince  ofWicklow, 
had  long  set  the  power  of  Elizabeth  at  defiance;  and  in  1580 
inflicted  a  disastrous  defeat  on  a  chosen  force  under  the  com- 
mand of  Lord  Deputy  de  Grey,  who  attempted  to  penetrate 
his  hereditary  territory  of  "  the  Ranelagh,"  by  way  of  Glen- 
dalough.  His  residence  was  at  Ballinacor,  in  the  romantic 
valley  of  Glenmalure,  and  its  halls  often  echoed  to  the  tread 
of  the  bravest  princes  and  chiefs  of  Ireland,  who  sought  his 
alliance  or  protection.  His  defiant  attitude,  so  near  the  seat 
of  government,  and  his  frequent  successes  over  the  English 
forces,  had  in  an  especial  manner  rendered  him  the  object  of 
the  hostility  and  anger  of  the  successive  military  rulers,  who, 
during  his  career,  held  the  reins  of  power  at  the  Castle  of 
Dublin,  and  on  the  7th  of  May,  1597,  being  betrayed  and  taken 
at  a  disadvantage,  he  was  slain  in  battle  against  the  Lord 
Deputy,  Sir  William  Russell.  His  son,  Pheliin,  was  at  once 
elected  to  succeed  him,  and  lost  no  time  in  preparing  to 
defend  his  ancient  patrimony  and  people.  On  the  arrival  of 
Essex,  as  Lord  Lieutenant,  on  the  15th  of  April,  1599,  the  at- 
tention of  the  latter  was  at  once  directed  to  the  son  of  the 
celebrated  Pheagh  M'Hugh,  and  Sir  Henry  Harrington,  a  vet- 
eran of  thirty  years1  standing,  was  stationed  at  the  Castle  of 
Wicklqw,  with  a  well-appointed  force,  detached  from  the 
splendid  army  which  Essex  had  brought  for  the  final  conquest 
of  Ireland.  The  Avonbeg,  running  through  the  romantic- 
valley  of  Glenmalure,  falls  into  the  Avonmore  below  Castle 
Howard,  forming  the  first  Meeting  of  the  Waters.  About 
four  miles  above  this  point,  on  the  Avonmore,  which  flows 
through  the  vale  of  Clara,  lying  eastward  of  Glenmalure,  id 
Rathclrum,  and  here  wasaforcl  which  formed  the  pass  into 
"the  Ranelagh."  from  the  Wicklow  direction,  at  about  six 
miles  distance  from  this  stronghold.  On  the  38th  of  May,  1599, 
Sir  Henry  Harrington  with  about  six  hundred  men,  of  whom 
sixty-eight  were  horse,  under  the  command  of  Captain  Mon- 
tague, a  brave  officer,  Sir  Henry's  nephew,  marched  from 
Wicklow,  and  encamped  within  a  mile  of  the  ford  of 
Avonmore.  Phelim  and  his  clansmen,  instead  of  waiting  to 
defend  the  passage  of  the  river,  crossed  over,  and  repeatedly 
alarmed  the  camp  during  the  night.  In  the  morning,  Sir 
Henry,  having  advanced  with  the  horse  to  reconnoitre,  pre- 
ceived  the  O'Byrnes  rapidlv  advancing  to  attack  him.  The 
memory  of  De  Grey,  and  Glendalough,  appears  to  have  risen 
vividly  to  his  mind,  and  a  retreat  was  at  once  ordered.  The 
Irish  were  inferior  not  only  in  appointments  and  discipline, 
but  even  in  numbers,  particularly  in  cavalry,  of  which  they 
had  only  about  a  dozen.  But  they  had  no  idea  of  permitting 
then-  foes  to  retire  so  easily ;  and  pressing  fiercely  on  thenr 
forced  them  to  an  engagement,  and  slew  "the  greatest  part " 
of  them.  None  escaped  but  those  who  had  been  covered  by 
the  horse,  which  suffered  severely  in  this  perilous  duty; 
Captain  Montague  himself,  as  Sir  Henry  says  in  his  despatch, 
being  "  stroken  in  thesyde  witha  pyke,"  and  having  received 
"  two  blowes  of  a  sword,"— and  such  as  had  taken  "  an  oppor- 
tunyty  to  stripp  themselves,  not  only  of  theire  weopens,  but 
clothes,"  and  had  "gott  away  disordered  by  footemanship." 
All  details  on  the  English  side  are  given  in  the  despatches  of 
Sir  Henry  and  the  other  officers  engaged,  and  may  be  seen, 
in  extenso,  in  the  23rd  number  of  that  valuable  publication 
the  new  series  of  the  Kilkenny  Archaeological  Journal. 

I. 

BY  Avonbeg  and  Avonmore  there's  many  a 
happy  home; 

On  every  side  through  Eanelagh  the  bright 
streams  flash  and  foam; 

And  snow-white  flocks  roam  far  and  wide, 
through  many  a  verdant  glade; — 

Sure  ne'er  was  land  so  wondrous  fair  by  nat- 
ure elsewhere  made ! 

II. 
And  from  each  olden  belfry,  still  by  time  or 

foe  unrent, 
To  prayer  is  far  o'er  hill  and  dale  the  silvery 

summons  sent; 


And  maidens,  fair  as  earth  e'er  saw,  amid 

these  valleys  dwell; — 
And   Eanelagh's   brave   sons   well   know  to 

guard  such  treasures  well. 

III. 

Still  proudly  over  Ballinacor  O'Byrne's  ban- 
ner waves; 

And  all  the  Calliagh  Rugli's  *  power,  as  erst, 
defiant  braves; 

And  though  heroic  Pheagh  is  gone,  •well  can 
young  Phelim  wield 

The  sword  his  sire  triumphant  waved  o'er 
many  a  stricken  field. 


*  * 


IV. 

Up  Glenmalure,  with  furious  speed,  who  doth 

so  reckless  ride  ? — 
Some  news  perchance  of  war  and  scath  he 

brings  from  Avon  side: — 
For  Wykinglo  f  full  long  has  flashed  beneath 

each  noontide  sun, 
With  helm  and  lance  and  corselet   bright, 

and  spear,  and  burnished  gun  ? 

V. 

Too  true, — red  sign  of  war!  behold  the  bea- 
con's signal  light 

Is  answered,  with  a  tongue  of  flame,  from 
every  neighboring  height; 

And  down  the  hills,  and  through  the  glens, 
as  fleet  as  mountain  roes, 

O'Byrne's  clansmen  rushing  come  to  meet 
their  Saxon  foes. 

VI. 

For  Harrington  from  Wykinglo  has  marched 
for  Avon's  ford, 

And  sworn  to  sweep  o'er  Eanelagh  with  ruth- 
less fire  and  sword : 

And  all  that  bear  O'Byrne's  name,  whate'er 
the  sex  or  age, 

To  doom  in  his  avenging  hate  to  glut  his 
soldiers'  rage. 


*  The  name  by  which  not  only  the  Milesian  but  many  of  the 
Anglo-Irish  designated  Elizabeth  towards  the  close  of  her 
reign.  It  means  the  Red  Hag. 

t  The  ancient  name  of  the  town  ofWicklow,  from  which  the 
county  was  called  when  erected  into  a  shire  in  the  time  of 
James  I.  It  is  of  Danish  origin,  and  signifies  the  Lake  of 
Ships,  from  Broad  Lough,  into  which  the  river  Vartry 
emptied  itself. 


POEMS  OF   M.  J.   McCANN. 


847 


VII. 

'Tis  morn,  at  close  of  joyous  May,  and  higl 

has  climbed  the  sun, 
But  why  a  mile  from  Avon's  ford  still  lingers 

Harrington?         . 
Around  him  stand  his  captains  tried;  behind 

his  marshalled  men; 
But  why  the  gloom  upon  his  brow,  as  he 

gazes  up  the  glen  ? 

VIII. 

He  sees  approach  O'Byrne's  van,  by  gallant 

chieftains  led; 
In    every   hand    a    pike   or  brand, — prince 

Phelim  at  their  head ! — 
And,  rapid  as  a  mountain   flood,  the  fiery 

clansmen  come; — 
There's  little  time  for  trumpet  bray,  or  roll 

of  Saxon  drum ! 

IX. 

No  thought  of  their  outnumbering  foes — 

they  thought  of  home  and  Pheagh;  * 
One  thrilling  cheer!    and   fierce  they  dash 

upon  that  proud  array ! 
There's  clangor  dire  of  steel  on  steel — there's 

crash  of  blade  and  spear — 
One  volley's  sped — and  England's  ranks  have 

broke  like  frightened  deer!  f 


X. 

And  in  the  wild  and  headlong  flight,  awayV 
cast  spear  and  gun, — 

Unheeded  is  the  bugle's  call — the  battle's 
lost  and  won ! 

And,  desperately  for  Wykinglo  rush  that  dis- 
ordered rout, 

Nor  dares  one  panting  fugitive  e'en  turn  his 
head  about.J 

XI. 

While,  in  revenge  for  gallant  Pheagh,  the 

victors  urge  the  chase, 
Until  the  castle  closed  its  gates  upon  their 

foe's  disgrace; 
And  many  a  polished  morion,  and  steel  jack 

glittering  lay, 
As  trophies   for  the  victors,  all  along  the 

corse-strewn  way. 

XII. 

And  but  for  valiant  Montague's  well-mounted 

cuirassiers, 
Whose  levelled  lances  sometimes  checked  the 

naked  mountaineers, 
For  Essex'  martial  vengeance  §  but  few  had 

'scaped  that  day, 
Their  vengeance  who  had  madly  wept  above 

the  bier  of  Pheagh. 


*  Pronounced  Fay.  The  treachery  and  cruelty  of  which 
this  heroic  chieftain  was  finally  the  victim,  might  well  ex- 
asperate less  excitable  minds  than  those  of  the  devoted  fol- 
lowers whom  he  had  so  often  led  to  victory  In  May,  1597,  he 
was  betrayed,  through  the  machinations  of  Sir  William  Rus- 
sell, and  slain.  His  body  was  brough  to  Dublin  and  quartered, 
"ami  his  head  spiked  on  a  tower  in  Dublin." 

tMr.  John  Clifford,  writing  from  Dublin  Castle  to  (Vi-il, 
on  the  13th  of  June.  1599,  says— (we  use  the  modem  orthog- 
raphy)—"His  Lordship  (Essex)  took  as  great  care  of  the 
borders,  and  all  other  parts,  as  might  be.  both  for  the  defence 
of  the  subject,  as  also  to  offend  the  rebels,  yet  we  prevail  but 
little,  for  upon  his  Lordship's  departure  from  Dublin,  he  up- 
pointed  Sir  Henry  Harrington  with  five  hundred  and  fifty 
footmen  and  threescore  and  eight  horsemen,  for  the  prosecut- 
ing of  all  Pheagh  McHugh's  sons,  and  the  rest  of  tin*  rebels 
about  the  mountains,  the  circumstance  of  which  service  I 
pH-Mimc!  is  well  known  to  your  honor;  yet  this  much  I  will 
make  bold  to  let  you  understand,  that  our  soldiers  had  no 
sooner  discovered  the  enemy,  but  they  were  presently  pos- 
I  with  sueli  it,  fear  that  they  cast  away  their  arms,  and 
would  not  strike  one  blow  for  their  lives.  //<7  tin-  UHIHI/  m> 
more  in  iininlx-r  titan  they  were  (i.e.  they  were  considerably 
less),  and  then  the  greutmt  /mrt  of  that  nnmlx-r  was  slain, 
with  Captain  Loftus,  the  Chancellor's  son.  and  Captain  War- 
mane  (Wardman),  yet  the  enemy  vnsnot  above  a  ilnzi-n  //!>*•»•. " 
The  annals  of  warfare  record  few  displays  of  lira  very  HIM  I  valor 
to  compare  with  this,  and  vet  the  Kiiirlisli  and  Anglo-Irish 
historians  almost  completely  ignore  it  Corroborative  of 
Clifford's  statement  is  the  authority  of  Harrington  himself, 
who  Bftvs  that  l h.- Irish  "  battaile,"'or  main  IMM!V,  consisted 

only  of  "about  ijc  (200)  Pykes  and  ter^-a  tyres."     Tl nly 

part  of  the  foot  who  did  behave  bravely  \\.i--  .m  Irish  Com- 
pany, commanded  bv  Captain  Adam  I.ofli.s  :  for  of  tl 
natural  enemies  of  their  country.  Harrington  -ays:  "  Not* 
men  could  serve  better  than  Ins  (Loftus'ftj  whiles!  one  man 
was  liable  to  stand.'  And  tht*.  victimised  Lieutenant  I'iers 
Walsh,  says:  ••Within  a  small  tymc  after  the  ,•,/„/'*  with 
their  battayle  and  loose  wings  came  in  and  Ix-ganne  to  -.Uir 
mi.-. -he  with  the  forces,  whereupon  Captain  Adam  I.ottns, 
with  his  foot  compamc  answered  the  skirmische  in  the  reare 


of  the  battayle  and  fought  very  valyuntly  for  the  space  of 

hree  myles,  thr  rmt  of  tin-  ctiinjxinit's  of /not  yelitinye  smale 
i'l/i  but  onely  marching  (running)  forward." 
t  Sir  Henry  Harrington  says  :— "  All  that  I  or  theire  captens 
•ould  do.  could  ni-i;  r  iiiuk'-  on<  <>f  tin  111  K!  i  x  to  tumthu  face 
toward  the  rebvlls.    Notwithstanding  that  our  horsse,  that 
ueareinthe  Rere  charge*  1  tw*.  ne  bothe  bat) 

whereby  they  wonne  our  men  breathe,  and  ground  enough  to 
"lave  better  resolved,  but  they  rather  took  that  as  an  oppor- 
unyty  to  stripp  themselves,  not  only  of  their  weapons,  but 
•lothcs." 

S  Cox  says,  "  Sir  Henry  Harrington  and  some  of  his  yovng 
•aptains  with  608  men,  left  in  the  (ilvnns,  received  u  baffle 
'rom  the  O'Briens,  (p'Byrnes,)  by  their  own  fault,  which' 
'.s.scx  punished 6y  ilrrinuititm,  and  the  execution  of  nr 
Lieutenant,  Pierce  Walsh,  on  whom  the  blame  of  that  dis- 
ister  n-ns  chi<-ftii  laid."  It  is  not  likely  that  Sir  Henry  Har- 
rington, who  refer*  from  his  prison,  where  he  lay  in  cuMody 
•f  the  Marshal,  to  his  "thirtle  ^  'id  who  e\i 

lently  was  appointed  to  this  dangerous  jnist  for  his  skill  and 
Military  qualities,  would  not    h.i\e  sc.-iired  able  and  zealous 
•Ulcers,  and.  in  fact,  he  bears  testimony  to  their  steady  and 
gallant  conduct  himself.    Hut  • 
valiled  on  all  *ides  hen*      I1    rritigtonand  his  me 
he  scapegoats  in  the  cast  In  despatches  for  Essex,  from  whose 
Jefeatsin  other  parts  of  the  country  it  wan  necessary  lotus  n 
uteiition:  and  as  a  soap- 
nrho  so  fitting  an  an  ••  !•  isli  Lietitenair 

'•Vulsli  wiis  ii. 

lays  of  Kli/abeth  should  have)).*  ti  bv  th.-sideof  1'helim 
ilcl'h'-.i  .(her  of  the  brave  Irish  chieftains 

.  t  I.H-I.I.  wre  iu~t  th   n  s.i  c  i  iantly  stniggllngagninst 
whelming  jxiwi-r    of    the  •'Calliagh  Kiinh."    ' 
iiyrundoiis  wen*,  in  defiance  of  all  Justice  and  the  law  • 
Jons,  carrying  on  a  remorseless  war  of  |x-rs«*<'utton  an  : 

Irish    jx-ople.     Hut     unfortun.. 

Walsh  could,  in  iiistitlcation.  point  at  but  too  many  IrUlnnen 

whose  example  be  was  only  following.    We  have  not,  ho\\- 

ver,  u-en  able  to  discover  iiny  pretext   f.,r  hi>i  execution. 

'ownnlice  could  not  have  i>  .•••  Alleged  against  him.  for.  un- 

ike  so  many  others,  he  did  not  throw  away  his  "  weopens  " 


848 


POEMS   OF   M.   J.   McCANN. 


XIII. 
And  now,  throughout  all  Banelagh,  be  joy 

and  festive  cheer; —  [have  no  fear 
The  children  may  in  safety  play,  the  maidens 
And  long  may  princely  Phelim  bear  the 

sword  Pheagh  bravely  bore; 
And  guard,  as  on  that  glorious  day,  the  ford 

of  Avonmore! 


THE   BATTLE   OF   GLENDALOUGH. 

A  Ballad  of  the  Pale,  A.  D.  1580. 
AN   autumn's  sun  is   beaming  on  Dublin's 

castle  towers, 
Whose   portals   fast   are  pouring   forth  the 

Pale's  embattled  powers; 
And  on  far  Wicklow's  hills  they  urge  their 

firm  and  rapid  way, 
And  well  may  proud  Lord  Grey  exult  to  view 

their  stern  array. 

For  there  was  many  a  stately  knight  whose 

helm  was  rough  with  gold, 
And  spearman  grim,  and  musketeer,  in  Erin's 

wars  grown  old; 
And  on  they  speed  for  Glendalough  'gainst 

daring  Fiach  MacHugh 
Who  lately  with  his  mountain  bands  to  that 

wild  glen  withdrew. 

And,  now,  above  the  rugged  glen,  their  pranc- 
ing steeds  they  rein, 

While  many  an  eager  look  along  its  mazy 
depths  they  strain, 

But  where's  the  marshalled  foe  they  seek — 
the  camp  or  watch  fires — where  ? 

For,  save  the  eagle  screaming  high,  no  sign 
of  life  is  there ! 

"  Ho !  "  cried  the  haughty  Deputy,  "  my  gal- 
lant friends  we're  late — 

I  rightly  deemed  the  rebel  foe  would  scarce 
our  visit  wait ! 


and  "  clothes  "  to  save  himself  by  flight;  but,  on  the  contrary, 
it  is  especially  mentioned  that  he  brought  off  in  safety  the 
colors  and  drum  of  his  company,  two  very  embarrassing  in- 
cumbrances  in  so  precipitate  a  retreat.  The  men.  on  their 

Eart,  endeavoured  to  cast  the  blame  upon  their  commanders, 
arSir  Henry  complaining  of  the  soldiers,  says:  "in  their 
baseness  practising  amongst  themselves,  one  of  them  in  hope, 
by  some  excuse,  to  save  Iris  lyff e  by  ymputing  fault  in  me, 
(as  is  confessed  by  some  of 'them  since)  should  say,  at  his 
deathe,  that  he  ronne  not  until  /  bid  hym  shyfte  for  hymself.'" 
Clearly  but  for  Montague  and  his  horse,  and  the  Irish  Com- 
pany of  Loftus,  who  in  some  measure  covered  the  retreat, 
not  a  man  of  this  splendidly  appointed  force,  led  by  an  ex- 
perienced commander,  would  have  escaped  death  or  capture 
at  the  hands  of  an  inferior  number  of  the  half -armed 
O'Byrnes. 


But,  onward  lead   the  foot,  Carew!   perhaps 

in  sooth  'twere  well 
That  something  of  their  flocks  and  herds  our 

soldiery  should  tell." 

• 
"  I've  heard  it  is  the  traitors  wont  in  cave 

and  swamp  to  hide 
When'er  they  deem  their  force  too  weak  the 

battle's  brunt  to  bide;  [in  his  lair — 
So,  Mark !  Where'er  a  rebel  lurks,  arouse  him 
And  death  to  him  whose  hand  is  known  an 

Irish  foe  to  spare." 

But   thus   the  veteran    Cosby  spoke, — "My 

lord,  I've  known  for  years, 
The  hardihood  and  daring  of  those  stalwart 

mountaineers; 
And,  trust  me   that  our   bravest  would   in 

yonder  rugged  pass,  [glass.* 

But  little  like  the  greeting  of  an  Irish  gallo- 

"  'Tis  true  his  brawny  breast  is  not  encased 
in  tempered  steel,  [arm  can  deal; 

But  sheer  and  heavy  is  the  stroke  his  nervous 

And,  too,  my  lord,  perhaps  'twere  ill  that 
here  you  first  should  learn 

How  truly  like  a  mountain  cat,  is  Erin's  fear- 
less kern." 

"  March! "  was  the  sole  and  stern  reply;  and- 

as  the  leader  spoke, 
Horn  and  trump,  and  thundering  drum  a 

thousand  echoes  woke, 
And,  on,  with  martial  tramp,  the  host,  all 

bright  in  glittering  mail, 
Wound,  like  a  monstrous  serpent,  far  along 

the  gloomy  vale. 

But,  hark!  what  wild  defiant  yell  the  rocks 
and  woods  among, 

Has  now,  so  fierce,  from  every  side,  in  thrill- 
ing echoes  rung  ? — 

O'Byrne's  well  known  warrison ! — and  hark ! 
along  the  dell,  [deadly  knell ! 

With  rapid  and  successive  peal,  the  muskets' 

As  wolves,  which  in  a  narrow  ring,  the  hunt- 
er's band  enclose, 

So  rush  the  baffled  Saxons  on  the  ambush  of 
their  foes; — 


*  Fiach  Mac  Hugh  O'Byrne,  prince  of  Wicklow,  one  of  those 
gallant  Irish  chieftains,  who,  in  the  reign  of  Elizabeth,  offered 
such  heroic  resistance  to  the  persecuting  and  confiscating 
government  of  the  period. 


POEMS   OF  M.  J.   McCANN. 


And,  lo !  from  every  craggy  screen,  as  'twere 

instinct  with  life, 
Up  ppring  the  mountain  warriors  to  meet  the 

coming  strife. 

And,  tall  amid  their  foremost  band,  his 
broadsword  flashing  bright 

The  dreaded  Fiach  MucHugh  is  seen  to  cheer 
them  to  the  fight, 

And  from  the  fiery  chieftain's  lips  those 
words  of  vengeance  passed 

"  Behold  the  accursed,  Sassanagh — remem- 
ber Mullaghmast ! "  * 

"  Now  gallant  clansmen,  charge  them  home ! 
not  oft  ye  hand  to  hand, 

In  battle  with  your  ruthless  foes  on  terms  so 
equal  stand; 

Ye  meet  not  now  in  firm  array  the  spear- 
men's serried  ranks 

No  whelming  squadrons  here  can  dash  like 
whirlwinds  on  your  flanks ! " 

The   keen   and   ponderous   battle-axe  with 

deadly  force  is  plied, 
And  deep  the  mountain  pike  and  skian  in 

Saxon  blood  is  dyed, 
And  many  a  polished  corselet's  pierced,  and 

many  a  helm  is  cleft — 
And  few  of  all  that  proud  array  for  shameful 

flight  are  left! 

Ni>  time  to  breathe  or  rally  them — so  hotly 

are  they  pressed ; 
For  thousand  maddening  memories  fire  each 

raging  victor's  breast, 
And  many  a  sire  and  brother's  blood,  and 

many  a  sister's  wrong, 
Were  then  avenged,  dark  Glendalough,  thy 

echoing  vale  along. 

,  Carew  and  Audley  deep  had  sworn  the  Irish 

foe  to  tame, 
But  thundering  on  their  dying  ear  his  shout 

of  victory  came, 
And  burns  with  shame  De  Grey's  knit  brow, 

and  throbs  witli  rage  his  eye, 
To  see  his  best  in  wildest  rout  from  Erin's 

clansmen  tly ! 

*The  massacre  of  MullaghmaKt  was  per|>etrated  a  few- 
years  previous  to  the  date  of  the  evrnt  oonunemorated,and 
WM  for  a  long  time  a  watch-word  of  vengeance  throughout 

Leiiist'-r. 


Ho!  warder!  for  the  Deputy  fling  wide  thy 

fortress  gate; — 
Lo!    burgher  proud,  and   haughty  dame,  l-e 

these  the  bands  ye  wait  : 
Whose  banners  lost,  and  broken  spears,  and 

wounds  and  disarray 
Proclaim  their  dire  disgrace  and  loss  in  that 

fierce  mountain  fray  ? 


CASHEL. 

CASHEL  of  Kings!  how  grandly  towers  thy 
pile,  [sky;— f 

Hoar  and  majestic,  'gainst  the  western 
How  dear  the  memories  that  arise  the  while 
We  think  upon  thy  glorious  days  gone  l>y! 
From  ^Engus  Patrick,  Ailbe,  Declan,  nigh 
Four  ages  have  roll'd  o'er  thy  saints  and 

kings, 

Yet  rise  thy  anthems  and  thy  incense  high, 
As  royalty  thy  golden  censer  swings, — 
For  Cormac  to  thy  shrine  Momonia's  sceptre 
brings.  J 

II. 

High  the  festivities  when  Brien  sate 
Leath  Mogha's  princes,  chiefs,  and  bards- 

among : —  § 
Higher   the   pomp,  more  lofty  still    the 

state —  (strung — 

Higher  the  trumpets  pealed,  the  harps  were 
More  full  and  far  the  acclamations  rung! 
When   stood   upon   thy  famed    inaugural 

stone — 1| 


t  The  view  of  the  Rock  of  Cashel  at  sunset,  particular- 
ly when  seen  for  the  first  linn-.  approaching  from  the  out- 
ward by  the  Clonmel  roa<l.  is  unusually  grand  and  hnpoafalff. 
and  to  the  mind  f  an  Irishman  familiar  with  the  hi~; 
his  country,  natually  suggests  the  train  of  reflections  which 
have  found  expression  in  tin-  foregoing  stanzas.  In  olden 
times  Cashel  waa  the  royal  ty-atof  the  kings  of  Minister,  and 
it  instated  that  St.  Put  rick  held  a  synod  here,  at  which  St. 
Ailbeof  Emly,  and  St.  Declau  of  Ardmore,  were  present,  in 
the  reign  ot  .Kngus,  King  of  Minister,  who  was  bapti/ 
St.  Patrick 

J  Cormac  Mac  Oiillenan,  King  of  Munster  and  Aivli 
l>i-hop  (,f  Cisln-1.  ftourislird  at  the  beginning  of  the  ninth 
century,  and  was  equally  distinguished  as  a  monarch,  a  pre- 
late and  asige.  He  was  th>-  author  of  the  celebrated  PoaHer 
«f  I'dKln'l,  find  is  said  by  some  authoritieH  totuive  l>uilt  the 
beautiful  little  church  on  the  Rock  •  :  <  IH-I  called  Cormac'n 
chajiel.  It  I* traditionally  related,  that  1 1  one  occasion  when 
he  was  celebration  High  Max*  nt  Christmas,  the  choir  waa 
composed  of  seven  hundred  priest*. 

f  Brien  Horn  held  his  court  frequently  at  Cashel  nfter 
beoomtnc  noranh  o(  Ireland,  and  imiit  U>e  embattled  w.ill 
around  the  brow  of  the  Rock,  a  considerable  portion  of  which 
still  remains. 

The  stone  mi  which  the  king*  of  MuMUT  were" inangu- 
rated  is  still  to  be  wen.  alx>ut  midway  between  the  entrance 
gate  and  the  palace  It  i«  composed  of  asort  of  sandfftooe, 
and  is  in  the  form  of  a  truncate.!  pyramid  of  some  fh 
high  and  about  t  he  same  dimensions  at  the  baae.  An  ancient 
:  "ss  of  peculiar  fonit  BunuounU  it. 


850 


POEMS   OF  M.   J.   McCANN. 


From  line  Eugenian  or  Dalcassian  sprung— 
A  candidate  for  Oilliol's  ancient  throne;* 
To  all  for  fearless  soul  and  kingly  virtues 
known.f 

III. 

But  fiercer  joy,  more  thrilling  transports 

rose,  [led 

As  Donough  back  Clontarf  s  brave  victors 
Triumphant;  J  foreign  and  domestic  foes 
Crushed  at  a  blow — their  bravest  fallen  or 

fled! 
Deep  was  their  mourning  too;   the  heroic 

head  blood 

Of  Heber's  race  had  purchased  with  his 
Thy  freedom;  §  while,  amid  the  carnage 

dread,  [stood, 

Full  many  who  the  o'er- whelming  foe  with- 

"With  dauntless  Murrough  fell  beside  Eblana's 

flood 

IV- 

Changes  the  scene;  in  Cormac's  sculptured 

choir 

A  foreign  king  in  regal  pomp  we  see, 
While  bends  in  homage  one  whose  royal 

sire, 

Left  a  brave  people  and  a  sceptre  free, 
With  his  good  sword;  ||  who  forfeits  now 

the  three  ?  [kneels 

Clontarf  s'  great  hero!  doth  the  prince  who 


*  Oilioll  Olum,  King  of  Munster,  bequeathed  his  throne  in 
alternate  succession  to  the  descendants  of  his  two  sons, 
Eogan  More  and  Cormac  Gas.  From  the  former,  who  was 
the  elder  brother,  sprang  the  Eugenian  line,  represented  by 
the  MacCarthys,  and  from  the  latter,  the  Dalcassian,  repre- 
sented by  the  O'Briens. 

For  he  must  have  come  from  a  warrior  race — 

The  heir  of  their  valor,  their  glory,  their  grace.—  Davis. 

}  Donough  O'Brien,  one  of  the  sons  of  Brian  Boru,  led 
back,  after  the  battle  of  Clontarf,  the  Dalcassian  victors  to 
•Cashel. 

§  Brian  Boru  was  the  head  of  the  race  of  Heber  at  the 
time  of  Clontarf.  He  was  treacherously  killed  in  his  tent  to- 
wards the  close  of  the  day,  after  the  rout  of  the  Danes,  by 
Broder,  the  Danish  admiral. 

II  Donald  More  O'Brien,  a  descendant  of  Brian  Boru,  was 
King  of  Thomond,  at  the  period  of  the  Invasion,  and  accord- 
ing to  tradition,  was  six  feet  seven  inches  high,  which  is  said 
to  account  for  the  unusual  height  of  the  galleries  in  the  por- 
tion of  the  royal  palace  built  by  him.  Like  Dermot  M'Carthy 
of  Cork,  and  some  of  the  minor  Irish  chieftains,  he  did  hom- 
age to  Henry  II.  as  his  accepted  suzerain,  in  place  of  Roderick 
)  Connor,  BS  did  also  several  of  the  Irish  prelates,  at  the 
Synod  of  Cashel,  held  in  Cormac's  chapel;  for  all  were  weary 
of  the  harassing  internecine  warfare  by  which  the  country 
had  long  been  devastated,  and  the  wily  Henry  professed  to 
come  solely  in  the  interests  of  religion,  peace,  and  order;  the 
Irish  princes  being  it  appears  under  the  impression  that 
they  were  to  exercise  the  same  power  in  their  respective 
territories  as  under  their  native  monarchs.  But  being  taught 
by  convincing  evidences  the  hollowness  of  these  pretences 
of  Henry,  Donald  was  soon  in  arms,  and  at  Thurles.  with  the 
aid  of  some  Connaught  battalions  inflicted  a  severe  defeat  on 
the  united  Anglo-Ostman  forces  under  Strongbow,  killing,  ac- 
cording to  the  Four  Masters,  1,700  of  them.  The  princes  of 
Ulster,  however,  held  aloof  on  the  occasion  above  referred  to, 
And  did  not  come  to  do  homage  to  Henry. 

i 


At  Henry's  footstool  claim  descent  from 

thee? 

Donald  the  stately !  king  and  warrior,  feels 
Thy  brow  no  flush,  thy  breast  no  throb,  as  he 
Barters  his  favor  for  thy  fealty  ? — reels 
Thy  brain  not  madly  whilst  thy  country's 

death-knell  peals ! 

V. 

From  off  thy  walls  sublime  the  scene,  when 

passed 

King  Bruce,!"  victorious  over  every  foe; 
Ard-Righ    of   Erinn! — chosen,  tried,  and 

last —  [show, 

His  twice  ten  thousand  made  a  glorious 
As  rapidly  they  crossed  the  pl;iin  below; 
There   Bannockburn's    claymores   flashed, 

and  there 

The  fearless  sons  of  Lagan,  Bann,  and  Eoe, 
With   joy,  for  him,  war's  sternest  brunt 

would  dare; 
And  proud  their  war-notes  rang — gay  danced 

their  banners  fair! 


1   The    Scots,  under    Robert    Bruce,  having  freed  their 
country  from  English  bondage  by  the  victory  of  Bannock- 
burn,  fought  on  the  25th  of  June,  1314,  the  Irish  thought  it  a 
fitting  opportunity  to  make  a  ^reat  effort  for  the  recovery  of 
their  lost  liberties,  and  accordingly  invited  over  his  brother, 
the  gallant  Edward  Bruce,  as  King;  his  descent  from  the  an- 
cient monarchs  of  Ireland,  and  the  fact  of  his  heroic  brother 
being  on  the  Scottish  throne,  rendering  his  election  not  only 
justifiable,  but  particularly  desirable.    The  Scottish  monarch 
approved  of  the  proposal,  and  on  the  26th  of  May,  1315,  Ed- 
ward Bruce  landed  at   Larne  with  6,000  men,  and  was  im- 
mediately  joined   by  the  flower  of  the  Ulster  Irish.    The 
English  were  defeated  in  several  skirmishes,  and  on  the  10th 
of  September,  the  united  forces  of  the  Red  Earl  of  Ulster, 
and  Sir  Edmond  Butler  were  overthrown  with  great  slaught- 
er near  Connor  in  Antrim.    Having  been  proclaimed  King 
of  Ireland,  Bruce  marched  southward  in  December,  defeating 
Roger  Mortimer  at  the  head  of  15,000  men,  at  Kells  in  Meath. 
Then  entering  Kildare  he  again  defeated  Sir  Edmond  Butler, 
at  the  celebrated  Moat  of  Ardscul.    The  Irish  now  rose  upon 
their  oppressors  in  several  quarters,  but  a  terrible  famine 
came  to  the  aid  of  the  English,  who  were  on  the  point  of  be- 
ing annihilated,  and  Bruce  was  obliged  to  return  to  Ulster, 
where  he  exercised  all  the  prerogatives  of  Royalty  without 
molestation.    King  Robert  Bruce  came  over  himself,  in  Sep- 
tember, and  reduced  Carrickfergus,  where  a  strong  garrison 
still  held  out,  and  early  in  1317.  the  Scoto-Irish  army,  num- 
bering it  is  said  20,000  men,  again  marched  southward,  under 
command  of  the  brother  kings,  through  Naas,  Castledermot. 
Gowram,  Callan,  Kells  in  Ossory,  and  Cashel,  devastating  the 
Butler  territory  on  their  way.      An  army  of  30,000  Anglo- 
[rish  under  their  best  leaders,   now  marched  against  the 
the  forces  of  Bruce,  but  were  afraid  to  attack  them,  and  the 
new  monarch  was  constrained  from  want  of  pro  vision  saga  in 
to  retire  into  Ulster,  and  Robert  Bruce  was  obliged  to  return 
to  Scotland  in  May,  a  fearful  famine  rendering  military  oper- 
ations impossible.    Next  year,  owing  to  the  famine,  the  army 
of  Bruce  was  reduced  to  3,000  men,  but  he  marched  to  Dun- 
dalk,  to  which  Sir  John    Birmingham,  with  a  much  larger 
force  was  advancing  to  meet  him.    As  the  hostile  forces  were 
in  presence  of  each  other,  John  Maupas,  an  English  Knight, 
having,  as  Lodge  relates,  drest  himself  like  a  fool,  succeeded 
in  entering  Brace's  camp,  and  before  he  could  be  prevented, 
struck  him  a  deadly  blow  with  a  leaden  plummet.    He  was 
instantly  cut  to  pieces,  but  the  Scoto-Irish  were  thrown  into 
consternation  and  disorder,  and  though  a  bloody  battle  en- 
sued, the  latter  without  their  chosen  leader,  and,  after  his 
death,  almost  without  a  cause,   were  defeated.    And  thus 
ended  an  enterprise  which  at  one  time  promised  to  put  an  end 
to  English  domination  in  Ireland. 


I'OKMS    OF    M.   .!.    M.  <    \\N. 


851 


VI. 

Murrough    the    Burner!*     memory    ever 

'cursed, 

Thy  cruel  deeds  are  chronicled  in  flame; 
Of  all  Oromwellian  myrmidons  the  worst — 
Thy  bleeding  country's  ruthless   scourge 

and  shame! 

Who,  after  thee,  can  Saxon  Cromwell  blame 
For  Wexford's  slaughter?  when  both  youth 

and  age, 

And  sacred  priesthood,  at  thy  word,  became 
The  victims  of  those  fell  fanatics'  rage 
Who  did  'gainst  God  and  man  such  war  re- 
morseless wage. 

VII. 

Ay,  vain  was  woman's  shriek  and  infant's 

wail — 

Ancestral  memories' mute  appeal  was  vain; 
Xor  aught  did  sanctity  itself  avail; 
Without,  within,  that  consecrated  fane, 
The  unoffending  and  unarmed  were  slain. 
And    INCHIOUIX    those   savage    butchers 

leads —  [Dane ! — 

Sprung  from   the   queller  of   the   pagan 

What  dread  example  are  his  demon  deeds, 

Of  richest  soils  for  aye  producing  rankest 

weeds ! 

VIII. 

Rolls  half  an  age,  and  some  who  'scaped 

from  all,  [men  f 

Are   kindly  tending  gashed  and   ghastly 


*  After  devastating;  the  country  with  flre  and  sword,  the 
sanguinary  Murrough  O'Brien,  adeccendaotof  the  great  hero 
whu  nulf  from  rank  to  rank,  crucifix  in  hand,  at  Clontarf, 
advanced  against  Cashel,  whicli  Taaffe,  as  if  In  collusion 
with  i  hat  ferocious  traitor.  left  garriBonedbr  only  aOOsoldierB. 
The  city  accepted  conditions  and  oi>e,ned  its  gate*,  but  the 
garrison  and  a  number  of  the  clergy  ninl  inhabitants,  fled  to 
tin-  shelter  of  the  Cathedral  on  the  Rook  of  st.  Patrick.  As 
Inchiquin  had  7,inm  men  under  his  command,  an  assault  WHS 
made  ny  overwhelming  numbers  of  his  bloodthirsty  fanatics. 
But,  they  were  repulsed  with  great  loss.  Terms  'were  then 
offered  to  the  garrison  ou  condition  of  their  deserting  the 
clergy  and  citizens,  but  this  they  heroically  refused  to  <!<>. 
The  assault  was  then  renewed,  and  the  Puritans  at  length 
overpowered  the  gallant  handful  of  men  opposed  to  them, 
and  burst  into  the  great  church.  There,  however,  thevcn- 
i-ojiiiti-red  adcsp.-ratc  resistance.  When,  by  dint  of  Dumber*, 
they  had  overwhelmed  the  few  brave  defender!  remaining, 
they  eoiniiieiieed  one  of  the  most  merciless  massacres  on 
r«  cord.  Twenty  priests  and  Several  re! igioiis  Were  savagely 
murdered.  And  even  old  wnmen  who  had  readied  their 
hundredth  vcarwcre  iu>t  spare<l,  whilst  infants  were  butch 
eiedon  thoaltar.  And  the  Intcrnuncio  relates  flint  a  iiiiin- 
b  T  of  helple;s  females  who  knelt  around  tho statue  i.t  si 
1'atnck,  were  inhumanly  out  to  pieces.  Within  the  church 
:il','  altogether  were  slain,  but  amongst  them  were  500  of  the 
assailants,  so  that  th»  remnant  of  the  little  garrison,  and 
•uchof  the  Catholics  as  were  able  to  resist,  sold  their  lives 
dearly.  In  the  cit  v  .'(.nut  were  massacred:  and  the  venerable 

Father  Richard  Barry,  of  the  order  of  St.  I>ominiek.  bei-aus,. 
he  would   not  cast  «t\  his  habit.  w  as  roasted  alive  in  a  stone 
chair,  ny  order  of  the  officers  of  Incln<|iiin'     As  usual,   the 
church  was  de-eerated,  and  everything  sacred  destroyed 
t  Fifty-three  years  after  the  sack  of  Cushel,  the  wounded 


In  Cormac's  chapel,  and  in  Brirn's  hall;  — 
'Twere  record  worthy  of  an  angel's  pen  ! 
For  foes,  from   Limerick's  siege   they've 

come,  and  then 

As  sons  of  CashePs  stormers  ask  they  aid  ! 
E'en  some  had  been  from  flames  and  death 

snatched,  when 
Mid  William's  blazing  tents,  pursuit  was 

staid 
At   pity's  voice,  and   sheathed    was   Erin's 

vengeful  blade.  J 

IX. 

Lone,  lofty,  riven,  thus  riseth  'jrainst  the 

sky, 

A  giant  witness  of  stupendous  wroiiir: 
Around  thy  ruined  aisles,  while  foul  birds 

fly, 

Foes  grasp  thy  rights  with  robber  hands, 

and  strong;  — 
Defaced  thy  monuments:  —  but  why  pro- 

long 

The  sad  recital  ?  —  o'er  the  richest  plain 
Of  Erinn  hast  thou  looked  for  ages  longr 
And  never  saw  Extermination  re:. 
So  uncontrolled  —  the  peasant's  toil  so  vain! 

.\. 
Cashel  of  Kings!    most  striking  type  art 

thou 
Of    Erinn  —  plundered,    outraged,    deso- 

late; — 
Though  braving  fortune  with  uiHjuailing 

brow, 

Appealing  still  sublimely  'gainst  her  fate. 
And  yet  thou'lt  see  her  rise  despite  the  hate 
Of  bigot  foes,  and  tyrant's  sterne.-t  ire, 
And  all  her  aspirations  vindicate: 
For  this  does  heaven  undying  hope  inspire, 
And  fill  her  children's  hearts  with  quenchless 

patriot  fire! 

,    1862 


soldiers  of  William's  army  were  brought  from  the  liege  of 
Limerick  to   Cashel,  and  'the    Inhabitants,    forgetting  what 
the     fathers    of    many    of  them  had  d"i>e  under    lncliii|iim. 
tendered  them  every  assistance  which  humnnltv  con 
gest,  and  for  this  William  renewed   the  charterof  the  city  on 

the  Bridge  of  OoJden 

t  A    noble    instance    of    humanity   and    forgivenem    was 
displayed  bv  many  of  the  Irish  soldier-.  when  th- 
suing  the  defeated  Willinnutes  from  the  walls  o°f  l.m 
<  >n  seeing  the  sick   and  wounded  men  like!  in  the 

(lames  of  the  hospital  tents,  which  ;  -id  taken  tire  m  il: 
fusion,  they  st..p|>ed  in  their  pursuit  to  carr."  their  disabled 
enemies  out  of  the  (lames  to  a  place  ,,(  safely.  The  truly 
Chrislain  magnanimity  of  this  act  will  »»•  U-tte'r  understood 
when  it  is  recollected  thai  the  conduct  of  William's  soldier* 
toward  the  Irish  was  remarkable  for  cruelty. 


POEMS  OF  JUSTIN  H.  MCCARTHY. 


EARTHLY  GLORY. 

I  SAAV  a  rose  one  summer  day 

With  perfume  fresh  and  sweet, 
But  when  again  I  passed  that  way 

'Twas  withered  at  my  feet. 
It  hung  its  faded,  pretty  head, 

Its  sweetness  had  departed ; 
It  seemed  an  emblem  of  the  dead, 

Of  some  one  broken-hearted. 
It  told  its  own  wise  tale  of  truth, 

Of  moments  swiftly  flying, 
It  told  me  of  a  wasted  youth, 

Of  manhood  slowly  dying; 
And  spoke  a  tale  unto  a  heart 

Which  felt  its  sad,  sad  story, 
Of  how  our  brightest  hopes  depart, 

How  fleets  all  earthly  glory. 


LIFE'S   CHANGE. 

THE  pride  of  the  morn  may  be  humbled  at 

night, 
And  the  darkness  of  fear  be  dispelled  by  the 

light. 
And  the  power  of  the  mighty's  tyrannical 

sway 
May  be  strong  for  a  year  and  be  lost  in  a  day. 

The  bright  hopes  of  youth  are  oft  vanished 

in  years. 
And  dissolved  is  the  sweet  smile  of  gladness 

in  tears; 
Not  a  day,  not  an  hour,  as  our  own  can  be 

reckoned, 
For  the  wish  of  a  life  may  be  wrecked  in  a 

second. 


The  joys  of  to-day  may  be  buried  in  sorrow, 
Ere  the  still  hours  of  even  may  close  on  the 

morrow ; 
And  the  love  of  this  moment  be  hate  in  an 

hour, 
Anu   seemingly  weakness    be    turned   into 

power. 

And  the  halo  that  dwells  round  the  temple 

of  fame, 
And  the  prize  that  encircles  a  world-known 

name, 

May  vanish  like  snow  in  a  southern  clime 
Ere  to-morrow  shall  sink  in  the  ocean  of 

time. 


ADAM   LUX. 

WHEN  Charlotte  Corday  journeyed  towards 

the  dead 
For  slaying  him  she  deemed  her  country's 

foe, 
Thro'  all  the  angry  crowd  that  watched  her 

go 
To  that  ill  place,  by  frequent  blood  stained 

red, 

One  man  who  looked  his  last  on  that  fail- 
head, 

Unshamed  as  yet  by  any  headsman's  blow, 
Felt  all  the  currents  of  his  being  flow 
The  quicker  for  the  girl  whose  life  was  shed. 
Seeing  and  loving,  to  like  end  he  came — 
Lived  but  to  praise  her  dead,  and  praising 

died 

The  self-same  death  of  not  inglorious  shame. 
0  Adam  Lux,  thus  seeking  thy  soul's  bride 
Across  the  stretch  of  that  ensanguined  tide, 
High  with  love's  martyrs  let  me  write  thy 
name. 


POEMS  OF  OSCAR  0,  F,  WILDE, 


GREFITI   D'lTALIA.* 

THE  corn  has  turned  from  gray  to  rod, 
Since  first  my  spirit  wandered  forth 
From  drearer  cities  of  the  north, 

And  to  Italia's  mountains  fled. 

And  here  I  set  my  face  towards  home, 
Alas!  my  pilgrimage  is  done, 
Although,  methinks,  yon  blood-red  sun 

Marshals  the  way  to  holy  Rome. 

0  Blessed  Lady  who  dost  hold 
Upon  the  seven  hills  thy  reign, 

0  Mother  without  blot  or  stain, 
Crowned  with  bright  crowns  of  triple  gold. 

0  Roma,  Roma,  at  thy  feet 

1  lay  this  barren  gift  of  song ! 
For,  ah !  the  way  is  steep  and  long 

That  leads  unto  thy  sacred  street. 

And  yet  what  joy  it  were  for  me 
To  turn  my  feet  unto  the  south, 
And  journeying  towards  the  Tiber  mouth 

To  kneel  again  at  Fiesole ! 

Or  wandering  through  the  tangled  pines 
That  break  the  gold  of  Arno's  stream, 
To  see  the  purple  mist  and  gleam 

Of  morning  on  the  Apennines. 

By  many  a  vineyard-hidden  home, 
Orchard,  and  olive-garden  gay, 
Till  rise  from  the  Campagna's  gray, 

The  seven  hills,  the  golden  dome! 

A  pilgrim  from  the  northern  seas — 
What  joy  for  me  to  seek  alone 
The  wondrous  Temple  and  the  throne 

Of  Him  who  holds  the  awful  keys! 

When,  bright  with  purple  and  with  gold, 
Come  priest  and  holy  Cardinal, 
And  borne  above  the  heads  of  all 

The  gentle  Shepherd  of  the  fold. 

•This  beautiful  poem  derive*  an  a.Miti.imil  intrnvt  fr-.m 
the  fact  that  the  author  is  a  non-Cat  h.»li<-.  an.l  that  ItOTlftUfr 
ally  api«>arr.l  in  the  I.oii.lon  Month,  the  leading  Catholic 
Magazine  of  Great  Britain. 


0  joy  to  see  before  I  die 

The  only  God-anointed  King, 
And  hear  the  silver  trumpets  ring 
A  triumph  as  he  passes  by ! 

Or  at  the  altar  of  the  shrine 
Holds  high  the  mystic  sacrifice, 
And  shows  a  God  to  human  eyes 

From  the  dead  fruit  of  corn  and  wine. 

For,  lo,  what  changes  time  can  bring! 
The  cycles  of  revolving  years 
May  free  my  heart  from  all  its  fears 

And  teach  my  lips  a  song  to  sing. 

Before  yon  troubled  sea  of  gold 
The  reapers  garner  into  sheaves, 
Or  e'en  the  autumn's  scarlet  leaves 

Flutter  as  birds  adown  the  wold, 

1  shall  have  run  the  glorious  race. 

And  caught  the  torch  while  yet  aflame, 
And  called  upon  the  Holy  Name 
Of  Him  who  now  doth  hide  His  Face. 


LIBERTATIS    SACRA    FAMES. 

ALBEIT  nurtured  in  democracy, 
And  liking  best  that  state  republican 
Where  every  man  is  Kinglike  and  no  man 

Is  crowned  above  his  fellows,  yet  I  see, 

Spite  of  this  modern  fret  for  Liberty, 
Better  the  rule  of  One,  whom  all  obey. 
Than  to  let  clamorous  demagogues  betn.y 

Our  freedom  with  the  kiss  of  anarchy. 

Wherefore  I  love  them  not  whose  hands  pro- 
fane 

Plant  the  red  flag  upon  the  pilrd-up.-- 
For  no  right  cause,  bo neat  h  whose  ignorant 
reign 

Arts,  Culture.  Reverence.  Honor,  all  things 

fade, 

Save  Treason  and  the  dagger  of  her  ti...le. 
And  Murder  with  his  silent  bloody  feet. 


854 


A  POEM   BY   BARTHOLOMEW  BOWLING. 


A  VISION. 

THE  crowned  Kings  and  One  that  stood  alone 
With  no  green  weight  of  laurels  round  his 

head, 

But  with  sad  eyes  as  one  uncomforted, 
And  wearied  with  man's  never-ceasing  moan 
For  sins  no  bleating  victim  can  atone, 
And  sweet  long  lips  with  tears  and  kisses  fed. 
Girt  was  he  in  a  garment  black  and  red, 


And  at  his  feet  I  marked  a  broken  stone 
Which  sent  up  lilies,  dove-like,  to  his  knees. 
Now  at  their  sight,  my  heart  being  lit  with 

flame, 

I  cried  to  Beatrice,  "  AVho  are  these  ?  " 
And  she  made  answer,  knowing  well  each 

name, 

"^Eschylos  first,  the  second  Sophokles, 
And  last  (wide  stream  of  tears !)  Euripides." 


A  POEM  BY  BARTHOLOMEW  DOVL1M. 


THE   BRIGADE  AT  FONTENOY. 

MAY  11,  1745. 
BY  our  camp-fires  rose  a  murmur, 

At  the  dawning  of  the  day, 
And  the  tread  of  many  footsteps 

Spoke  the  advent  of  the  fray ; 
And,  as  we  took  our  places, 

Few  and  stern  were  our  words, 
While  some  were  tightening  horse-girths, 

And  some  were  girding  swords. 

The  trumpet  blast  is  sounding 

Our  footmen  to  array — 
The  willing  steed  is  bounding, 

Impatient  for  the  fray — 
The  green  flag  is  unfolded, 

While  rose  the  cry  of  joy — 
"  Heaven  speed  dear  Ireland's  banner 

To-day  at  Fontenoy ! " 

We  looked  upon  that  banner, 

And  the  memory  arose 
Of  our  homes  and  perished  kindred 

Where  the  Lee  or  Shannon  flows; 
We  looked  upon  that  banner, 

And  we  swore  to  God  on  high 
To  smite  to-day  the  Saxon's  might — 

To  conquer  or  to  die. 

Loud  swells  the  charging  trumpet — 
'Tis  a  voice  from  our  own  land — 

God  of  battles !  God  of  vengeance ! 
Guide  to-day  the  patriot's  brand! 


There  are  stains  to  wash  away, 

There  are  memories  to  destroy, 
In  the  best  blood  of  the  Briton 

To-day  at  Fontenoy. 

Plunge  deep  the  fiery  rowls 

In  a  thousand  reeking  flanks- 
Down,  chivalry  of  Ireland, 

Down  on  the  British  ranks! 
Now  shall  their  serried  columns 

Beneath  our  sabres  reel- 
Through  their  ranks,  then,  with  the  war- 
horse — 

Through  their  bosoms  with  the  steel. 

With  one  shout  for  good  King  Louis 

And  the  fair  land  of  the  vine, 
Like  the  wrathful  Alpine  tempest 

We  swept  upon  their  line — 
Then  rang  along  the  battle-field 

Triumphant  our  hurrah, 
And  we  smote  them  down,  still  cheering, 

"Erin,  slianthagal  go  bragh  !  *  " 

As  prized  as  is  the  blessing 

From  an  aged  father's  lip — 
As  welcome  as  the  haven 

To  the  tempest-driven  ship — 
As  dear  as  to  the  lover 

The  smile  of  gentle  maid — 
Is  this  day  of  long-sought  vengeance 

To  the  swords  of  the  Brigade. 


*  Erin,  your  bright  health  for  ever. 


POEMS   OF  JOHN   AUGUSTUS   SIM. A. 


See  their  shattered  forces  flying, 

A  broken,  routed  line — 
See,  England,  what  brave  laurels 

For  your  brow  to-day  we  twine. 
<>li,  thrice  blest  the  hour  that  witnessed 

The  Briton  turn  to  flee 
From  the  chivalry  of  Erin, 

And  France's fleur-de-li*. 


As  we  lay  beside  our  camp  fires 

When  the  sun  had  passed  away 
And  thought  upon  our  brethren 

That  had  perished  in  the  fray — 
We  prayed  to  God  to  grant  us, 

And  then  we'd  die  with  joy, 
One  day  upon  our  own  dear  land 

Like  that  of  Fontenoy. 


THE   O'KAVANAGH. 

I. 
THE  Saxons  had  met,  and  the  banquet  was 

spread, 

And  the  wine  in  fleet  circles  the  jubilee  led; 
And  the  banners  that  hung  round  the  festal 

that  night, 
Seemed  brighter  by  far  than  when  lifted  in 

fight. 

II. 

In  came  the  O'Kavanagh,  fair  as  the  morn, 
When  earth  to  new  beauty  and  vigor  is  born; 
They  shrank  from  his  glance,  like  the  waves 

from  the  prow, 
For  nature's  nobility  sat  on  his  brow. 

III. 

Attended  alone  by  his  vassal  and  bard — 
Xo  trumpet  to  herald,no  clansmen  to  guard  — 
He  came  not  attended  by  steed  or  by  steel : 
No  danger  he  knew,  for  no  fear  did  he  feel. 

IV. 

In  eye  and  on  lip  his  high  confidence  smile  1 
So  proud,  yet  so  knightly — so  gallant,  yet 

mild; 
lie  moved  like  a  god  through  the  light  of 

that  hall, 
And  a  smile,  full  of  courtliness,  proffered  to 

all. 


V. 

"  Come  pledge  us,  lord  chieftain !  come  pledge- 

us ! "  they  cried ; 

Unsuspectingly  free  to  the  pledge  he  replied ; 
And  this  was  the  peace-branch  O'Kavanagh 

bore — 
"  The  friendships  to  come,  not  the  feuds  that 

are  o'er!" 

VI. 

But,  minstrel,  why  cometh  a  change  o'er  thy 

theme  ? 
Why  sing  of  red  battle — what  dream  dost 

thou  dreuin  ? 
Ha!  " Treason ! "  's  the  cry, and  "  Revenge! " 

is  the  call, 
As  the  swords  of  the  Saxon  surrounded  the 

hall! 

VII. 

A  kingdom  for  Angelo's  mind!  to  portray 
Green  Erin's  undaunted  avenger  that  day: 
The  far-flashing  sword,  and  the  death-dart- 
ing eye, 

Like  some  comet  commissioned  with  wrath 
from  the  sky. 

VIII. 

Throuirh  the  ranks  of  the  Savon  he  he\ved 
his  red  way — 

Tli rough  lances,  and  sabres,  and  hostile  ar- 
ray : 


856 


POEMS   OF  JOHN  AUGUSTUS   SHEA. 


And,  mounting  his  charger,  he  left  them  to 
tell 

'The  tale  of  that  feast,  and  its  bloody  fare- 
well. 

IX. 

And  now  on  the  Saxons  his  clansmen  ad- 
vance, 

With  a  shout  from  each  heart,  and  a  soul  in 
each  lance : 

He  rushed,  like  a  storm,  o'er  the  night-cov- 
ered heath, 

And  swept  through  their  ranks,  like  the 
angel  of  death. 

X. 

Then  hurrah !  for  thy  glory,  young  chieftain, 
hurrah ! 

Oh !  had  we  such  lightning-souled  heroes  to- 
day, [gale, 

Again  would  our  "  sunburst "  expand  in  the 

And  Freedom  exult  o'er  the  green  Innisf ail ! 


THE   INVOCATION. 
(From  "  Clontarf .") 

STAR  of  my  love!     Celestial  vision  beaming, 

And  beckoning  from  thy  home  of  light  to  me, 

In  the  rapt  moments  of  my  purest  dreaming 

I've  worshipped  thee. 

0 !  thou  wert  fairest  of  this  fair  creation, 
That  human  mind  could  dream  or  eye  could 

see; 

A  hope,  a  power,  a  glorious  revelation — 
Of  love  to  me. 

Thou  wert  the  earthly  idol  of  my  living ; 
Thy  presence  made  it  paradise  to  me; 
Thy  smile  was  all  the  world  possessed  worth 
giving, 

Though  bright  it  be. 

And  I  have  loved  thee  too  for  that  devotion 
With  which  thou'st  loved  our  Island  of  the 

sea; 

,She  felt  the  prayer  of  thy  pure  soul's  emo- 
tion, 

And  she  is  free. 


My  country!  may  thy  name  and  fame  and 

glory- 
Hope,  virtue,  prowess,  pride  and  liberty 
Kindle  thy  sons  in  many  a  future  story 
With  chivalry. 

Free  mayst  thou  be,  honored,  pure  and  holy, 
The  Gospel's  rock-built  ocean-sanctuary! 
Accept  this  prayer  for  her,  from  lips  so  lowly, 
Oh!  God  to  thee! 


THE   SWOKD-GIFT. 
(From  "  Clontarf.") 

STRONG  pulse  of  my  bosom, 
Fair  light  of  my  brow; 
I  never  have  loved  thee 
More  fondly  than  now; 
Than  now  that  I  give  thee 
To  foe  and  to  field, 
To  conquer  or  perish — 
But  never  to  yield. 

Take  the  sword  of  thy  father, 

A  field's  to  be  won ; 

Let  it  dash  o'er  that  field 

Like  the  beams  of  the  sun ; 

If  it  sink — let  it  be 

With  the  pride  of  its  dawn, 

As  near  to  its  heaven 

As  when  it  was  drawn. 

By  the  skill  of  a  freeman, 
For  freedom  'twas  made; 
In  the  hands  of  a  freeman 
'Twill  not  be  betrayed. 
I  have  loved  it — how  dearly 
Yon  heaven  can  see — 
Almost  with  the  love  spell 
That  binds  me  to  thee. 

That  sword  once  was  light 
As  a  rush  in  my  hand, 
But  now  I  can  scarcely 
Its  movement  command. 
No  matter!  come  hither! 
Come  hither,  my  boy; 
There  take  it— Oh  God, 
What  fulfillment  of  joy. 


POEMS   OF   THOMAS    FRANCIS    MKAGHKK. 


857 


Go  forth  in  young  glory, 
Go  vanquish  the  Dane, 
And  swell  the  proud  story 
Our  land  must  retain. 
Go!  leave  not  a  footprint 
Of  foes  on  our  sod ; 
For  glory  and  Erin, 
For  Freedom  and  God. 


THE    LEPER. 
(St.  Luke,  Chap.  5,  v.  xii.) 

'To  Jesus  they  brought  him,  the  sinful  and 

weak, 
And  the  death  hue  o'ershadowed  his  brow 

and  his  cheek ; 
And  the  multitude  gathered  to  hear  and  to 

see 
'The  Hope  of  the  Prophets  in  fair  Galilee. 


And  the  Leper,  approaching  the  Son  of  the 

Word, 
Knelt  down  and  besought,  and  beseeching 

adored, 

And  said,  in  the  faith  of  his  confident  soul, 
"  Oh  Lord !  if  thou  wilt,  thou  can'st  render 

me  whole." 

And  the  faith  of  the  Leper  was  favored  by 
Him, 

In  the  light  of  whose  shadow  the  sunbeam 
is  dim; 

He  held  forth  His  hand,  and  the  God  was  re- 
vealed ; 

He  uttered  the  word — and  the  Leper  was 
healed. 

Oh !  thus  may  my  faith  undiminished  remain, 
To  rescue  my  soul  from  Impurity's  stain; 
That  I  may  deserve  Thy  redemption,  and 

feel, 
With  Humility's  faith,  that  Thy  mercy  can 

heal. 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  FRANCIS  MEAGHER, 


PRISON  THOUGHTS. 

WRITTEN   IN   CLONMEL   JAIL,  OCTOBER,  1848. 

I  LOVE,  I  love  these  grey  old  walls ! 
Although  a  chilling  shadow  falls 
Along  the  iron -gated  halls, 

And  in  the  silent,  narrow  cells, 

Brooding  darkly,  ever  dwells. 

Oh !  still  I  love  them — for  the  hours 
Within  them  spent  are  set  with  flow'rs 
That  blossom,  spite  of  wind  and  show'rs, 
And  through  that  shadow,  dull  and  cold, 
Emit  their  sparks  of  blue  and  gold. 

Bright  flowers  of  mirth !— that  widely  spring 
From  fresh,  young  hearts,  and  o'er  them  fling. 
Like  Indian  birds  with  sparkling  wing, 

Seeds  of  sweetness,  grains  all  glowing. 

Sun-gilt  leaves,  with  dew-drops  flowing. 


And  hopes  as  bright,  that  softly  gleam, 
Like  stars  which  o'er  the  churchyard  stream 
A  beauty  on  each  faded  dream — 
Mingling  the  light  they  purely  shed 
With  other  hopes,  whose  light  was  flea. 


Fond  mem'ries,  too,  nndimmed  with  sighs, 
Whose  fragrant  sunshine  never  dies, 
Whose  summer  song-bird  never  flies — 
These,  too,  are  chasing,  hour  by  hour, 
The  clouds  whii-h  round  this  prison  low'r. 


And  thus,  from  hour  to  hour,  I've  grown 
To  Invc  these  walls,  though  dark  and  loin-. 
And  fondly  prize  cadi  grey  old  stone. 

Which  flings  the  shallow,  deep  and  chill. 

Across  my  fettered  footsteps  still. 


858 


POEMS   OF   THOMAS   FRANCIS   MEAGHER. 


Yet,  let  these  mem'ries  fall  and  flow 
Within  my  heart,  like  waves  that  glow 
Unseen  in  spangled  caves  below 

The  foam  which  frets,  the  mists  which 
sweep 

The  changeful  surface  of  the  deep. 

Not  so  the  many  hopes  that  bloom 

Amid  this  voiceless  waste  and  gloom, 

Strewing  my  path-way  to  the  tomb, 

As  though  it  were  a  bridal-bed, 

And  not  the  prison  of  the  dead. 

I  would  those  hopes  were  traced  in  fire, 
Beyond  these  walls — above  that  spire — 
Amid  yon  blue  and  starry  choir, 

Whose  sounds  played  round  us  with  the 
streams 

Which  glitter  in  the  white  moon's  beams. 

I'd  twine  those  hopes  above  our  Isle, 
Above  the  rath  and  ruined  pile, 
Above  each  glen  and  rough  defile, 
The  holy  well — the  Druid's  shrine — 
Above  them  all  those  hopes  I'd  twine. 

So  should  I  triumph  o'er  my  fate, 
And  teach  this  poor  desponding  State, 
In  signs  of  tenderness,  not  hate, 

Still  to  think  of  her  old  story, 

Still  to  hope  for  future  glory. 

Within  these  walls,  those  hopes  have  been 
The  music  sweet,  the  light  serene, 
Which  softly  o'er  this  silent  scene, 

Have  like  the  autumn  streamlets  flowed, 
And  like  the  autumn  sunshine  glowed. 

And  thus,  from  hour  to  hour,  I've  grown 
To  love  these  walls,  though  dark  and  lone, 
And  fondly  prize  each  grey  old  stone, 
That  flings  the  shadow  deep  and  chill, 
Across  my  fettered  footsteps  still. 


THE  YOUNG  ENTHUSIAST. 

THOUGH  young  that  heart,  though  free  each 
thought, 

Though  free  and  wild  each  feeling; 
And  though  with  fire  each  dream  be  fraught 

Across  those  bright  eyes  stealing — 

That  heart  is  true,  those  thoughts  are  bold : 
And  bold  each  feeling  sweepeth; 

There  lies  not  there  a  bosom  cold, 
A  pulse  that  faintly  sleepeth. 

His  dreams  are  idiot-dreams,  ye  say, 

The  dreams  of  fairy  story; 
Those  dreams  will  burn  in  might  one  day 

And  flood  his  path  with  glory! 

Thou  old  dull  vassal !  fling  thy  sneer 

Upon  that  young  heart  coldly, 
And  laugh  at  deeds  tliy  heart  may  fear, 

Yet  he  will  venture  boldly. 

Ay,  fling  thy  sneer,  while  dull  and  slow 
Thy  withered  blood  is  creeping, 

That  heart  will  beat,  that  spirit  glow, 
When  thy  tame  pulse  is  sleeping. 

Ay,  laugh  when  o'er  his  country's  ills 

With  manly  eye  he  weepeth; 
Laugh,  when  his   brave   heart  throbs  and 
thrills, 

And  thy  cold  bosom  sleepeth. 

Laugh,  when  he  vows  in  heaven's  sight, 

Never  to  flinch  or  falter; 
To  toil  and  fight  for  a  nation's  right, 

And  guard  old  Freedom's  altar. 

Ay,  laugh  when  on  the  fiery  wing 

Of  hero  thought  ascending, 
To  fame's  bold  cliff,  with  eagle  spring, 

That  young  bright  mind  is  tending. 

He'll  gain  that  cliff,  he'll  reach  that  throne,. 

The  throne  where  genius  shineth, 
When  round  and  through  thy  nameless  stone,. 

The  green  weed  thickly  twineth. 


POEMS  OF  W,  P.  MULCHINOCK, 


MUSIC  EVERYWHERE. 

THERE  is  music  in  the  ocean. 

There  is  music,  wild  and  grand, 
With  its  surges  aye  in  motion, 

Breaking  fiercely  on  the  land : 
Swept  by  breezes  soft  and  vernal, 

Lashed  by  tempests  bold  and  free, 
There  is  melody  eternal 

In  the  deep  and  mighty  sea. 

There  is  music  in  the  mountains, 

In  the  immemorial  hills; 
From  the  depths  of  silver  fountains, 

From  the  beds  of  sun-bright  rills : 
From  the  loud-voiced,  rain-swelled  river, 

Whose  wild  stream  the  valley  fills, 
Seaward  rushing,  tameless  eve" — 

There  is  music  in  the  hills. 

There  is  music  in  the  thunder, 

There  is  music  deep  to  hear : 
When  the  dun  clouds  leap  asunder, 

And  the  lightnings  blue  appear; 
When  the  startled  sleepers  waken 

And  the  abject  sinners  kneel, 
When  the  dome  of  heaven  is  shaken, 

There  is  music  in  its  peal. 

There  is  music  in  the  forest 

When  the  mighty  trees  are  stirred 
By  the  north  wind,  foe  the  sorest 

To  the  earth-fed  beast  and  bird; 
When  the  oak  its  strength  is  feeling, 

When  the  pine  trees,  dark  and  tall, 
To  and  fro  are  madly  reeling, 

There  is  music  in  them  all. 

There  is  music  in  the  summer; 

There  is  music  in  the  spring, 
When  the  bee,  the  busy  hummer, 

And  the  lark,  upsoaring,  sing; 


In  the  autumn,  robed  in  glory 

By  the  fullness  of  the  year ; 
In  the  winter,  dark  and  hoary, 

There  is  music  sweet  to  hear. 

There  is  music  in  the  pealing 

Of  the  solemn  Sabbath  bells, 
O'er  the  mountain  summit  stealing, 

Sinking  in  the  rocky  dells, 
Bidding  young  and  old  to  gather 

Where  the  dove,  religion,  dwells, 
'Round  the  shrines  of  the  Great  Father, — 

There  is  music  in  the  bells. 

There  is  music  up  in  Heaven, 

Where  the  sun  and  planets  shine, 
Glorious  ever,  skyward  driven, 

By  a  harmony  divine; 
Angels  swell  the  mighty  chorus, 

Seraph  voices  give  reply, 
Filling  all  the  concave  o'er  us — 

There  is  music  up  on  high. 

There  is  music  for  the  loving 

In  the  earth,  the  sea,  and  air; 
Wheresoe'er  our  steps  are  roving, 

Let  us  hearken,  it  is  there. 
For  the  sad  and  for  the  grieving, 

Who  with  patient  spirit  i  • 
For  the  lowly,  but  believing, 

There  is  music  everywhere. 

With  the  rude  rock  for  his  pillow, 

With  his  canopy — the  night. 
Dashed  by  salt  spray  fmm  the  billow, 

Drenched  by  snow-flakes,  cold  and  white. 
Man  may  find,  though  tears  should  glisten 

In  his  eyes  from  awe  and  fear. 
If  with  faith  he  bend  to  listen, 
's  sweet  music  everywhere. 


860 


A  POEM  BY  THEODORE  O'HARA. 


THE  ROSE  OF  TRALEE. 

THE  pale  moon  was  rising  above  the  green 

mountain. 
The  sun  was  declining  beneath  the  blue 

sea, 

When  I  strayed  with  my  love  to  a  cool  crys- 
tal fountain 
That  lies  in  the  beautiful  vale  of  Tralee. 

She  was  gentle  and  fair  as  the  roses  of  sum- 
mer; [me; 
But  it  was  not  her  beauty  alone  that  won 
Oh,  no !     'Twas  the  truth  in  her  eyes  ever 

beaming, 

That  made  me  love  Mary,  the  Rose  of 
Tralee. 


The  cool  shades  of  evening  their  mantles 

were  spreading, 

And  Mary  all  blushing  sat  listening  to  me; 
The  pale  moon  her  rays  through  the  valley 

was  shedding, 

When  I  won  the  heart  of  the  Rose  of  Tra- 
lee. 

She  was  gentle  ar;d  fair  as  the  rose  of  the 

summer; 
But  it  was  not  her  beauty  alone  that  won 

me; 
Oh,  no !     'Twas  the  truth  in  her  eyes  ever 

beaming, 

That  made  me  love  Mary,  the  Rose  of  Tra- 
lee. 


A  POEM  BY  THEODORE  O'HARA. 


THE   BIVOUAC   OP  THE   DEAD. 

THE  muffled  drum's  sad  roll  has  beat 

The  soldier's  last  tattoo; 
No  more  on  life's  parade  shall  meet 

That  brave  and  fallen  few. 
On  Fame's  eternal  camping  ground 

Their  silent  tents  are  spread, 
And  Glory  guards,  with  solemn  round, 

The  bivouac  of  the  dead. 

No  rumor  of  the  foe's  advance 

Now  swells  upon  the  wind ; 
No  troubled  thought  at  midnight  haunts 

Of  loved  ones  left  behind ; 
No  vision  of  the  morrow's  strife 

The  warrior's  dream  alarms, 
No  braying  horn  or  screaming  fife 

At  dawn  shall  call  to  arms. 

Their  shivered  swords  are  red  with  rust, 
Their  plumed  heads  are  bowed ; 

Their  haughty  banner,  trailed  in  dust, 
Is  now  their  martial  shroud ; 


And  plenteous  funeral  tears  have  washed 
The  red  stains  from  each  brow, 

And  the  proud  forms,  by  battle  gashed, 
Are  free  from  anguish  now. 

The  neighing  troop,  the  flashing  blade,. 

The  bugle's  stirring  blast, 
The  charge,  the  dreadful  cannonade, 

The  din  and  shout  are  past; 
Nor  war's  wild  note,  nor  glory's  peal 

Shall  thrill  with  fierce  delight 
Those  breasts  that  never  more  may  feel 

The  rapture  of  the  fight. 

Like  the  fierce  northern  hurricane 

That  sweeps  his  great  plateau, 
Flushed  with  the  triumph  yet  to  gain, 

Came  down  the  serried  foe; 
Who  heard  the  thunder  of  the  fray 

Break  o'er  the  field  beneath, 
Knew  well  the  watchword  of  that  day 

Was  victory  or  death. 


A   POEM   BY   RICHARD   HENRY   WILDE. 


861 


Full  many  a  Norther's  breath  has  swept 

O'er  Angostura's  plain. 
And  long  the  pitying  sky  has  wept 

Above  its  moldered  slain. 
The  raven's  scream,  or  eagle's  flight, 

Or  shepherd's  pensive  lay, 
Alone  now  wakes  each  solemn  height 

That  frowned  o'er  that  dread  fray. 

Sons  of  the  Dark  and  Bloody  Ground,* 

Ye  must  not  slumber  there, 
Where  stranger  steps  and  tongues  resound 

Along  the  heedless  air; 
Your  own  proud  land's  heroic  soil 

Shall  be  your  fitter  grave; 
She  claims  from  war  its  richest  spoil — 

The  ashes  of  her  brave. 

Thus,  'neath  their  parent  turf  they  rest, 

Far  from  the  gory  field, 
Borne  to  a  Spartan  mother's  breast 

On  many  a  bloody  shield. 

*  Indian  name  of  Kentucky. 


The  sunshine  of  their  native  sky 

Smiles  sadly  on  them  here. 
And  kindred  eyes  and  hearts  watch  by 

The  heroes'  sepulchre. 

Rest  on,  embalmed  and  sainted  dead. 

Dear  as  the  blood  ye  gave ! 
No  impious  footstep  here  shall  tread 

The  herbage  of  your  grave; 
Nor  shall  your  glory  be  forgot 

While  Fame  her  record  keeps, 
Or  Honor  points  the  hallowed  spot 

Where  Valor  proudly  sleeps. 

Yon  marble  minstrel's  voiceless  stone 

In  deathless  song  shall  tell, 
When  many  a  vanished  year  hath  flown, 

The  story  how  ye  fell ; 
Nor  wreck,  nor  change,  nor  winter's  blight, 

Nor  Time's  remorseless  doom, 
Can  dim  one  ray  of  holy  light 

That  gilds  your  glorious  tomb. 


A  POEM  BY  RICHARD  HENRY  WILDE. 


MY  LIFE   IS   LIKE    THE  SUMMER 
ROSE. 

MY  life  is  like  the  summer  rose 

That  opens  to  the  morning  sky, 
But,  ere  the  shades  of  evening  close, 

Is  scattered  on  the  ground — to  die! 
Yet,  on  the  rose's  humble  bed 
The  sweetest  dews  of  night  are  shed, 
As  if  she  wept  the  waste  to  see — 
But  none  shall  weep  a  tear  for  me ! 

My  life  is  like  the  autumn  leaf 

That  trembles  in  the  moon's  pair  ray; 
Its  hold  is  frail — its  date  is  brief, 


Restless — and  soon  to  pass  away. 
Yet,  ere  that  leaf  shall  fall  and  fade, 
The  parent  tree  shall  mourn  its  shade: 
The  winds  bewail  the  leafless  tree — 
But  none  shall  breathe  a  sigh  for  nui! 

My  life  is  like  the  prints  which  feet 
Have  left  on  Tampa's  desert  strand; 

Soon  as  the  rising  tide  shall  beat, 
Their  track  will  vanish  from  the  sand; 

Yet  still,  as  grieving  to  efface 

All  vestige  of  the  human  r 

On  that  lone  shore  loud  moans  the  sea, 

But  none,  alas!  shall  mourn  for  me! 


POEMS  OF  RICH'D  D'ALTON  WILLIAMS, 


KATHLEEN. 

MY  Kathleen  dearest !  in  truth  or  seeming 

No  brighter  vision  ere  blessed  my  eyes 
Than  she  for  whom,  in  Elysian  dreaming, 

Thy  tranced  lover  too  fondly  sighs. 
Oh!  Kathleen  fairest!  if  elfin  splendor 

Hath  ever  broken  my  heart's  repose, 
'Twas  in  the  darkness,  ere  purely  tender, 

Thy  smile,  like  moonlight  o'er  ocean,  rose. 

Since  first  I  met  thee  thou  knowest  thine  are 

This  passion-music,  each  pulse's  thrill — 
The  flowers  seem  brighter,  the  stars  diviner, 

And  God  and  Nature  more  glorious  still. 
I  see  around  me  new  fountains  gushing — 

More  jewels  spangle  the  robes  of  night'; 
-Strange  harps  are  pealing — fresh  roses  blush- 
ing, 

Young  worlds  emerging  in  purer  light. 

No    more    thy   song-birds   in    clouds   shall 

hover — 

Oh!  give  him  shelter  upon  thy  breast, 
And  bid  him  swiftly,  his  long  flight  over, 

From  heav'n  drop  into  that  love-built  nest. 
Like  fairy  flow'rets  is  Love  thou  f earest, 
At    once  that  springeth  like  mine   from 

earth — 

'Tis  friendship's  ivy  grows  slowly,  dearest, 
But   Love  and    Lightning    have   instant 
birth. 

The  mirthful  fancy  and  artful  gesture — 

Hair  black  as  tempest,  and  swan-like  breast, 
More  graceful  folded  in  simplest  vesture 

Than  proudest  bosoms  in  diamonds  drest — 
Not  these,  the  varied  and  rare  possession 

Love  gave  to  conquer,  are  thine  alone ; 
But,  oh!   there  crowns  thee  divine  expres- 
sion, 

As  saints  a  halo,  that's  all  thine  own. 


Thou  art,  as  poets,  in  olden  story, 

Have  pictur'd  woman  before  the  fall — 
Her  angel  beauty's  divinest  glory — 

The  pure  soul  shining,  like  God,  thro'  all. 
But  vainly,  humblest  of  leaflets  springing, 

I  sing  the  queenliest  flower  of  love : 
Thus  soars  the  sky-lark,  presumptuous  sing- 
ing 

The  orient  morning  enthroned  above. 

Yet  hear,  propitious,  beloved  maiden, 

The  minstrel's  passion  is  pure  as  strong, 
Tho'  Nature  fated,  his  heart,  love-laden, 

Must  break,  or  utter  its  woes  in  song. 
Farewell !  if  never  my  soul  may  cherish 

The  dreams  that  bade  me  to  love  aspire, 
By  Mem'ry's  altar !  thou  shalt  not  perish, 

First  Irish  pearl  of  my  Irish  lyre ! 


BEN  HEDER.* 

I  RAMBLED  away,  on  a  festival  day, 

From  vanity,  glare,  and  noise, 
To  calm  my  soul,  where  the  wavelets  roll, 

In  solitude's  holy  joys — 
By  the  lonely  cliffs,  whence  the  white  gull 
starts, 

Where  the  clustering  sea-pinks  blow, 
And  the  Irish  rose,  on  the  purple  quartz, 

Bends  over  the  waves  below — 
Where  the  ramaline  clings,  and  the  samphire 
swings, 

And  the  long  laminaria  trails, 
And  the  sea-bird  springs  on  his  snowy  wings 

To  blend  with  the  distant  sails. 
I  leaned  on  a  rock,  and  the  cool  waves  there 

Plashed  on  the  shingles  round, 


'  The  Hill  of  Howth,  near  Dublin,  Ireland. 


POEMS  OF  RICHARD  D'ALTON  WILLIAMS. 


And  the  breuth  of  Nature  lifted  my  hair  — 
Dear  God!  how  the  face  of  thy  child    i 
fair! 

And  51  gush  of  memory,  tears,  and  pray'r, 
My  spirit  a  moment  drowned. 


I  bowed  me  down  to  the  rippling 

For  a  swift  sail  glided  near  — 
And  the  spray,  as  it  fell  upon  pebble  anc 
shell, 

Received,  it  may  be,  a  tear. 
For  well  I  remember  the  festal  days, 

On  this  shore,  that  Hy-Brassil  seemed 
The  friends  I  trusted,  the  dreams  I  dreamed, 

Hopes  high  as  the  clouds  above  — 
Perchance  'twas  a  dream  of  a  land  redeemed, 

Perchance  'twas  a  dream  of  love. 
When  first  I  trod  on  this  breezy  sod, 

To  me  it  was  holy  ground, 
For  genius  and  beauty,  rays  of  God, 

Like  a  swarm  of  stars  shone  round. 

Well!    well!     I  have  learned   rude  lessons 
since  then, 

In  life's  disenchanted  hall; 
I  have  scanned  the  motives  and  ways  of  men, 

And  the  skeleton  grins  through  all. 
Of  the  great  heart-treasure  of  hope  and  trust 

I  exulted  to  feel  mine  own, 
Remains,  in  that  down-trod  temple's  dust, 

But  faith  in  God  alone. 
I  have  seen  too  oft  the  domino  torn, 

And  the  mask  from  the  face  of  men, 
To  have  aught  but  a  smile  of  tranquil  scorn 

For  all  believed  in  then. 
"The  day  is  dark  as  the  night  with  woes, 

And  my  dreams  are  of  battles  lost, 
Of  eclipse,  phantoms,  wrecks,  and  foes, 

And  of  exiles  tempest-tost. 

No  more!  no  more!     On  the  dreary  shore 

I  hear  a  caoinin  song  ; 
With  the  early  dead  is  my  lonely  bed  — 

You  shall  not  call  me  long; 
I  lade  away  to  the  home  of  clay, 

With  not  one  dream  fulfilled; 
My  wreathless  brow  in  the  dust  I  bow, 

My  heart  and  harp  are  stilled. 


Oh!  would  I  might  rest,  when  my  soul  de- 
parts, 

Where  the  clustering  sen-pinks  blow, 
And  the  Irish  rose  on  the  purple  quartz 

Droops  over  the  waves  below— 
Where  crystals  gleam  in  the  caves  about, 

Like  virtue  in  human  souls, 
And  the  victor  Sea,  with  a  thunder-shout, 

Through  the  breach  in  the  rock-wall  rolls. 


ADIEU   TO  INNISFAIL. 

ADIEU! — the  snowy  sail 
Swells  its  bosom  to  the  gale, 
And  our  bark  from  Innisfail 

Bounds  away; 

While  we  gaze  upon  thy  shore, 
That  we  never  shall  see  more, 
And  the  blinding  tears  flow  o'er, 
We  pray. 

Ma  vourneenf  be  thou  long 
In  peace  the  queen  of  song — 
In  battle,  proud  and  strong 

As  the  sea. 

Be  saints  thine  offspring  still 
True  heroes  guard  each  hill, 
And  harps  by  ev'ry  rill 

Sound  free! 

Though,  round  her  Indian  bowers, 
The  hand  of  nature  showers 
The  brightest,  blooming  flowers 

Of  our  sphere; 
Yet  not  the  richest  rose 
In  an  alii'ii  clime  that  blows, 
Like  the  briar  at  home  that  grows 

Is  dear. 

Though  glowing  breasts  may  be 
In  soft  vales  beyond  the  sea. 

Yet  ever,  iiru  inn  <///•»'. 

Shall  I  wail 

For  the  heart  of  love  I  le;r 
In  the  dreary  hours  of  eve 
On  thy  stormy  shores  to  gri 

Innisfail! 


POEMS   OF  JOSEPH   BRENAN. 


But  mem'ry  o'er  the  deep 
On  her  dewy  wing  shall  sweep, 
When  in  midnight  hours  I  weep 
O'er  thy  wrongs, 
And  bring  me,  steeped  in  tears, 
The  dead  flowers  of  other  years, 
And  waft  unto  my  ears 

Home's  songs. 

When  I  slumber  in  the  gloom 
Of  a  nameless,  foreign  tomb, 
By  a  distant  ocean's  boom, 

Innisfail ! 


Around  thy  em'rald  shore 
May  the  clasping  sea  adore, 
And  each  wave  in  thunder  roar, 
"All  hail!" 


And  when  the  final  sigh 
Shall  bear  my  soul  on  high, 
And  on  chainless  wing  I  fly 

Through  the  blue, 
Earth's  latest  thought  shall  be, 
As  I  soar  above  the  sea, 
"  Green  Erin,  dear,  to  thee 

Adieu  1* 


POEIS  OF  JOSEPH  BRENAK 


TO  MY  WIFE. 

COME  to  me,  dearest — I'm  lonely  without 

thee — 
Day  time  and  night  time  I'm  thinking  about 

thee; 
Night  time  and  day  time  in  dreams  I  behold 

thee — 
Unwelcome  the  waking  which  ceases  to  fold 

thee; 

Come  to  me,  darling,  my  sorrows  to  lighten, 
Come  in  thy  beauty,  to  bless  and  to  brighten, 
Come  in  thy  womanhood,  meekly  and  lowly, 
Come  in  thy  lovingness,  queenly  and  holy  ? 

Swallows  will  flit  round  the  desolate  ruin, 
Telling  of  Spring,  and  its  joyous  renewing; 
And  thoughts  of  thy  love,  and  its  manifold 

treasure, 
Are  circling  my  heart  with  a  promise  of 

pleasure. 

0,  Spring  of  my  spirit !  0,  May  of  my  bosom ! 
Shine  out  on  my  soul  till  it  bourgeon  and 

blossom ; 
The  waste  of  my  life  has  a  rose-root  within 

it, 
And  thy  fondness  alone  to  the  sunshine  can 

win  it. 


Figure  that  moves  like  a  song  through  the* 

even — 

Features  lit  up  by  a  reflex  of  Heaven — 
Eyes  like  the  skies  of  dear  Erin,  our  mother,. 
Where  the  shadow  and  sunshine  are  chasing 

each  other — 
Smiles  coming    seldom,  but   childlike  and 

simple, 
And  opening  their  eyes  from  the  heart  of  a- 

dimple —  [ing 

0,  thanks  to  the  Saviour,  that  even  thy  seem- 
Is  left  to  the  exile  to  brighten  his  dreaming. 

You  have  been  glad  when  you  knew  I  was 
gladdened ; 

Dear,  are  you  sad  now,  to  hear  I  am  sad- 
dened ? 

Our  hearts  ever  answer  in  tune  and  in  time, 
love, 

As  octave  to  octave,  and  rhyme  unto  rhyme, 
love. 

I  cannot  but  weep  but  your  tears  will  be  flow- 
ing; 

You  cannot  smile  but  my  cheek  will  be  glow- 
ing— 

I  would  not  die  without  you  at  my  side,  love, 

You  will  not  linger  when  I  will  have  died, 
love. 


I'oKMS    OF   .loSKI'H    HKKXAN. 


si;;, 


Come  to  me,  dear,  ere  I  die  of  my  sorrow ; 
Rise  on  my  gloom  like  the  sun  of  to-morrow, 
Strong,  srwift,  and  fond  as  the  words  which  1 

speak,  love, 
With  a  song  on  your  lip,  and  a  smile  on  your 

cheek, love; 

Come,  for  my  heart  in  your  absence  is  weary — 
Haste,  for  my  spirit  is  sickened  and  dreary; 
Come  to  the  arms  which  alone  should  caress 

thee, 
Come  to  the  heart  which  is  throbbing  to 

press  thee. 


A  DIRGE   FOR  DEVIN   REILLY. 

"  A  few  days  before  Devin  died."  says  a  friend,  "  he  ex- 
pressed a  wish  to  be  buried  on  the  slope  of  a  green  hill,  where 
his  feet  could  feel  the  dew,  and  his  eyes  look  up  to  the  stars." 

Thomas  Davis  expressed  a  similar  wish,  and  it  was  very 
characteristic  of  the  two  men;  for  they  had  a  loving  sympa- 
thy with  all  the  beautiful  things  of  earth,  and  a  brave  upward 
look  for  everything  grand  and  worship-worthy  in  God's  uni- 
verse. That  wish  has  suggested  the  refrain  of  the  following 
lines. 

"  WHEN  the  day  has  come,  darling,  that  your 
darling  must  go 

From  the  scene  of  his  struggles,  of  his  pride 
and  his  woe, — 

Lay  him  on  a  hill-side,  with  his  feet  to  the 
dew, 

Where  the  soul   of  the  verdure  is   faintly 
stealing  through — 

On  the  slope  of  a  hill,  with  his  face  to  the 
light, 

Which  glows  upon  the  dawn  and  glorifies  the 
night, 

For  the  grand  old  mother  nature  is  mightier 
than  death, 

The  subtle  Irish  soul  of  which  the  beautiful 
is  breath, 

Which  nestles  and   dreams   in  the  solemn- 
sounding  trees, 

Ami  flings  out  its  locks  to  the  rapture  of  the 
breeze, — 

And  'twill  crave  for  God's  wonders,  from  tin- 
daisy  star  close  by, 

To  the  golden  scroll  which  sparkles  with  His 
scripture  on  the  sky  ! '' 
55 


God  rest  you,  Devin  Reilly,  in  the  place  of 
your  choice, 

Where  the  blessed  dew  is  falling  and  the 
flowers  have  a  voice, 

Where  the  conscious  trees  are  bending  in 
homage  to  the  dead, 

And  the  earth  is  swelling  upward,  like  a  pil- 
low for  your  head ; 

And  His  rest  will  be  with  you,  for  the  lonely 
seeming  grave, 

Though  a  dungeon  to  the  coward  is  a  palace 
to  the  brave, — 

Though  a  black  Inferno  circle,  where  the  re- 
creant are  bound, 

Is  a  brave,  Valhalla  pleasure  dome  where  he- 
roes are  crowned ; 

Oh,  His  rest  will  be  with  you  in  the  congress 
of  the  great, 

Who  are  purified  by  sorrow  and  are  victors 
over  Fate, — 

Oh !  God's  rest  will  be  with  you  in  the  cor- 
ridors of  fame, 

Which  were  juvilant  with  welcome,  when 
Death  named  your  name. 


Way  Amongst  the  heroes  for  another  hero 

soul! 
Room  for  a  spirit  which  has  struggled  to  its 

goal! 

Rise,  for  in  life  he  was  faithful  to  his  faith. 
And  entered  without  stain  'neath  the  portico 

of  death — 
And  his  fearless  deeds  around,  like  attendant 

angels  stand. 
Claiming  recognition  from  the  noble  and  the 

grand, 
Claiming  to  his  meed— who  from  fresh  and 

bounding  youth 
To  the  days  of   manly  trial,  was  truthful  t<» 

the  truth — 
The  welcome  of  the  hero  whose  foot  would 

not  give  way 
'Till  his  trenchant  sword  was  shivered  in  the 

fury  of  the  fray. 
And  brave  will  be  that  welcome  if  the  Demi- 
gods above 
Can  love  with  a  tithe  of  our  humble  mortal 

love ! 


866 


POEMS   OF  JOSEPH   BRENAK 


"  Lay  me  on  a  hillside  with  my  feet  to  the 

dew 

Where  the  life  of  the  verdure  is  faintly  steal- 
ing through, 
On  the  slope  of  a  hill  with  my  face  to  the 

light 
Which  glows  upon  the  dawn  and  glorifies  the 

night;" 
Would  it  were  a  hillside  in  the  land  of  the 

Gael, 
Where  the  dew  falls  like  teardrops,  and  the 

wind  is  a  wail — 
Where  the  winged  superstitions  are  gleaming 

thro'  the  gloom, 
Like  a  host  of  frighted  Fairies,  to  beautify 

the  tomb. 
.On  the  slope  of  a  hill — with  your  face  to  the 

sky 
Which  clasped  you,  like  a  blessing  in  the 

days  gone  by, 
When  your  hopes  were  as  radiant  as  the  stars 

of  its  night, 
And  the  reaches  of  the  Future  throbbed  with 

constellated  light. 

Have  you  seen  the  mighty  tempest  in  its 
warcloak  of  cloud, 

When  it  stalks  thro'  the  midnight,  so  defi- 
ant and  proud, 

When  'tis   shouldering  the   ocean   'till   the 
crouching  waters  fly 

From  the  thunder  of  its  voice  and  the  light- 
ning of  its  eye, 

And  the  waves  in  timid  multitudes  are  rush- 
ing to  the  strand, 

In  a  vain  appeal  for  succor  from  the  buffets 
of  its  hand  ? 

Then  you  saw  the  soul  of  Reilly  when,  abroad 
in  its  might, 

It  dashed  aside  with  loathing  all  the  creature 
of  the  night 

'Till  their  plumed  hosts  were  humbled  and 
their  crests  white  no  more 

Were 'soiled  with  the  sand,  and  strewn  upon 
the  shore; 

For  the  volumed  swell  of  thunder  was  con- 
centred in  his  form 

And  his  tread  was  as  a  conquest  and  his  blow 
was  like  a  storm. 


Save  you  seen  the  weary  tempest,  when  a 
harbor  is  near, 

And  its  giant  breast  is  heaving  from  the 
speed  of  its  career, 

Sow  it  puts  off  its  terrors,  and  is  timorous 
and  weak, 

As  it  stoops  upon  the  waters  with  its  cheek 
to  their  cheek, 

As  it  broods  like  a  lover  over  all  the  quiet 
place, 

Till  the  dimpling  smiles  of  pleasure  are  ed- 
dying in  its  trace; 

Then  you  saw  the  soul  of  Eeilly  when  ceas- 
ing to  roam, 

It  flung  away  the  clouds,  and  nestled  to  its 
home, 

When  the  heave  and  swell  were  ended,  and 
the  spirit  was  at  rest, 

And  gentle  thoughts,  like  white-winged  birds, 
were  dreaming  on  its  breast, 

And  the  tremulous  sheets  of  sunset  around 
its  couch  were  rolled, 

In  voluptuous  festoonings  of  purple  crossed 
with  gold. 

Oh,  sorrow  on  the  day  when  our  young  apos- 
tle died, 

When  the  lonely  grave  was  opened  for  our 
darling  and  our  pride, 

When  the  passion  of  a  people  was  following 
the  dead 

Like  a  solitary  mourner,  with  a  bow'd,  un- 
covered head; 

When  a  Nation's  aspirations  were  stooping 
o'er  the  dust, 

Where  the  golden  bowl  was  broken,  and  the 
trenchant  sword  was  rust, 

When  the  brave  tempestuous  Spirit,  with 
an  upward  wing  had  pass'd, 

And  the  love  of  the  Wife,  was  a  Widow's  love 
at  last; 

Oh,  God  rest  you,  Devin  Reilly,  in  the 
shadow  of  that  love, 

And  God  bless  you  with  his  bliss  in  the 
pleasure  dome  above 

Where  the  Heroes  are  assembled,  and  the  very 
angels  bow 

To  the  glory  of  Eternity,  which  glimmers  on 
each  brow. 


I'OKMS    OF   JOSEPH    BKKNAN. 


"  Lay  me  on  a  hillside,  with  my  feet  to  the 
dew, 

Where  the  life  of  the  verdure  is  faintly  steal- 
ing through, 

On  the  slope  of  a  hill,  with  my  face  to  the 
light, 

Which  glows  upon  the  dawn,  and  glorifies 
the  night ; " 

Would  it  were  a  hillside  in  the  land  of  the 
Gael, 

Where  the  dew  fulls  like  teardrops,  and  the 
wind  is  a  wail — 

Where  the  winged  superstitions  are  gleam- 
ing thro'  the  gloom, 

Like  a  host  of  frighted  Fairies,  to  beautify 
the  tomb. 

On  the  slope  of  a  hill,  with  your  face  to  the 
sky, 

AVhich  clasped  you,  like  a  blessing  in  the 
days  gone  by, 

When  your  hopes  were  as  radiant  as  the  stars 
of  its  night, 

And  the  reaches  of  the  Future  throbbed  with 
constellated  light. 


WATER  COLORS. 

DONE   IN   THE   GULF   OF   MEXICO. 
I. 

THE   sudden  sun  thrust  forth  his  amorous 

face, 
And  dashed   with   eager  hand   alef t  and 

right 
The   wavering   curtains   of    the   startled 

night, 
Which  fled  in  maiden  fear  his  hot  embrace. 

The  passionate  waves  flushed  crimson  as  he 

came, 
And  heaved  their  breasts  to  catch  hisafllu- 

ent  love, 
Like  the  wild  nymph  who  took  the  might 

of  Jove 

From  out  the  procreant  shower  of  golden 
flame. 


The  conscious  wind  rose  lullingly  and  KV. 
And  gentle  benedictions  breathing  on 
The  morning  marriage  of  the  wave  and 

sun, 

Like  a  fond   heart,  through  all  the  silence 
beat — 

The  poet-wind,  which  in  this  trance  of  love, 
Subdued  the  thunderous  epic  in  its  breast, 
To  chaunt  the  lyric  for  the  hour  of  rest, 

It  learned  in  wooded  vale  and  inland  grove. 

And  all  around  us  is  a  breathing  balm, 
A  life-bestowing  incense-bearing  breeze. 
Freighted  with  perfume  from  the  Indian 
trees, 

The  pine,  the  golden  orange,  and  tin-  palm. 

Speed  on   good  ship,  as  thou  art  speeding 

now, 

May  the  sun  blaze  beneficent  and  strong, 
And  all  the  waters  as  you  glide  along, 

Dash  into  diamonds  on  your  trenchant  prow. 

II. 

Now  dawn  has  grown  to  day ;  and  in  his  noon 
The  full  sun  whitens  the  emperean  dome 
With  a  fierce  light,  as  snowy  as  the  foam 

Which  rises  from  the  waters  while  they  swoon. 

Is  not  the  sky  a  concave  shield  enswung 
Upon  the  shoulder  of  a  giant  God, 
And  pressed  against  the  heated  sea,  whose 
broad 

And  heaving  breast  with  agony  is  wrung. 

The  white  heat  pierces  on  from  pole  to  pole, 
Not  in  a  chain  of  individual  rays, 
But  in  one  fierce  accumulated  blaze — 

No  sunny  series,  but  a  blinding  whole. 

A  sheet  of  molten  silver  spreads  below 
And  overhead,  unbroke,  save  where  they 

join 
At  the  horizon's  rim,  a  thin  black  line 

Separates  sky  from  Ocean,  glow  from  glow. 

The  sea  no  longer  has  an  aspect  proud, 
But  to  its  very  inmost  current  shrinks. 
Each  wave  before  it  grows  its  stature,  dinks 

In    its   own   foam  which   clothes   it   like  a 
shroud. 


868 


POEMS   OF  JOSEPH   BRENAN. 


No  fiercer,  deadlier  light  can  ever  be, 
So  ghastly  and  so  dry  in  every  part, 
So  sickening  to  the  eye,  and  to  the  heart, 

It  seems  a  universal  leprosy. 

A  solitary  bird  with  lagging  wing 

Which  sought  the  shelter  of  our  friendly 

mast, 
Though  perched  upon  a  resting-place  at 

last, 
In  its  hot  throat  can  find  no  voice  to  sing. 

And  yet  our  vessel  speeds  across  the  deep, 
The  spur  of  fire  is  pricking  at  her  flanks, 
And  stung  through  all  her  dry  and  strain- 
ing planks, 

She  takes  a  gulf  of  waves  at  every  leap. 


III. 

The  full  sun  hurries  seaward  from  on  high; 
Each  cloud  retains  his  crimson  in  its  breast 
As  if  the  Day  was  murdered  in  the  West, 

And  all  its  life-blood  sprent  upon  the  sky ! 

Not  unavenged;  for  e'er  its  spirit  fled, 
It   shot    some   parting  arrows   East   and 

North, 
Which,  like  the  Trojan's  shaft,  in  whizzing 

forth, 
Took  fire  and  blazed  into  an  ominous  red. 

And  so  the  East  and  North  were  crimsoned 

too, 
And  all  the  evening  waves  which  round  us 

rolled, 

Touched  with  a  coloring  of  red  and  gold 
Their  funeral  robes  into  a  festive  hue. 


Meanwhile  the  darkness  comes :  and  over  all, 
The  black  flag  floating  sternly  from  the 

height 
Of  silent,  starless,  universal  night, 

Proclaims  the  Sun's  predestinated  fall. 

IV. 

Dim  eyes!  ye  see  not  all  the  splendor  round; 
For  ye  there  is  nor  wave,  nor  star,  nor  sun, 
The  sea  is  like  the  land,  an  Ajalon. 

Sullen  and  sombre  to  its  farthest  bound. 

Dear  God !  it  were  a  little  thing  to  grant 
In  this  sublime  exuberance  of  light, 
A  glimpse  of  hope,  a  single  ray  of  sight. 

For  which  my  aching  eyeballs  burn  and  pant ; 

That  I  might  see  the  glory  of  thy  ways, 
And  now  and  evermore  exulting  stand 
In  view  of  whatsoever  good  and  grand 

Thy  mercy  gives  us  in  these  latter  days. 

But  I  repine  not;  and  although  the  whole 
Of  the  bright  pageant  of  the  changing 

skies 
Is  shut  away  in  darkness  from  my  eyes, 

I  thank  Thee  for  the  landscape — in  my  soul. 

I  thank  Thee  that  from  Fancy's  palace-porch 
I  see  the  bridal  of  the  sun  and  wave, 
And  note  the  immortal  promise  which  you 
gave 

The.  Righteous,  in  the  many-colored  arch ; 

And  for  the  sight  beyond  all  other  sight 
Which  sees  Thy  great  creation  ever  new 
And  grasps  the  subtle  secret  of  the  few 

That  the  child's  Wonder  is  the  poet's  Might ! 


POEMS  OF  MICHAEL  DOHENY. 


CUISLA  GAL  MA  CROIDHE. 

THE  long,  long-wished  for  hour  had  come, 

Yet  come,  ma  stor,  in  vain, 
And  left  thee  but  the  wailing  hum 

Of  sorrow  and  of  pain. 
My  light  of  life,  my  lonely  love, 

Thy  portion  sure  must  be, 
Man's  scorn  below,  God's  wrath  above; 

A  Cuisla  gal  ma  croidhe. 

'Twas  told  of  thee,  the  world  around, 

'Twas  hoped  from  thee  by  all, 
That,  with  one  gallant  sunward  bound, 

Thou'dst  burst  long  ages'  thrall. 
Thy  faith  was  tried,  alas !  and  those, 

Who  perilled  all  for  thee 
Were  cursed  and  branded  as  thy  foes; 

A  Cuisla  gal  ma  croidhe. 

What  fate  is  thine,  unhappy  Isle; 

That  even  the  trusted  few 
Should  pay  thee  back  with  hate  and  guile, 

When  most  they  should  be  true  ? 
'Twas  not  thy  strength  or  spirit  failed; 

And  those  that  bleed  for  thee, 
And  love  thee  truly,  have  not  quailed; 

A  Cuisla  gal  ma  croidhe. 

I've  given  thee  manhood's  early  prime, 

And  manhood's  waning  years; 
I've  blessed  thee  in  thy  sunniest  time, 

And  shed  with  thee  my  tears; 
And,  mother,  though  thou'st  cast  away 

The  child  who'd  die  for  thee, 
My  latest  accents  still  shall  pray 

For  Cuisla  gal  ma  croidhe. 

I've  tracked  for  thee  the  mountain  side, 

And  slept  within  the  brake, 
More  lonely  than  the  swan  that  glides 

O'er  Lua's  fairy  lake! 


The  rich  have  spurned  me  from  their  door, 

Because  I'd  set  thee  free; 
Yet  do  I  love  thee  more  and  more, 

A  Cuisla  gal  ma  croidhe. 

I've  run  the  outlaw's  brief  career, 

And  borne  his  load  of  ill, 
His  troubled  rest,  his  ceaseless  fear, 

With  fixed  sustaining  will; 
And  should  his  last  dark  chance  befall, 

E'en  that  shall  welcome  be, 
In  death  I'll  love  thee  most  of  all, 

A  Cuisla  gal  ma  croidhe. 


THE   STAR  OF   GLENCONNEL. 

AIR — "Brien  the  Brc 

IN  the  halls  of  Tyrconnel  the  minstrels  no 

more, 

As  of  old,  hymn  their  chieftain's  applause, 
And  around  the  lone  ruins,  long  blasted  and 

hoar, 

Only  echoes  the  croaking  of  daws ; 
There  no  voices  are  borne  on  the  summer 

eve  breeze, 

But  the  scarce  vocal  breath  of  decay, 
As  the  dust  of  the  pile,  through  the  whisper- 
ing trees, 
Into  silence  is  melting  away. 

But  afar  from  the  land  where  his  forefathers 

fought 

Does  the  wand  of  O'Donnel  yet  wave, 
With   the   title  for  aye  with    his    destiny 

wrought, 

Of  the  "  bravest  of  even  the  hi 
Where  he  leads;  'gainst  the  Moors,  the  Cas- 

tilians  once  more, 

And  revives  Andalusia's  renown,         [soar 
While  the   haughtiest    plumes  of  the  enemy 
Hut  to  garland  the  eoiKjuoror's  crown. 


870 


POEMS   OF   FITZ-JAMES   O'BRIEN. 


Valiant  chief !  as  like  eagles  thy  glories  arise 

Over  foes  scattered,  flying  or  slain, 
To  emblazon  once  more  with  thy  destiny's 

dyes 

The  reviving  old  triumphs  of  Spain. 
Do  thy  thoughts  ever  turn  to  the  isle  of  the 

sea, 

Where  the  bones  of  thy  forefathers  lie, 
Where  they  led  to  the  combat  the  brother- 
hood free, 
Hand  in  hand,  or  to  conquer  or  die  ? 

As  the  last  of  thy  race  who   in  Erin  had 

borne 
The  white  wand,  for  thy  stalwart  hand 

meet, 
When  conducting  his  clansmen  back,  wasted 

and  worn, 
From  their  last  and  their  only  defeat, 


Was  by  false-hearted   Thomonds   betrayed 

and  beset 

In  the  treacherous  marches  of  Clare, 
Though   outnumbered,  he  rang  from  their 

battle-brands  yet 
The  hosannahs  of  victory  there. 


When  thy  legions  have  trampled  the  pirate 

nest  out, 

And  their  cheers  echo  over  the  sea, 
The  clan  Connels  of  the  isle  will  re-echo  the 

shout, 

And  will  send  up  loud  paeans  for  thee, 
While  they  pray  that  the  nest  in  thy  ances- 
tors' halls 

Shall  be  trampled  and  scattered  amain, 
When  thy  battle-blade  glimmers  above  those 

gray  walls 
To  the  cry  of  O'Donnel  again. 


POEMS  OF  FITZ-JAMES  O'BRIEK 


A  FALLEN    STAR. 

I. 

I  SAUNTEKED  home  across  the  park, 
And  slowly  smoked  my  last  cigar; 

The  summer  night  was  still  and  dark, 
With  not  a  single  star : 

And,  conjured  by  I  know  not  what, 
A  memory  floated  through  my  brain, 

The  vision  of  a  friend  forgot, 
Or  thought  of  now  with. pain. 

A  brilliant  boy  that  once  I  knew, 
In  far-off,  happy  days  of  old, 

With  sweet,  frank  face,  and  eyes  of  blue, 
And  hair  that  shone  like  gold : 

Fresh  crowned  with  college  victory, 
The  boast  and  idol  of  his  class, — 

With  heart  as  pure,  and  warm,  and  free 
As  sunshine  on  the  grass! 


A  figure  sinewy,  lithe,  and  strong, 
A  laugh  infectious  in  its  glee, 

A  voice  as  beautiful  as  song, 
When  heard  along  the  sea. 

On  me,  the  man  of  sombre  thought, 
The  radiance  of  his  friendship  won, 

As  round  an  autumn  tree  is  wrought 
The  enchantment  of  the  sun. 

He  loved  me  with  a  tender  truth, 
He  clung  to  me  as  clings  a  vine, 

And,  like  a  brimming  fount  of  youth, 
His  nature  freshened  mine. 

Together  hand  in  hand  we  walked; 

We  threaded  pleasant  country  ways, 
Or,  couched  beneath  the  limes,  we  talked 

On  sultry  summer  days. 

For  me  he  drew  aside  the  veil 
Before  his  bashful  heart  that  hung, 

And  told  a  sweet,  ingenuous  tale 
That  trembled  on  his  tongue. 


I'OK.MS    OK    FIT/  -IA.MKS    OT.KIKN. 


II.'  read  me  songs  and  amorous  lays, 
Where  through  each  slender  line  a  fire 

Of  love  flashed  lambently,  as  plays 
The  lightning  through  the  wire. 

A  nobler  maid  he  never  knew 

Than  she  he  longed  to  call  his  wife; 

A  fresher  nature  never  grew 
Along  the  shores  of  life. 

Thus  rearing  diamond  arches  up 
Whereon  his  future  life  to  build, 

He  quaffed  all  day  the  golden  cup 
That  youthful  fancy  filled. 

Like  fruit  upon  a  southern  slope, 
He  ripened  on  all  natural  food — 

The  winds  that  thrill  the  skyey  cope, 
The  sunlight's  golden  blood  : 

And  in  his  talk  I  oft  discerned 
A  timid  music  vaguely  heard; 

The  fragments  of  a  song  scarce  learned, 
The  essays  of  a  bird. 

The  first  faint  notes  the  poet's  breast, 
Ere  yet  his  pinions  warrant  flight, 

Will,  on  the  margin  of  the  nest, 
Utter  with  strange  delight. 

Thus  rich  with  promise  was  the  boy, 
When,  swept  abroad  by  circumstance, 

We  parted, — he  to  live,  enjoy, 
And  I  to  war  \vith  chance. 

II. 

The  air  was  rich  with  fumes  of  wine 
When  next  we  met.     'Twas  at  a  feast, 

And  he,  the  boy  I  thought  divine, 
Was  the  unhallowed  priest. 

There  was  the  once  familiar  grace, 
The  old,  enchanting  smile  was  there; 

Si  ill  shone  around  his  handsome  face 
The  glory  of  his  hair. 

Mut  the  pure  beauty  that  I  knew 

Had  lowered  through  some  ignoble  task ; 

Apollo's  In  ad  was  peering  through 
A  drunken  bacchant's  mask. 


The  smile,  once  honest  as  the  day, 
Now  waked  to  words  of  grossest  wit ; 

The  eyes,  so  simply  frank  and  L 
With  lawless  fires  were  lit. 


He  was  the  idol  of  the  hoard  ; 

He  led  the  careless,  wanton  throng; 
The  soul  that  once  to  heaven  had  *>• 

Now  grovelled  in  a  song. 


He  wildly  flung  his  wit  away 
In  small  retort,  in  verbal  brawls, 

And  played  with  words  as  jugglers  play 
With  hollow  brazen  balls. 


But  often  when  the  laugh  was  loud. 

And  highest  gleamed  the  circling  bowl, 

I  saw  what  unseen  passed  the  crowd, — 
The  shadow  on  his  soul. 


And  soon  the  enigma  was  unlocked ; 

The  harrowing  history  I  heard, — 
The  sacred  duties  that  he  mocked, 

The  forfeiture  of  word. 


And  how  he  did  his  love  a  wrong — 
His  wild  remorse — his  mad  car. •<  •; •: 

And  now — ah !  hearken  to  that  song, 
And  hark  the  answering  cheer ! 


Thus  musing  sadly  on  the  law 

That  lets  such  brilliant  meteors  quench. 
Down  the  dark  path  a  form  I  saw 

Uprising  from  a  bench. 


Ragged  and  pale,  in  strident  tones 
It  asked  for  alms — I  knew  for  what : 

The  tremor  shivering  through  its  ! 
Was  eloquent  of  the  sot. 

It  begged,  it  prayed,  it  whined,  it  cried. 

It  followed  with  a  shuffling  tramp. 
It  Would  not.  could  not  he  denied. 

I  turned  beneath  a  lamp. 


8T2 


POEMS   OF  FITZ-JAMES   O'BRIEN. 


It  clutched  the  coins  I  gave,  and  fled 
With  muttered  words  of  horrid  glee, 

When,  like  the  white,  returning  dead, 
A  vision  rose  to  me 

A  nameless  something  in  its  air, 
A  sudden  gesture  as  it  moved, 

'Twas  he,  the  gay,  the  debonnaire! 
'Twas  he,  the  boy  I  loved ! 

And  while  along  the  lonesome  park 
The  eager  drunkard  sped  afar, 

I  looked  to  heaven,  and  through  the  dark 
I  saw  a  falling  star ! 


KANE.    ARCTIC   EXPLORER. 

DIED    FEB.    16,  1857. 

ALOFT  upon  an  old  basaltic  crag, 

Which,  scalp'd  by  keen  winds  that  defend 

the  Pole, 

Gazes  with  dead  face  on  the  seas  that  roll 
Around  the  secret  of  the  mystic  zone, 
A  mighty  nation's  star-bespangled  flag 

Flutters  alone, 

And  underneath,  upon  the  lifeless  front 
Of  that  dread  cliff,  a  simple  name  is  traced ; 
Fit  type  of  him  who,  famishing  and  gaunt, 
But  with  a  rocky  purpose  in  his  soul, 
Breasted  the  gathering  snows, 
Clung  to  the  drifting  floes, 
By  want  beleagur'd,  and  by  winter  chased, 
Seeking  the  brother  lost  amid  that  frozen 
waste. 


Not  many  months  ago  we  greeted  him, 
Crown'd  with  the  icy  honors  of  the  North, 
Across  the  land  his   hard-won   fame  went 

forth, 
And  Maine's  deep  woods  were  shaken  limb 

by  limb ; 
His  own  mild  Keystone  State,  sedate  and 

prim, 
Burst  from  decorous  quiet  as  he  came; 


Hot  Southern  lips  with  eloquence  aflame 
Sounded  his  triumph.     Texas,  wild  and  grim, 
Proffer'd  its  horny  hand.     The  large-lunged 
West 

From  out  its  giant  breast, 
Yell'd  its  frank  welcome.     And 

from  main  to  main, 
Jubilant  to  the  sky, 
Thunder'd  the  mighty  cry, 
HONOK  TO  KANE! 

In  vain,  in  vain,  beneath  his  feet  we  flung 
The  reddening  roses!    All  in  vain  we  pour'd 
The  golden  wine    and  round   the  shining 

board 

Sent  the  toast  circling,  till  the  rafters  rung 
With  the  thrice-tripled  honors  of  the  feast ! 
Scarce  the  buds  wilted  and  the  voices  ceased 
Ere  the  pure  light  that  sparkled  in  his  eyes, 
Bright  as  auroral  fires  in  Southern  skies 
Faded  and  faded!     And  the   brave  young 

heart 

That  the  relen^ess  Arctic  winds  had  robb'd 
Of  all  its  vital  heat,  in  that  long  quest 
For  the  lost  captain,  now  within  his  breast 
More  and  more  faintly  throbb'd. 
His  was  the  victory;  but  as  his  grasp 
Closed  on  the  laurel  crown  with  eager  clasp, 
Death  launch'd  a  whistling  dart; 
And  ere  the  thunders  of  applause  were  done 
His  bright  eyes  closed  for  ever  on  the  sun ! 
Too  late,  too  late  the  splendid  prize  he  won 
In  the  Olympic  Art  of  Science  and  of  Art ! 
Like  to  some  shattered  berg  that,  pale  and 

lone, 
Drifts  from  the  white  North  to  a  tropic  zone, 

And  in  the  burning  day 

Wastes  peak  by  peak  away, 

Till  on  some  rosy  even 
tt  dies  with  sunlight  blessing  it;  so  he 
Tranquilly  floated  to  a  Southern  sea, 

And  melted  into  heaven. 

He  needs  no  tears  who  lived  a  noble  life ; 
We  will  not  weep  for  him  who  died  so  well, 
But  we  will  gather  round  the  hearth,  and 

tell 

The  story  of  his  strife, 
Better  than  funeral  pomp  or  passing  bell. 


POEMS   OF   GEN.   CHARLES  G.   HALPINE   (MILES  O'REILLY).        873 


What  tale  of  peril  and  self-sacrifice ! 
Prison'd  amid  the  fastnesses  of  ice, 
Wit  h  hunger  howling  o'er  the  wastes  of  snow! 
Night  lengthening  into  months;  the  raven- 
ous floe  [bear 
Crunching  the  massive  ships,  as  the  white 
Crunches  his  prey;  the  insufficient  share 
Of  loathsome  food; 
The  lethargy  of  famine,  the  despair 
Urging  to  labor,  nervelessly  pursued; 
Toil  done  with  skinny  arms,  and  faces  hued 
Like  pallid  masks,  while  dolefully  behind 
Glimmer'd  the  fading  embers  of  a  mind ! 
That  awful  hour,  when  through  the  prostrate 

band 

Delirium  stalked,  laying  his  burning  hand 
Upon  the  ghastly  foreheads  of  the  crew, — 
The  whispers  of  rebellion,  faint  and  few 
At  first,  but  deep'ning  ever  till  they  grew 
Into  black  thoughts  of  murder, — such  the 

throng 

Of  horrors  round  the  Hero.     High  the  song 
Should   be   that   hymns  the  noble  part  he 

play'd! 

Sinking  himself,  yet  ministering  aid 
To  all  around  him.     By  a  mighty  will 


Living  defiant  of  the  wants  that  kill, 
Because  his  death  would  seal  his  comrades' 

fate ; 

Cheering  with  ceaseless  and  inventive  skill 
Those  polar  winters  dark  and  desolate. 
Equal  to  every  trial,  every  fate, 
He  stands,  until  spring,  tardy  with  relief, 
Unlocks  the  icy  gate, 
And  the  pale  prisoners  thread  the  world  once 

more,  [shoiv. 

To  the  steep  cliffs  of  Greenland's  pastoral 
Bearing  their  dying  chief  1 

Time  was  when  he  should  gain  his  spurs  of 

gold 
From  royal  hands  who  woo'd  the  knightly 

state. 

The  knell  of  old  formalities  is  tolPd, 
And  the  world's  knights  are  now  self-conse- 
crate. 

No  grander  episode  doth  chivalry  hold 
In  all  its  annals,  back  to  Charlemagne, 
Than  that  lone  vigil  of  unceasing  pain, 
Faithfully  kept  through  hunger  and  through 

cold, 
By  the  good  Christian  knight, Elisha  Kane! 


POEMS  OF  GEN.  CHARLES  G.  HALPINE 

(MILES   O'REILLY). 


JANETTE'S   HAIR. 

0,  loosen  the  snood  that  you  wear,  Jane  tie, 
Let  me  tangle  a  hand  in  your  hair,  my  pet. 
For  the  world  to  me  had  no  daintier  sight 
Than  your  brown  hair  veiling  your  shoulders 

white, 
As  I  tangled  a  hand  in  your  hair,  my  pet. 

It  was  brown  with  a  golden  gloss,  Janette, 
It  was  finer  than  silk  of  the  floss,  my  pet. 
'Twas  a  beautiful  mist  falling  down  to  your 

wrist, 
'Twas  a  thing  to  be  braided,  and  jeweled,  and 

kissed—  |pet. 

'Twas  the  loveliest  hair  in  the  world,  my 


My  arm  was  the  arm  of  a  clown,  Janette. 
It  was  sinewy,  bristled,  and  brown,  my  pet. 
But  warmly  and  softly  it  loved  to  caress 
Your  round  white  neck  and  your  wealth  of 

tress — 
Your  beautiful  plenty  of  hair,  my  pet. 

Your  eyes  had  a  swimming  glory.  Janette. 
Revealing  the  old,  dear  story,  my  pet  — 
They  were  gray,  with  that  chastened  t 

of  the  ?ky. 
When  the  trout  leaps  quickest  to  snap  the 

fly. 
And  they  matehe.l  with  your  golden  hair, 

my  pi-t. 


874        POEMS   OF   GEN.   CHARLES   G.   HALPINE   (MILES   O'REILLY). 


Your  lips — but  I  have  no  words,  Janette — 
They  were  fresh  as  the  twitter  of  birds,  my 

pet, 
When  the  spring  is  young,  and  the  roses  are 

wet 

With  the  dew-drops  in  each  red  bosom  set, 
And  they  suited  your  gold-brown  hair,  my 

pet. 

Oh,  you  tangled  my  life  in  your  hair,  Janette, 
'Twas  a  silken  and  golden  snare,  my  pet ; 
But,  so  gentle  the  bondage,  my  soul  did  im- 
plore 

The  right  to  continue  your  slave  evermore, 
With  my  fingers  enmeshed  in  your  hair,  my 

pet. 
****** 

Thus  ever  I  dream  what  you  were,  Janette, 
With  your  lips,  and  your  eyes,  and  your  hair, 

my  pet; 

In  the  darkness  of  desolate  years  I  moan, 
And  my  tears  fall  bitterly  over  the  stone 
That  covers  your  golden  hair,  my  pet. 


HONOR  THE    BRAVE. 

HONOR  the  brave  who  battle  still 
For  Irish  right  in  English  lands; 
No  rule  except  the  quenchless  will, 
No  power  save  in  their  naked  hands ; 
Who  waged  by  day  and  waged  by  night, 
In  groups  of  three  or  bands  of  ten, 
Our  savage,  undespairing  fight 
Against  two  hundred  thousand  men. 


No  pomp  of  war  their  eyes  to  blind, 
No  blare  of  music  as  they  go, 
With  just  such  weapons  as  they  find, 
In  desperate  onset  on  the  foe. 
They  seize  the  pike,  the  torch,  the  scythe- 
Unequal  contest — but  what  then  ? 
With  steadfast  eyes  arid  spirits  blithe 
They  face  two  hundred  thousand  men. 


The  jails  are  yawning  through  the  land, 
The  scaffold's  fatal  click  is  heard, 
But  still  moves  on  the  scanty  band, 
By  jail  and  scaffold  undeterred. 
A  moment's  pause  to  wail  the  last 
Who  fell  in  freedom's  fight  and  then, 
With  teeth  firm  set,  and  breathing  fast, 
They  face  two  hundred  thousand  men. 


Obscure,  unmarked,  with  none  to  praise 

Their  fealty  to  a  trampled  land; 

Yet  never  knight  in  Arthur's  days 

For  desperate  cause  made  firmer  stand. 

They  wage  no  public  war,  'tis  true; 

They  strike  and  fly,  and  strike — what  then  ? 

'Tis  only  thus  the  faithful  few 

Can  front  two  hundred  thousand  men. 


You  call  them  ignorant,  rash  and  wild; 
But  who  can  tell  how  patriots  feel 
With  centuries  of  torment  piled 
Above  the  land  to  which  they  kneel  ? 
And  who  has  made  them  what  we  find — 
Like  tigers  lurking  in  their  den, 
And  breaking  forth  with  fury  blind 
To  beard  two  hundred  thousand  men  ? 


Who  made  their  lives  so  hard  to  bear 
They  care  not  how  their  lives  are  lost  ? 
Their  land  a  symbol  of  despair — 
A  wreck  on  ruin's  ocean  tossed. 
We,  happier  here,  may  carp  and  sneer, 
And  judge  them  harshly — but  what  then  ? 
No  gloves  for  those,  who  have  as  foes 
To  face  two  hundred  thousand  men. 


Honor  the  brave !  let  England  rave 

Against  them  as  a  savage  band ; 

We  know  their  foes,  we  know  their  woes; 

And  hail  them  as  a  hero  band. 

With  iron  will  they  battle  still, 

In  groups  of  three  or  files  of  ten, 

Nor  care  we  by  what  savage  skill 

They  fight  two  hundred  thousand  men. 


POEMS   OF   GEX.   CHARLES   G.   HALI'INK    i.MIU-is   o'KKI  LLV  i. 


THE   FLAUNTING   LIE. 

ALL  hail  the  flaunting  Lie ! 

The  Stars  grow  pale  and  dim — 
The  Stripes  are  bloody  scars, 

A  lie  the  flaunting  hymn ! 
It  shields  a  pirate's  deck, 

It  binds  a  man  in  chains, 
And  round  the  captive's  neck 

Its  folds  are  bloody  stains. 


Tear  down  the  flaunting  Lie! 

Half-mast  the  starry  flag ! 
Insult  no  sunny  sky 

With  this  polluted  rag! 
Destroy  it,  ye  who  can ! 

Deep  sink  it  in  the  waves! 
It  bears  a  fellow-man 

To  groan  with  fellow -slaves. 


Awake  the  burning  scorn — 

The  vengeance  long  and  deep, 
That,  till  a  better  morn, 

Shall  neither  tire  nor  sleep ! 
Swear  once  again  the  vow, 

By  all  we  hope  or  dream, 
That  what  we  suffer  now 

The  future  shall  redeem. 


Furl,  furl  the  boasted  Lie ! 

Till  Freedom  lives  again. 
With  stature  grand  and  purpose  high 

Among  untrammelled  men! 
Roll  up  the  starry  sheen, 

Conceal  its  bloody  stains ; 
For  in  its  folds  are  seen 

The  stamp  of  rusting  chains. 

Swear,  Freemen — all  as  one — 

To  spurn  the  flaunting  Lie! 
Till  Peace,  and  Truth,  and  Love 

Shall  fill  the  brooding  sky; 
Then  floating  in  the  air, 

O'er  hill,  and  dale,  and  sea, 
'Twill  stand  forever  fair. 

The  emblem  of  the  Free ! 


ON  RAISING  A  MONUMENT  TO  TIIK 

IIMSH   I.KGION. 

To  raise  a  column  o'er  the  dead, 

To  strew  with  flowers  the  graves  of  those 
Who  long  ago,  in  storms  of  lead, 
And  where  the  bolts  of  battle  sped, 

Beside  us  faced  our  Southern  foes; 
To  honor  these — the  unshriven.unhearsed — 

To-day  we  sad  survivors  come, 
With  colors  draped,  and  arms  reversed, 
And  all  our  souls  in  gloom  immersed, 

With  silent  fife  and  muffled  drum. 

In  mournful  guise  our  banners  wave, 

Black  clouds  above  the  "  sunburst "  lower : 
We  mourn  the  true,  the  young,  the  brave 
Who  for  this  land  that  shelter  ^ravc, 

Drew  swords  in  peril's  deadliest  hour — 
For  Irish  soldiers,  fighting  here 

As  when  Lord  Clare  was  bid  advances, 
And  Cumberland  beheld  with  fear 
The  old  green  banner  swinging  clear 

To  shield  the  broken  lines  of  France. 

We  mourn  them;  not  because  they  died 

In  battle,  for  our  destined  race, 
In  every  field  of  warlike  pride. 
From  Limerick's  wall  to  India's  tide 

Have  borne  our  flag  to  foremost  place: 
As  if  each  sought  the  soldier's  trade. 

While  some  dim  hope  within  him  glows, 
Before  he  dies,  in  line  arrayed, 
To  see  the  old  green  flag  displayed 

For  final  fight  with  Ireland's  foes. 

For  such  a  race  the  soldier's  death 

Seems  not  a  cruel  death  to  die, 
Around  their  names  a  laurel  wreath, 
A  wild  cheer  as  the  parting  l>re.ith, 

On  which  their  spirits  mount  the  sky: 
Oh,  had  their  hope  been  only  won 

dn  Irish  soil  their  final  tiirht. 
And  had  they  seen,  en-  sinking  down. 
Our  Kmerald  torn  from  Kn^land's  crown. 

Each  dead  face  would  have  Hashed  with 
light. 


870 


POEMS   OF   GEN.    CHARLES   G.   HALPINE   (MILES  O'REILLY). 


•But  vain  are  words  to  check  the  tide 

Of  widowed  grief  and  orphaned  woe : 
Again  we  see  them  by  our  side, 
As  full  of  youth,  and  strength,  and  pride 

They  first  went  forth  to  meet  the  foe ! 
Their  kindling  eyes,  their  steps  elate, 

Their  grief  at  parting  hid  in  mirth; 
Against  our  foes  no  spark  of  hate — 
No  wish  but  to  preserve  the  state 

That  welcomes  all  the  oppressed  of  earth. 

Not  a  new  Ireland  to  invoke 

To  guard  the  flag  was  all  they  sought; 
Not  to  make  others  feel  the  yoke 
Of  Poland,  fell  the  shot  and  stroke 

Of  those  who  in  the  Legion  fought : 
Upon  our  great  flag's  azure  field 

To  hold  unharmed  each  starry  gem — 
This  cause  on  many  a  bloody  field, 
Thinned  out  by  death,  they  would  not  yield — 

It  was  the  world's  last  hope  to  them. 

Oh,  ye,  the  small  surviving  band, 

Oh,  Irish  race  wherever  spread, 
With  wailing  voice  and  wringing  hand, 
And  the  wild  kaoine  of  the  old  dear  land, 

Think  of  her  Legion's  countless  dead ! 
Struck  out  of  life  by  ball  or  blade, 

Or  torn  in  fragments  by  the  shell, 
With  briefest  prayer  by  brother  made, 
And  rudely  in  their  blankets  laid, 

Now  sleep  the  brave  who  fought  so  well. 

Their  widows — tell  them  not  of  pride, 
No  laurel  checks  the  orphan's  tear; 
They  only  feel  the  world  is  wide, 
And  dark,  and  hard — nor  help  nor  guide- 
No  husband's  arm,  no  father  near; 
But  at  their  woe  our  fields  were  won, 

And  pious  pity  for  their  loss 
In  streams  of  generous  aid  should  run 
To  help  them  say  "  Thy  will  be  done," 
As  bent  in  grief  they  kiss  the  Cross. 

Then  for  the  soldiers  and  their  chief 
Let  all  combine  a  shaft  to  raise — 

The  double  type  of  pride  and  grief, 

With  many  a  sculpture  and  relief 
To  tell  their  tale  to  after  days 


And  here  will  shine — our  proudest  boast 
While  one  of  Irish  blood  survives — 

"  Sacred  to  that  unfaltering  host 

Of  soldiers  from  a  distant  coast, 
Who  for  the  Union  gave  their  lives : 

"  Welcomed  they  were  with  generous  hand ; 

And  to  that  welcome  nobly  true, 
When  War's  dread  tocsin  filled  the  land, 
With  sinewy  arm  and  swinging  brand, 

These  exiles  to  the  rescue  flew; 
Their  fealty  to  the  flag  they  gave, 

And  for  the  Union,  daring  death, 
Foremost  among  the  foremost  brave, 
They  welcomed  victory  and  the  grave 

In  the  same  sigh  of  parting  breath." 

Thus  be  their  modest  history  penned, 

But  not  with  this  our  love  must  cease; 
Let  prayers  from  pious  hearts  ascend, 
And  o'er  their  ashes  let  us  blend 

All  feuds  and  factions  into  peace : 
Oh,  men  of  Ireland !  here  unite 

Around  the  graves  of  these  we  love, 
And  from  their  homes  of  endless  light 
The  Legion's  dead  will  bless  the  sight, 

And  rain  down  anthems  from  above  I 

Here  to  this  shrine  by  reverence  led, 

Let  Love  her  sacred  lessons  teach; 
Shoulder  to  shoulder  rise  the  dead, 
From  many  a  trench  with  battle  red, 

And  thus  I  hear  their  ghostly  speech : 
"  Oh,  for  the  old  earth,  and  our  sake, 

Renounce  all  feuds,  engendering  fear, 
And  Ireland  from  her  trance  shall  wake, 
Striving  once  more  her  chains  to  break 

When  all  her  sons  are  brothers  here." 

I  see  our  Meagher's  plume  of  green 

Approving  nod  to  hear  the  words, 
And  Corcoran's  wraith  applauds  the  scene, 
And  bold  Mat.  Murphy  smiles,  I  ween — 

All  three  with  hands  on  ghostly  swords  — 
Oh,  for  their  sake,  whose  names  of  light 

Flash  out  like  beacons  from  dark  shores — 
Men  of  the  old  race !  in  your  might. 
All  factions  quelled,  again  unite — 

With  you  the  Green  Flag  sinks  or  soars ! 


POEMS   OF  JOHN  BROUGHAM. 


877 


SAMBO'S  RIGHT  TO   BE   KILT. 

SOME  say  it  is  a  burnin'  shame 
To  make  the  naygurs  fight, 
An'  that  the  thrade  o'  bein'  kilt 

Belongs  but  to  the  white; 
But  as  for  me,  upon  me  sowl, 

So  liberal  are  we  here, 

I'll  let  Sambo  be  murthered  in  place  o'  meself 
On  every  day  in  the  year. 

On  every  day  in  the  year,  boys, 

An'  every  hour  in  the  day, 
The  right  to  be  kilt  I'll  divide  wid  him, 
An'  divil  a  word  I'll  say. 

In  battle's  wild  commotion 

I  shouldn't  at  all  object, 
If  Sambo's  body  should  stop  a  ball 

That  was  comin'  for  me  direct ; 
An'  the  prod  of  a  Southern  bagnet, 

So  liberal  are  we  here, 


I'll  resign,  and  let  Sambo  take  it 
On  every  day  in  the  ycur. 

On  every  day  in  the  year,  boys, 

An'  wid  none  o'  your  nasty  pride, 
All  my  right  in  a  Southern  bagnet-prod 
Wid  Sambo  I'll  divide. 

The  men  who  object  to  Sambo 

Should  take  his  place  an'  fight, 
An  it's  betther  to  have  a  naygur*s  hue 
Than  a  liver  that's  wake  an'  white; 
Though  Sambo's  black  as  the  ace  o'  spades 

His  finger  a  thrigger  can  pull, 
An'  his  eye  runs  sthraight  on  the  barrel- 
sights 

From  undher  its  thatch  o'  wool. 
So  hear  me  all,  boys,  darlins! 

Don't  think  I'm  tippin'  you  chaff, 
The  right  to  be  kilt  I'll  divide  wid  him. 
An'  give  him  the  largest  half! 


POEMS  OF  JOHN  BROUGHAM, 


MY   OLD   WOMAN  AND   I. 

WE  have  crossed  the  bridge  o'er  the  middle 

of  life, 

My  old  woman  and  I, 
Taking  our  share  in  the  calm  and  strife 

With  the  travellers  passing  by ; 
And  though  on  our  pathway  the  shadows 

are  rife, 
There's  a  light  in  the  western  sky. 

Some  losses  and  crosses,  of  course,  we've  had, 

My  old  woman  and  I ; 

But,  bless  you !  we  never  found  time  to  be 
sad, 

And  a  very  good  reason  why ; 
We  were  busy  as  bees,  and  we  wern't  so  mad 

As  to  stop  in  our  work  to  cry. 


On  our  changeable  road  as  we  journeyed 

along, 

My  old  woman  and  I, 
The   kindly   companions  we   meet    in   the 

throng 

Made  our  lives  like  a  vision  fly : 
And  therefore    the   few  that   imagined   us 

wrong 
Scarcely  cost  us  a  single  sigh. 

The  weak  and  the  weary  we've  striven  to 

cheer, 

My  old  woman  and  I ; 
For  we  each  of  us  thought  that  our  duty 

while  here 

Was  to  do  as  we'd  be  done  by, 
In  the  hope  to  exhibit  a  lul.-mce  clear 
When  the  reckoning  day  is  nigh. 


:878 


POEMS   OF   MAURICE   FRANCIS   EGAN. 


THE  HYMN   OF  PRINCES. 

LORD  !  we  have  given,  in  Thy  name, 
The  peaceful  villages  to  flame, 
Of  all  the  dwellers  we've  bereft, — 
No  trace  of  hearth,  no  roof-tree  left. 
Beneath  our  war-steeds'  iron  tread, 
The  germ  of  future  life  is  dead. 
We  have  swept  o'er  it  like  a  blight; 
To  Thee  the  praise,  0  God  of  right  I 

We  have  let  loose  the  demon  chained 

In  bestial  hearts,  that  unrestrained 

Infernal  revel  it  may  hold, 

And  feast  on  villainies  untold, 

With  ravening  drunkenness  possessed, 

And  mercy  banished  from  each  breast; 

All  war's  atrocities  above, 

To  Thee  the  praise,  0  God  of  love  ! 

Some  hours  ago,  on  yonder  plain, 
There  stood  six  hundred  thousand  men, 
Made  in  Thine  image,  strong  and  rife 
With  hope,  and  energy,  and  life, 
And  none  but  had  some  prized  one,  dear, 
Grief-stricken,  wild  with  anxious  fear  : 
A  third  of  them  we  have  made  ghosts ; 
'To  Thee  the  praise,  0  Lord  of  hosts  ! 


Thy  sacred  temples  we've  not  spared, 
For  they  the  broad  destruction  shared ; 
The  annals  of  time-honored  lore, 
Lost  to  the  world,  are  now  no  more. 
What  reck  we  if  the  holy  fane 
And  learning's  dome  are  mourned  in  vain  ? 
Our  work  those  landmarks  to  efface : 
To  Thee  the  praise,  0  Lord  of  grace! 

Secure,  behind  a  wall  of  steel, 

To  watch  the  yielding  columns  reel, 

While  round  them  sulphurous  clouds  arise, 

Foul  incense  wafting  to  the  skies, 

From  our  home-manufactured  hell, 

Is  royal  pastime  we  like  well, 

As  momently  death's  ranks  increase  : 

To  Thee  the  praise,  0  God  of  peace  ! 

Thus  shall  it  be,  while  human  kind, 

Madly  perverse  or  wholly  blind, 

Will  so  complacently  be  led 

At  our  command  their  blood  to  shed, 

For  lust  of  conquest,  or  the  sly, 

Deceptive,  diplomatic  lie; 

To  us  the  gain,  to  them  the  ruth, 

To  Thee  the  praise,  0  God  of  truth  ! 


POEIS  OF  MAURICE  FRANCIS  EGAK 


LIKE  A  LILAC. 

LIKE  a  lilac  in  the  spring 
Is  my  love,  my  lady  love ; 
Purple  white  the  lilacs  fling 
Scented  blossoms  from  above. 
So  my  love,  my  lady  love, 
Throws  sweet  glances  on  my  heart; 
Ah,  my  dainty  lady  love, 
Every  glance  is  Cupid's  dart. 

Like  a  pansy  in  the  spring 
Is  my  love,  my  lady  love, 
For  her  velvet  eyes  oft  bring 
Golden  fancies  from  above. 


Ah,  my  heart  is  pansy-bound, 
By  those  eyes  so  tender-true ; 
Balmy  heart's-ease  have  I  found 
Dainty  lady  love,  in  you. 


Like  the  changeful  month  of  spring 

Is  my  love,  my  lady  love; 

Sunshine  comes  and  glad  birds  spring, 

Then  a  rain-cloud  floats  above. 

So  your  moods  change  with  the  wind 

April-tempered  lady  love, 

All  the  sweeter  to  my  mind, 

You're  a  riddle,  lady  love. 


I'OKMS   OF   MAURICE  FRANCIS  EGAN. 


PERPETUAL  YOUTH. 

'Tis  said  there  is  a  fount  in  Flower  Land,— 
De  Leon  found  it,  where  Old  Age  away 
Throws  weary  mind  and  heart,  and  fresh 

as  day 

Springs  from  the  dark,  and  joins  Auro- 
ra's band : 
This  tale,  transformed  by  some  skilled  trou- 

vere's  wand 

From  the  old  myth  in  a  Greek  poet's  lay, 
Rests  on  no  truth.     Change  bodies  as 

Time  may, 

Souls  do  not  change,  though  heavy  be 
his  hand. 

Who  of  us  needs  this  fount  ?     What  soul  is 

old? 
Our  mere  masks  age,  and  still  we  grow 

more  young, 

For  in  our  winter  we  talk  most  of  Spring; 
And  as  we  near,  slow-tottering,  God's  safe 

fold, 
Youth's  loved   ones    gather    nearer; — 

though  among 
The  seeming  dead,  youth's  songs  more 

clear  they  sing. 


MY  FRIEND'S   ANSWER. 

I  READ,  0  friend,  no  pages  of  old  lore, 
Which  I  loved  well,  and  yet  the  winged 

days, 
That  softly  passed  as  wind  through  green 

spring  ways 

And  left  a  perfume,  swift  fly  as  of  yore, 
Though  in  clear  Plato's  stream  I  look  no 

more, 

Neither  with  Moschus  sing  Sicilian  lays, 
Nor  with  bold  Dante  wander  in  amaze, 
Nor  see  our  Will  the  Golden  Age  restore. 
I  read  a  book  to  which  old  books  are  new, 
And  new  books  old.     A   living  book   is 

mine — 

In  age,  two  years:  in  it  I  read  no  lies — 
In  it  to  myriad  truths  I  find   the  clew — 
A  tender,  little  child;  but  1  divine 
Thoughts  high  as  Danto's  in  its  clear  l.lue 
eyes. 


WHEN   MOT II  K IIS    WATCH. 

mothers  watch  beside  their  children's 
cradles 

And  kiss  the  snowy  brows  and  golden  hair, 
They  do  not  see  the  future  that  is  coming, 
Though  life  is  made  of  grief,  and  pain,  and 
care. 

But  God  is  good  to  all  the  tender  mothers, 
He  veils  the  future  with  its  pain  and  sin, 

Though  sometimes  fears  may  dim  the  pres- 
ent gladness, 
Yet  never  can  they  quench  the  hope  within. 

Yes,  God  is  very  good  to  tender  mothers, 
They  see  no  thorns  upon  the  golden  head 

Of  him  who  plays  among  life's  earliest  roses, 
That  bloom  a  fleeting  hour,  and  then  are 
dead. 

Yet  she,  the  model  of  all  earthly  mothers, 

Was  never  spared  the  pain  of  knowing  this : 
That,  though  the  Christ-child  played  with 

blooming  roses, 

The  cross  must  come,  for  all  her  prayerful 
bliss. 

To  look — He  slept — upon  His  snowy  eyelids, 
And  know  that  they  should  close  upon  the 

Tree; 
To  gaze  upon  His  smooth  and  stainless  fore- 

hrad 

And  know  that  there  great  drops  of  blood 
should  be. 

To  oatoh  Hit  dimpled  hands  and  softly  warm 

them. 

As  mothers  do,  between  her  own,  was  pain  : 
She  felt  tin-  nail   prints  on  their  velvet  sur- 
face, 

She  could  not  save  her  Lamb  from  beim: 
slain. 

When  mothers  watch  In-side  their  children V 

•  T.I  dies, 
And  dream  bright  dreams  for  them  of  joy 

and  fame, 

Let   them    remember   Mary's  trust  through 

aniMiish,  [Name. 

And  ask  all    hles.«.in->    through   the  Holy 


880 


POEMS   OF   THOMAS   BUCHANAN   READ. 


ST.   PATRICK'S   DAY. 

Is  there  a  land  in  all  the  great  round  earth 

In  which  thy  name's  unknown,  0  gracious 
Saint  ? 

Thy  people  praise  thee ;  wild,  strong,  March 

words  faint 
Beneath  the  burden  of  a  pious  mirth 

In  mem'ry  of  thee.     Where's  the  sad  com- 
plaint 

Of    yesterday  ?      To-day    our    preachers 
paint 


Thy  glory,  Truth-bearer.     Hope  takes  new 

birth; 

Old  tales  of  Ireland  light  the  dullest  hearth. 

Greater  than  Israel  have  thy  people  been ; 

Greater  than  Moses,  gracious   Patrick, 

thou: 
For  greater  sorrow  have  no  people  seen, 

And  so  resigned  did  no  people  bow 
Unto    God's    will,    which    changing    all 

Spring's  green 

Leads  them  to  Spring  through  Fall  and 
Winter  now. 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS  BUCHANAN  BEAD. 


SHERIDAN'S   RIDE. 

UP  from  the  south,  at  break  of  day, 
Bringing  from  Winchester  fresh  dismay, 
The  affrighted  air  with  a  shudder  bore, 
Like  a  herald  in  haste  to  the  chieftain's  door, 
The  terrible  grumble,  and  rumble  and  roar, 
Telling  the  battle  was  on  once  more, 
And  Sheridan  twenty  miles  away. 

And  wider  still  those  billows  of  war 

Thunder'd  along  the  horizon's  bar; 

And  louder  yet  into  Winchester  roll'd 

The  roar  of  that  red  sea  uncontroll'd, 

Making  the  blood  of  the  list'ner  cold, 

As  he  thought  of  the  stake  in  that  fiery  fray, 

And  Sheridan  twenty  miles  away. 

But  there  is  a  road  from  Winchester  town 

A  good  broad  highway  leading  down; 

And  there,  through  the  flush  of  the  morning 

light, 

A  steed  as  black  as  the  steeds  of  night 
Was  seen  to  pass,  as  with  eagle  flight, 
As  if  he  knew  the  terrible  need ; 
He  stretched  away  with  his  utmost  speed ; 
Hills  rose  and  fell ;  but  his  heart  was  gay, 
With  Sheridan  fifteen  miles  away. 


Still  sprang  from  those  swift  hoofs,  thunder- 
ing south, 

The  dust,  like  smoke  from  the  cannon's 
mouth, 

Or  the  trail  of  a  comet,  sweeping  faster  and 
faster, 

Foreboding  to  traitors  the  doom  of  disaster. 

The  heart  of  the  steed  and  the  heart  of  the 
master 

Were  beating  like  prisoners  assaulting  their 
walls, 

Impatient  to  be  where  the  battle-field  calls; 

Ev'ry  nerve  of  the  charger  was  strained  to 
full  play, 

With  Sheridan  only  ten  miles  away. 

Under  his  spurning  feet,  the  road 

Like  an  arrowy  alpine  river  flow'd 

And  the  landscape  sped  away  behind 

Like  an  ocean  flying  before  the  wind ; 

And  the  steed,  like  a  bark  fed  with  furnace 

fire, 

Sped  on,  with  his  wild  eye  full  of  fire. 
But  lo !  he  is  nearing  his  heart's  desire ; 
He  is  snuffing  the  smoke  of  the  warring  fray, 
With  Sheridan  only  five  miles  away. 

The  first  that  the  General  saw  were  the  groups 
Of  stragglers,  and  then  the  retreating  troops ; 


I'OKMS   OF    PATRICK    SAKSFIKLD    CA88IDY. 


881 


What  was  clone  ?  what  to  do  ?  a  glance  told 

him  both, 

Then  striking  his  spurs  with  a  terrible  oath, 
I Ir  dash'd  down  the  line  'mid  a  storm  of 

huzzas, 
And  the  wave  of  retreat  check'd  its  course 

there,  because 

The  sight  of  the  master  compell'd  it  to  pause, 
With  foam  :ind  with  dust  the  black  charger 

was  gray; 
But  the  flash  of  his  eye,  and  the  red  nostrils 

play. 

He  seem'd  to  the  whole  great  army  to  say, 
"  I  have  brought  you,  Sheridan,  all  the  way 
From  Winchester  down,  to  save  the  day." 

Hurrah!  hurrah  for  Sheridan! 
Hurrah !  hurrah  for  horse  and  man ! 
And  when  their  statues  are  placed  on  high 
Under  the  dome  of  the  Union  sky, 
The  American  Soldier's  Temple  of  Fame, 
There  with  the  glorious  general's  name 
Be  it  said,  in  letters  both  bold  and  bright; 
"  Here  is  the  steed  that  saved  the  day 
By  carrying  Sheridan  into  the  fight, 
From  "Winchester — twenty  miles  away ! 


TIIK    KKAYK    AT    HoME. 

THE  maid  who  binds  her  warrior's  sash 

With  smile  that  well  her  pain  dissembles, 
The  while  beneath  her  drooping  lash 

One  starry  tear-drop  hangs  and  trembles, 
Though  Heaven  alone  records  the  tear, 

And  Fame  shall  never  know  her  story, — 
Her  heart  shall  shed  a  drop  as  dear 

As  ever  dewed  the  field  of  glory. 

The  wife  who  girds  her  husband's  sword 

'Mid  little  ones  who  weep  or  wonder, 
And  gravely  speaks  the  cheering  word, 

What  though  her  heart  be  rent  asunder; 
Doomed  nightly  in  her  dreams  to  hear 

The  bolts  of  war  around  him  rattle, — 
Hath  shed  as  sacred  blood  as  e'er 

Was  poured  upon  a  field  of  battle. 

The  mother  who  conceals  her  grief 

When  to  her  breast  her  son  she  presses, 
Then  breathes  a  few  brave  words  and  brief, 

Kissing  the  patriot  brow  she  blesses, 
With  no  one  but  her  secret  God 

To  know  the  pain  that  weighs  upon  her, — 
Sheds  holy  blood  as  e'er  the  sod 

Received  on  Freedom's  field  of  honor. 


BURIAL  OF  MACSWYNE  OF  THE 
BATTLE  AXES. 

t"  A.  D.  1524 — MacSwyne,  of  Tin  Boghaine  (now  the  Barony 
of  Banagh),  Niall  Mor,  son  of  Goeghan,  a  chief  of  hardiest 
hand  and  heroism,  best  in  withholding  and  attacking,  best  in 
hospitality  and  prowess,  who  led  the  most  numerous  troops 
and  tin-  iii'i-t  \  i.'orous  soldiers,  and  who  had  forced  the  great- 
est number  of  passes  of  any  man  of  his  own  fair  tribe,  died, 
after  unctiou  and  penance,  at  his  castle  at  Rathaine  "  [Ra- 
in.n.  St.  John's  Point,  County  Donegal],  "December  llili. 
l.v-'l."— Annals  of  the  Four  Masters. 

THROUGH  the  portals  opened  wide, 
Through  the  gates  all  Hung  aside, 
Solemn  in  its  pomp  and  pride, 
Comes  the  funeral  of  MacSwyne— 
Comes  the  burial  of  tin-  brave — 
Noblest  of  a  noble  line 
That  never  nursed  a  slave ! 

He  who  swayed  the  !>attle-a\e. 
Firm  of  grasp,  of  movement  lax, 
Cleft  in  t \vain  like  ball  of  wax, 

56 


Cleft  full  many  a  foeman's  head, 
He  is  dead,  he  is  dead. 

And  clansmen  true  in  marching  line 
I'M -ar  him  to  the  grave,  to  the  grave. 

Sad  and  silently  they  tread. 
Mourners  of  the  mighty  dead. 
With  faltering  foot  and  hooded  head. 
Sad  and  sore,  in   heart  perplexed. 

Perplexed  in  he-irt  for  evermore; 
Bards  and  Brehons  follow  next, 
Then  the  cotlin.  which  before 
Walks  the  Abbot,  sable-stoled, 
Vestment-robed  with  ample  fold. 
Ribbed,  adorned  with  threads  of  gold  : 
1 1  is  eyes  through  clouds  of  sorrow  look 
I>o\vncast  on  the  tear-stained  book, 
Mar-in  writ  with  many  a  text. 
Many  a  text  of  holy  lore! 


882 


POEMS   OF   PATRICK   SARSFIELD   CASSIDY. 


Bear  him  slowly,  softly  bear 
Him,  the  loved  of  woman  fair, 
Him,  the  angels'  special  care, 
Him,  our  hearts'  beloved  dead, 
Him,  the  Ruler  and  the  Law; 
Bear  him  slowly,  softly  tread, 

Cross  yourselves  in  solemn  awe, 
Tell  the  bead  and  chant  the  caoine, 
Place  his  sword  and  axe  and  skean 
Where  crest  of  horse  and  lizard  green, 
Broadsword,  battle-axe  and  plume 
Are  carved  upon  his  coffin-tomb — 
Kind  of  heart  and  clear  of  head, 
He  has  bowed  to  Nature's  law. 


And  is  he  dead  ?    Ah,  he's  dead ! 
He  our  clan's  paternal  head, 
He  the  foeman's  mortal  dread, 

He  is  gone,  he  is  gone, 

And  we  ne'er  shall  see  him  more; 

He  is  gone,  0  ullalone  ! 

Gone  from  Rahan's  sunny  shore ! 
He  of  chieftain-like  command, 
He  of  free  and  generous  hand, 
He  the  lord  of  honor's  wand, 
He  the  rock  that  could  withstand 
Every  shower  of  arrows  keen, 
Every  thrust  of  pointed  skean, 
Turn  them  back  as  Dooran  Rock 
Elings  the  billows'  futile  shock — 

He  is  gone  and  we're  alone, 

Orphans  and  on  sorrow's  shore ! 

And  is  he  gone  ?     Ah,  he's  gone ! 
0  wirrastru  !  we're  now  alone, 
We  who  were  his  very  own, 
WTe  whose  very  hearts  had  grown 

Into  his,  unto  him ! 

And  shall  we  never  see  him  more  ? 

Never  shout  his  battle  hymn, 

Never  follow  where  he  bore  ? 
Never  look  upon  that  face, 
With  filial  love  each  feature  trace, 
Never  see  him  take  his  place 
In  Rahan's  ever  open  hall  ? — 
And  sure  'twas  he  who  fed  us  all — 

Take  his  place  upon  the  dais 

Deal  around  the  bounteous  store  ? 


Chant,  fair  bard  and  senachie, 
The  song  of  death  as  dolefully 
As  wail  the  winds  from  off  the  sea 

When  sinks  to  sleep  the  tempest's  fit, 
When  the  stormy  gales  depart 

A  dirge,  but  with  affection  lit, 

A  song  and  sob  of  broken  heart ! 
His  word  of  welcome  never  more 
Shall  greet  thee  at  the  open  door 
When  travel-stained  and  travel-sore, 
And  grant  refreshment,  shelter,  rest 
And  listen  to  your  song  and  jest; 
Of  all  your  friends  he  was  the  best, 

For  hospitality  had  writ, 

Had  writ  its  laws  upon  his  heart ! 

But  now  that  heart's  forever  still'd ; 
In  death  its  warm  affection's  chill'd, 
And  fled  the  fearless  soul  that  thrill'd 
With  living  fire  the  mortal  frame — 

With  fire  that  came  from  the  beyond 
And  gave  a  glory  to  the  name — 

That  never  owned  the  narrow  bond, 
The  narrow  bond  and  niggard  tie 
Where  selfish  souls  contracted  lie; 
Ah,  his  could  sweep  the  earth  and  sky, 
Could    soar  through  space  and   ride   the 

stars 
High    o'er    the    wind's   and    the    world's 

wars — • 
In  war  a  withering  blast  of  flame, 

In  love  a  deep  and  placid  pond. 

No  more  his  voice  on  his  clan  shall  call, 
Nor  flag  shall  wave  o'er  his  rampart  wall ; 
That  flag  of  fame  is  his  funeral  pall ; 
No  more  in  the  maddening  conflict  ring 
His  conquering  sword  and  his  dreaded 

name, 
No  more,  no  more,  shall  his  conquests 

bring 
To    clan    MacSwyne    its   accustomed 

fame; 

Nor  kindling  eyes  at  the  casement  burn 
With  pleasure  and  pride  at  the  chief's  re- 
turn— 

Ah,  wildly  they  weep  round  his  funeral 
urn ! 


I'UKMS    OF    I'ATIMCK    SAUSI-IKU)    CASSIDY. 


Xo  more  young  maids  from  their  towers 

above 

Shall  bathe  his  form  in  their  looks  of  love 
And  he — of  valor  and  manhood  king — 
Ah,  well  might  he  kindle  their  hearts 
to  flame! 

The  nimble  deer  unnoticed  now 
May  roam  around  the  mountain's  brow; 
The  hawk  its  head  in  grief  may  bow, 
For  never  hunter,  chief  or  king 

Could  give  such  sport  to  its  desire; 
The  falcon,  too,  may  droop  its  wing 
And  tame  its  restless  heart  of  fire! 
And  mourn,  ye  hills,  with  clouded  head, 
No  more  your  brows  MacSwyne  shall  tread ; 
And  his  the  foot  that  fleetest  sped 
Across  your  breasts  at  break  of  morn 
And  led  the  hunt  with  hound  and  horn. 
No  more,  no  more  he  home  shall  bring 
The  soldier's  spoils  or  hunter's  hire. 

While  chime  of  bell  and  chant  of  prayer 
Mournful  wake  the  evening  air, 
Bear  the  chieftain,  slowly  bear, 

And  place  him  in  the  crypt  below, 
Beneath  the  altar's  sacred  site. 

Chant  the  office  sad  and  slow 

And  solemn  be  the  Church's  rite. 
Ah,  narrow  now  must  be  his  bed, 
The  dust  shall  pillow  heart  and  head 
The  bloom  of  Banagh's  line  is  shed  ;• 
Dust  to  dust !     The  spirit's  flown 
To  mix  in  Heaven  among  its  own ; 

But  what  can  blunt  the  piercing  blow 

That  leaves  us  fatherless  below- 
Widowed  on  a  winter's  night ! 


TO   MY   IRISH   GOLDFINCH. 
Two  exiles  we  and  all  alone 

This  morn  of  New  Year's  day ; 
Dejection's  tones  are  in  your  song, 

There's  sadness  in  my  lay, 
And  when  you  pause,  the  interlude 

That  fills  the  space  between 
Seems  like  the  cadence,  low  and  sad, 

Of  some  old  Irish  caoine. 

Around  our  room  there  broods  a  gloom- 
The  gloom  of  our  regret 


That  we  arc  exiled  from  a  land 

We  can't  and  won't  forget ! 
Against  your  cage  you  beat  your  wings — 

Vain  effort  of  the  will — 
But  ah,  my  bird,  my  prisoned  heart 

This  day  beats  stronger  still- 
Beats  stronger  still  to  fly  away 

O'er  ocean's  flashing  foam 
And  visit  scenes  and  kindly  friends 

Of  boyhood's  cherished  home. 
And  in  the  New  Year's  merry  sports 

To  take  a  joyous  part — 
'Tis  this  and  this  alone  could  e 

The  longings  of  my  heart. 

But  let  us  fling  the  shutters  liack 

And  hail  the  glad  New  Year. 
AVho  knows  but  it  may  hold  for  us 

Bright  fortune  and  good  cheer! 
And  ah,  my  bird,  the  morning  beam 

Should  doubly  glad  our  eyes, 
For  see  it  streameth  from  the  east, 

And  there's  where  Ireland  lies! 

Cheer  up,  my  bird,  be  brave  of  heart, 

Compatriots  are  we, 
And  though  we're  caged  in  exile  here 

Our  souls  at  least  an-  free! 
For  you,  my  bird,  must  have  a  soul, 

I  feel  it  in  your  song; 
1 1'  heaven's  the  home  of  melody 

You  must  to  heaven  belong! 

In  sympathy  though  sorrowing  for 

That  land  beyond  the  wave, 
Let  us,  like  Irish  exiles  all 

The  wide  world  o'er,  be  brave! 
And  on  a  wing  more  swift  than  thine 

We  can,  this  New  Year's  Hay. 
Revisit  all  the  well-loved  scenes 

In  Ireland,  far  away. 

Come  twitter  round  the  hazel  hedge 

That  sheltered  thy  young  nest 
While  I. beside  you  sit  and  take 

A  wearied  exile's  rest. 
We're  back  on  Ireland's  soil,  my  bird! 

Her  soft  winds  round  us  play: 
Away  with  gloom  and  feelings  sad. 

Let's  whistle  "  Patrick's  Day  1 " 


884 


POEMS   OF  PATKICK  SARSFIELD   CASSIDY. 


A  KISS   IN  THE   MORNING. 

I  DID  not  hope  as  I  strayed  among 
The  perfume  wild  flowers  exhale 

To  meet  my  love  in  the  roseate  dawn 
As  through  the  woodlands  I  rambled  on 
Ere  the  sun  had  kissed  the  dew  from  the 

lawn, 

And  o'er  the  landscape  pale 
The  opalescent  mists  still  hung 
Like  a  tremulous  bridal  veil. 

I  laughed  in  mirth  at  her  trembling  start, 
And  her  little  cry  like  a  plaint; 

But  as  eyes  were  lost  in  the  depth  of  eyes 
I  saw  that  her  soul  with  a  glad  surprise 
Was  thrilled,  as  vision  from  out  the  skies, 
Might  thrill  the  soul  of  a  saint ; 
I  drew  her  bosom  towards  my  heart, 
A  bosom  without  a  taint ! 

She  gathered  her  lips  and  they  looked  so 

sweet 
Like  a  rosebud  wet  with  dew; 

My  sweetheart's  lips  like  a  rosebud  red 
Whose   petals   were   just   beginning  to 
spread,  [said 

And  her  eyes  looked  up  into  mine  and 
"  Love,  this  is  alone  for  you."  [beat 

They  looked  so  sweet  that  with  quickened 
My  heart  thrilled  through  and  through. 

I  linger*ng  .ooked  at  that  rosebud  mouth 
While  the  rosy  morn  came  up —         [East 
Came  up  from  the  glowing  and  radiant 
Whose  flush,  to  rival  her  cheeks,  in- 
creased, [feast 
And  I  still  looked  proudly  down  on  the 
That  lay  in  that  rosebud's  cup ; 
And  her  breath  was  warm  as  winds  from  the 

South, 
Yet  I  lingered  the  sweets  to  sip. 

Like  miser  hoarding  his  store  of  gold 
And  feasting  his  eyes  thereon, 
Or  like  the  lover  of  good  repast 
Who  keeps  the  choice  wine  for  the  last, 
Enjoying  in  fancy  the  sweet  forecast 
Of  the  pleasures  that  wait  anon — 
So  I,  her  form  in  my  arms'  enfold, 
Those  lips  looked  down  upon ' 


I  felt  that  I  stood  on  enchanted  ground ; 
The  earth  had  floated  away 

From  under  our  feet,  and  without  a  fear 
My  soul  went  out  on  a  new  career — 
Was   wafted    away   through  a  strange 

bright  sphere 

In  the  light  of  eternal  day, 
And  heaven  itself  was  all  around, 
And  love,  as  lord,  held  sway ! 

I  lingered  and  looked  as  if  under  a  spell — 
Before  me  that  cup  of  bliss — 

Too  lothful  to  crush  that  rosebud  red 
Till  she  in  modesty  hung  her  head 
And  the   deepest   crimson   her  cheeks 

o'erspread ; 
"  I'll  tease  thee  no  longer,  my  love,"  I 

said 

"  Oh,  darling,  this  —  and  —  this  — 
Let  all  the  woods  hereafter  tell 
That  morn  is  the  time  to  kiss ! " 


WHY  I   CELEBRATE   THE   DAY. 

(IN    REPLY   TO    AN    AMERICAN    FRIEND.) 

SILLY  question  'tis  you  ask  me — 

Why  I  celebrate  the  day  ? — 
I,  an  exile  from  an  Island 

Full  three  thousand  miles  away, 
Finding  here  a  home  and  welcome, 

Swearing  fealty  and  defense 
To  the  starry  flag  of  Freedom 

And  forever  gone  from  thence — 
Why  should  I,  you  wondering  ask  me, 

Now  a  manhood's  love  maintain 
For  a  land  I  left  in  boyhood, 
And  may  never  see  again  ? 

Friend,  that  Island  is  my  mother, 

From  her  fertile  soil  I  sprang; 
Generously  my  youth  she  nurtured 

And  my  lullaby  she  sang. 
Mark  me  well,  that  man's  a  villain, 

Mean  and  cold  as  clod  of  earth, 
In  whose  heart  there's  no  affection 

For  the  land  that  gave  him  birth. 


POEMS   OF   PATRICK   SARSFIELD   CASSIMV. 


880 


If,  of  it,  no  tender  memories 
Up  before  his  vision  swim. 

Then  the  land  that  gives  him  shelter 
Can  expect  no  love  from  him ! 

'Tis  a  light  and  thoughtless  question 

Why  I  love  the  dear  old  sod 
Where  my  eyes  first  looked  to  heaven 

And  my  lightsome  feet  first  trod  ? 
Must  a  man,  because  he  marries, 

Cease  to  love  and  venerate 
In  his  heart,  the  dear  old  mother 

Sitting  sad  and  desolate  ? 
Trust  me,  friend,  the  better  husband 

Always  is  the  better  son ; 
Heaven  protect  the  maiden  from  him, 

Who,  for  mother,  love  has  none. 

Well  I  love  this  broad  and  noble 

Land  with  love  as  pure  as  gold, 
None  the  less  because  my  spirit 

Visits,  now  and  then,  the  old ! 
Freely  would  I  grasp  a  sabre, 

Rally  'round  the  flag  of  stars, 
No  less  ready  for  the  reason 

That  I'd  shiver  Ireland's  bars ! 
Mingled  in  the  manly  bosom 

Is  the  love  for  mother — wife ; — 
So  my  love  for  both  lands  mingles 

In  the  current  of  my  life. 

Could  you  doubt  our  Irish  fealty  ? 

Call  the  muster  of  your  dead ; 
Find  a  field  in  all  your  history 

Where  no  Irish  heroes  bled— 
U'here  their  valor  shed  no  lustre 

On  your  flag,  that  ne'er  must  fade, 
From  the  days  of  Wayne  and  Moylan 

Down  to  Meagher's  Green  Brigade. 
Ours  a  nature  large  and  lavish, 

Generous  as  our  mother  land ; 
No  cold  shallow  stream  that  barely 

Covers  selfish  interest's  saml ! 

And  you  ask  the  thoughtless  question 

Why  I  celebrate  the  day  ? 
Friend,  I  celebrate  no  triumph 

Won  in  battle's  bloody  fray — 
Triumph  of  one  kingly  despot 

O'er  another,  at  the  cost 


Of  a  hecatomb  of  heroes, 

And,  perhaps,  of  freedom  lost! 

N»r  a  victory  ignoble 
Of  one  faction,  class  or  creed, 

While  a  strife-distracted  nation 
Wept  the  fratricidal  deed ! 

'Tis  not  these  my  memory  hallows; 

Friend,  it  is  a  sacred  cause  — 
'Tis  the  bringing  to  a  people 

Christian  light  and  love  ami  1 
Gentle  Patrick  the  Apostle 

Bore  no  flaming  battle  brand  ; 
In  his  heart  of  peace  the  Gospel, 

And  a  shamrock  in  his  hand ! 
These  the  weapons  that  he  wielded ; 

Ireland  bowed  to  Heaven's  su 
Who'd  object  but  brutish  bigots 

If  we  celebrate  his  day  ? 

Far  I've  left  my  mother  country; 

Made  this  fair  young  land  my  bride; 
Both  I'll  ever  love  and  cherish 

And  defend,  whate'er  betide! 
From  her  cliffs  let  Erin  beckon 

And  I  hasten  to  her  aid, 
Let  a  caitiff  strike  Columbia — 

From  its  scabbard  leaps  the  blade! 
Ha !     I  note  your  eye's  approval : 

With  my  tenets  you  agn 
Come,  thou  brave  and  free  Columbian, 

Come  and  celebrate  with  me! 


PAT'S    MAKKIAGE    CERTIFICAT 

Dedicated  to  my  fri.-iul.  Clmrli-s  Underwood  O'Connell.wh" 
as  Naturallznti.'ii  Clrrk  of  tli<-  Court  of  Common  Ple*ft,lMUr* 
,,  it  1 1  i<  -HUM  of  marriage  of  Foreign  Cavaliers  to  Mtaa  Columbia. 

IN  love  or  in  war  you'll  find  Put  isnosloueh  : 
It  isn't  his  nature  to  cringe  or  to  eroueh: 
••••Is  tin-re  is  dashing,  hot    blood  in  his 

veins, 

As  old  and  as  pure,  too,  as  any  thai 
Pat  woke  iiponemornini:,  'twas  in  the  bright 

Spring, 

And  said  to  himself.  "  I  must  alter  this  thing; 
I'm  tired  of  thus  li\in^a  poor  single  !>• 
Deprhed  <>f  all  pleasure,  denied  every  j 


886 


POEMS   OF   PATRICK   SARSFIELD   CASSIDY. 


I'll  marry  a  lady,  grand,  youthful  and  high, 
And  rich  as  a  princess.     I'll  do  it  or  die! " 
For  Pat  in  love  matters  you'll  find  is  no 

slouch; 

It  isn't  his  nature  to  cringe  or  to  crouch; 
He  feels  there  is  dashing,  hot  blood  in  his 

veins, 
As  old  and  as  pure,  too,  as  any  that  reigns. 

He  looked  all  around  and  beyond  the  bright 


To  find  a  fair  maiden  his  fancy  to  please. 
At  last  he  decided,  "  By  this  and  by  that, 
But  'cross  at  Columbia  I'll  shy  my  old  hat ! 
She'll  have  me,  I  know,  though  she's  rich 
and  she's  great !  "  [elate. 

And  he  danced  round  the  cabin  with  spirits 
For  Pat  in  love  matters  you'll  find  is  no 

slouch ; 

It  isn't  his  nature  to  cringe  or  to  crouch; 

He  knows  the  red  blood  bounding  quick 

in  each  vein  [stain. 

Is  as  good  as  the  best,  without  blemish  or 

From  the  deck  of  a  big  ocean  steamer  next 
day,  [Bay, 

As  she  sailed  most  majestically  out  of  Cork 
He  kissed  his  rough  hand  in  a  tender  fare- 
well [fell. 
To  old  Mother  Erin — then  blinding  tears 
But  he  dashed  them  away — "  Mother  Erin, 

agra, 

Columbia  will  make  a  good  daughter-in-law !" 
For  Pat  going  courting  you'll  find  is  no 

loon; 

It  isn't  his  nature  to  wail  to  the  moon; 
He'll  give  to  the  girl  that  he  weds  a  whole 
heart,  [part. 

And  love  neither  time  nor  misfortune  can 

Arrived  at  New  York,  he  walked  round  bright 

and  free, 
"  My  sweetheart  has  got  a  fine  gatehouse," 

said  he. 

To  pay  his  addresses  he  felt  nothing  loth, 
"  Perhaps,  my  dear  Pat,  'twould  be  better  for 

both/' 
Thus  spoke  Miss  Columbia,  all  smiling  and 

bright, 


And  Pat  took  a  taste  of  the  "  native  "  that 

night. 
For  Pat  is  no  cold-blooded  mortal  you'll 

find; 
And  who'd  blame  him  for  toasting  the  girl 

of  his  mind  ? 
For  dear  is  his  true  love  to  him  as  life's 

breath, 
He'll  fight  for  her,  work  for  her,  love  her 

'till  death! 

For  two  blissful  years  his  addresses  he  paid. 
And  rapid  advance  in  her  favors  he  made ; 
Then  fixed  himself  up  in  his  best  suit  of 
clothes,  [pose. 

And  polished  his  boots  and  prepared  to  pro- 
With  all  due  respect  his  intentions  declared, 
They  quick  were  accepted — the  feeling  wa& 

shared ! 

For  Pat  to  propose  you'll  find  never  afraid ; 
He  knows  all  by  heart  how  to  win  a  fair 

maid; 
—.e   knows  woman's  heart's  like  a   weak 

citadel- 
Lay  siege  and  strike  lively  and  all  will  go 
well. 

"  But,  Patrick,  you  Celts  are  light-hearted," 

she  said;  [are  wed." 

"Three  years  you  must  wait  yet  before,  we 

Three  years  looked  a  lifetime ;  Pat  felt  rather 

bad — 

With  any  one  else  he'd  have  got  fighting  mad. 

He  did  feel  like  fighting,  and  war  going  on, 

To  pass  the  time  quickly  he  shouldered  a 

gun.  [stone; 

For  Pat  in   such  times  is  no  stick  or  no 

It  isn't  his  nature  to  mope  and  to  moan; 

And  love  is  made  stronger  by  valor's  bright 

scar, 
And  Pat  is  at  home  or  in  love  or  in  war. 

The  three  years  were  up,  and  the  camp  fires 

burned 
No  more;  Colonel  Pat,  bronzed  and  bearded, 

returned. 
Like  a  man  and  a  soldier  he  claimed  his  fair 

bride, 
And  proudly  Columbia  stepped  up  to  his. 

side; 


POEMS   OF   PATRICK  SARSFIELD   CAS8IDY. 


887 


For  free-born   maidens  will   still   love  the 

brave. 
And  look  with  contempt  on  the  coward  and 

slave ! 
Ah,  in  love  or  in  war  you'll  find  Pat  is  no 

slouch — 

It  isn't  his  nature  to  cringe  or  to  crouch; 
The  rollicking,  bounding  red  blood  in  each 

vein 
Is  brave  as  the  best,  without  blemish  or 

stain ! 

"  Now,  Pat/'  said  O'Connell  right  friendly, 

"  come,  swear 
No   love   for   the  Widow    Britannia   you'll 

bear!" 
"  If  I  do  may  my  sowl  be  dyed  doubly  in 

sin!" 
"And  you'll  stick  to  Columbia  through  thick 

jind  through  thin!" 
"  1  will,  by  my  sowl ! "  did  he  cry,  while  he 

took 
Off  his  hat,  and  his  hand  he  planked  down 

on  the  book, 
Pat  never  owned  love  for  Britannia — not 

he; 

And  now  to  deny  her  he  felt  good  and  free ; 
And  his  free-born  heart  bounded  wildly 

with  pride 

As  he  grasped  the  fair  hand  of  Columbia — 
his  bride! 


"  So  now,  Mr.  Clerk,  hand  the  document 

here — 

My  marriage  certificate — she  needn't  fear ! " 
They  gave  him  the  parchment  for  woe  and 

for  weal, 
With  a  proud  screaming  eagle  and  flaming 

red  seal. 
Thus  Pat  wooed  and  wed  Miss  Columbia,  the 

free — 

The  flower  of  all  damsels  that  sit  by  the  sea! 
In  love  or  in  war  you'll  find   Pat   is  no 

slouch — 

It  isn't  his  nature  to  cringe  or  to  crouch; 
And,  next  to  the  deur  little  isle  of  his  birth. 
He  loves  broad  Columbia  the  best  upon 
earth! 


FANNY   PARNELL. 

mi-: i)  .ii'LY  20TH,  1882. 

DEAD?     Oh,  it  can't  be — it  must  not  be  so! 

The  blurred  print  but  mocks  our  dull  • 
For  our  spirits  refuse  to  acknowledge  the 

blow, 

Or  our  minds  to  such  loss  realize. 
Our  hearts  turn  rebels  to  such  a  decree 
'Though  the    hand  that    approved   were 

Divine — 
What!     She,  our  young  Priestess! — but  no, 

it  can't  be— 
Stricken  down  at  the  steps  of  the  shrine! 

Tell  us  not,  tell  us  not,  that  the  form  we 
have  loved, 

So  instinct  with  young  resolute  life 
And  the  genius  that  lit  up  our  case,  is  re- 
moved 

From  our  side  in  the  thick  of  the  strife! 
A  warrior's  heart  in  a  maiden's  frail  form — 

Strength  softened  by  womanly  grace — 
Was  hers;  and  a  spirit  to  ride  on  the  storm, 

When  it  broke  on  the  foe  of  our  race! 

No  thought  in  the  uttermost  spaces  of  mind, 

No  pain  in  the  heart's  widest  zone 
Was   farther   away  than   that  she  who    had 
twined 

Herself  round  our  hearts  as  her  own 
Should  sink   in   death's  sleep  in  a  moment 
like  this 

When  the  battle-wave  swells  at  full  tide, 
And  Liberty's  dawn  is  ascending  to  kiss 

The  land  of  her  love  and  hrr  pride. 

0,  it  surely  can't  be  that  her  spirit  has  pass'd 

From  the  struggle  in  hour  so  supn 
When  the  glorious  result  that  her  prescience 
forecast 

In  the  future-deciphering  dream 
Of  the  poet,  seems  nearing  a  truth — 

Wlii-M  the  transfigurations  at  hand 
Of  a  nation,  enslaved  beyond  inerev  or  ruth. 

Hising  up  as  a  free-born  Land! 

Has  she,  whose  young  soul  was  our  battle's 

bright  star, 

That    flashed    living    light    through   the 
gloom, 


•888 


POEMS   OF   PATRICK   SARSFIELD   CASSIDY. 


That  warmed  us  and  thrilled  us  in  righteous- 
ness' war, 

Has  she  gone  to  the  gloom  of  the  tombs  ? 
Has  the  light-flashing  banner  she  bore  in  the 

throng 

Of  the  conflict  gone  down  in  the  dust  ? 
Does  the  malice  of  fate  that  pursued  us  so 

long 
Seek  to  break  the  last  strand  of  our  trust  ? 

It  can't  be!   and  my  heart  from  its  inner- 
most core 

Refuses  its  faith  to  the  tale; 
Were  it  so  I  would  hear  from  her  Erin's  far 

shore 

Every  wave  on  the  strand  give  a  wail; 
And  the  gloom  that  would  shadow  the  face 

of  her  land 

Would  in  sympathy  seek  out  my  soul 
And  plunge  it  in  gloom  beyond  words'  poor 

command 
And  grief  beyond  power  of  control. 

Ah,  no,  it  can't  be  that  her  spirit,  so  rare, 

With  Liberty's  lightnings  aflame, 
With  courage  that  mocked  the  grim  face  of 

despair 

And  put  cowardly  doubtings  to  shame — 
It  can't  be  that  it's  gone  ere  her  eyes  had  be- 
held 

The  glory  of  Erin  reborn — 
That  her  requiem  bell  in  our  hearts  should 

be  knell'd 
'Mid  the  salvos  of  Liberty's  morn ! 

The  flash  of  her  spirit,  the  sweep  of  her 

powers, 

The  fervor  and  fire  of  her  song, 
The  lightnings  she  hurled  against  Tyranny's 

towers, 
The  blows  that  she  dealt  unto  wrong — 


Are  they  lost  to  the  cause  when  the  beautiful 

face 

Of  success  flushes  fair  on  our  flag, — 
When  the  sun-flash  she  yearned  for  bids  fair 

to  replace 
The  cloud  upon  mountain  and  crag  ? 

Have  the  lips — truly  touched   by  celestial 

fire — 

That  sang  Erin's  deep  agony, 
Been   hushed   when   the   poets,   in    jubilee 

choir, 

Are  weaving  the  song  of  the  free  ? 
Is  the  ear  stricken  deaf  that  but  loved  Erin's 

praise 

In  the  days  of  her  squalor  and  shame, 
When  the  harpings  and  shoutings  and  ban- 
ner's bright  blaze 
Give  welcome  to  freedom  and  fame  ? 


Personified  spirit  of  Erin !     Not  dead 

Art  thou  unto  us  and  thy  land; 
No  grave  'mid  the  earth-damps,  no  vault's 
narrow  bed 

Could  hold  thee  in  mortal  command. 
Yes;    your  heart  in  its  cere-clothes  would 
quiver  and  toss 

'Till  it  rent  them  apart,  and  you  stood 
Transfigured  and  glorified,  looking  across 

The  battle's  wrong-whelming  flood ! 

No !  thou  art  not  dead,  beloved  sister  of  song ; 

Thy  spirit  and  Erin's  are  one, 
And  active  still  must  be  thy  war  upon  wrong 

Till  the  centuried  crimes  are  undone. 
The  soul  that  fed   ours   shall   continue   to 
feed — 

The  genius  that  guided  to  guide — 
0,  passionate  Priestess  of  Liberty's  creed, 

Such  genius  as  thine  never  died ! 


POEMS  OF  ¥M,  GEOGHEGAN. 


THE  GROVES  OF  BALLYMULVEY. 

DEDICATED  TO  MY  ESTEEMED  FRIEND,  THOMAS 
MAXWELL,  ESQ.,  BALLYMAHON,  COUNTY  LONO- 
FORD,  IRELAND. 

[Ballymulvey  is  an  exquisite  spot  on  the  right  bank  of  the 
River  Inny  and  about  a  half-mile  distant  from  the  town  of 
Ballymahon,  in  County  Longford,  Ireland.  Its  groves  are  a 
favorite  resort  for  the  town's  people,  and  like  its  sylvan  coun- 
terpart, "Sweet  Auburn,"  which  is  only  a  few  miles  distant, 
it  has,  to  quote  the  picturesque  language  of  Goldsmith  : 

"  Seats  beneath  the  shade, 
For  talking  age  and  whispering  lovers  made." 
The  young  imagination   especially  delights  to  dwell  amid 
the  dreamy  recesses  of  those  charming  groves,  and  it  is  from 
a  fond  recollection  of  the  many  pleasant  hours  whiled  away 
there  in  childhood's  cloudless  years  that  I  am  tempted  to 
write  the  following:] 

THE  gorgeous  day  draws  to  its  close, 
And  in  the  west,  where  clouds  repose, 
The  sunset's  wine-like  radiance  glows, 

0  Groves  of  Ballymulvey. 
The  hills  are  veiled  in  purple  mist, 
The  river's  blue-belled  banks  are  kissed 
By  waves  that  shine  like  amethyst, 

O  Groves  of  Ballymulvey. 

But  sunset  glow  or  landscape  bright 
Brings  me  no  thrill  of  true  delight; 
My  heart  flies  o'er  the  sea  to-night, 

O  Groves  of  Ballymulvey. 
My  thoughts  are  all  of  vanished  days, 
Now  dimly  seen  thro'  memory's  haze, 
When  I  roamed  'round  your  woodland  ways, 

0  Groves  of  Ballymulvey. 

How  sweet  in  twilight's  tranquil  hours, 
When  all  your  glades  are  starr'd  with  flowers, 
To  wander  'mid  your  dreamy  bowers, 

0  Groves  of  Ballymulvey, 
And  list  the  throstle's  vesper  hymn, 
Like  tones  of  far-off  Cherubim. 
Outchanted  in  the  distance  dim, 

0  Groves  of  Ballymulvey. 


And,  oh  !  to  hear  your  guardian  trees, 
Wooed  gently  by  the  passing  breeze, 
Rehearse  their  sylvan  melodies, 

Blithe  Groves  of  Ballymulvey. 
While  thro'  each  leafy  chink  and  rent, 
As  if  on  some  new  love-quest  bent, 
The  stars  peeped  from  the  firmament, 

O  Groves  of  Ballymulvey. 

Ah  !  how  each  fond  remembrance  clings 
In  spite  of  exile's  cruel  stings, 
And  all  time's  adverse  happenings, 

0  Groves  of  Ballymulvey. 
Each  nook  and  glade  and  flowery  space 
Within  your  emerald  embrace 
Still  in  my  memory  hold  a  place, 

Fond  Groves  of  Ballymulvey. 

So,  too,  each  charm  —  the  milkmaid's  song, 
The  chorus  of  the  feathered  throng, 
On  wind  and  echo  borne  along, 

0  Groves  of  Ballymulvey. 
The  cuckoo's  note,  the  corncrake's  call, 
And  high  and  clear  above  them  all, 
The  lark's  melodious  madrigal, 

Rare  Groves  of  Ballymulvey. 

But,  oh!  what  tongue  could  e'er  express 
The  beauty  of  your  Summer  dress  ? 
The  pink  of  sylvan  loveliness, 


How  can  I  limn  the  haw  trees'  plumes, 

ihe  the  Maytiine's  varied  hl«»«>m~. 
Or  number  half  your  rich  perfumes. 
Sweet  Groves  of  Ballymuh 

How  shall  I  paint  the  ni.>->-rimme<l  rill  — 
The  '*  Paddock  "  win-re  we  gamboled  till 
The  moon  rose  over  ('..uhlan's  Hill. 
F.ur  :i  roves  of  Ballymuh 


890 


POEMS   OF   WM.   GEOGHEGAN. 


Or  picture  Inny's  primrose  side — 
The  beach-boughs  bending  o'er  the  tide, 
Like  bridegroom  whispering  to  his  bride, 
Bright  Groves  of  Ballymulvey  ? 

Enough  to  know  your  scenes  are  fair, 
Your  charms  are  all  as  debonair, 
As  when  a  boy  I  wandered  there, 

Dear  Groves  of  Ballymulvey. 
But  where  are  they — the  young  and  free 
Light-hearted  lads  who  drank  with  me 
Of  joy's  bright  cup,  and  worshiped  ye, 

0  Groves  of  Ballymulvey  ? 

Ah,  me !  o'er  some  the  churchyard  clay 
Is  darkly  heaped  for  many  a  day; 
By  far-off  sea  strands  others  stray, 

0  Groves  of  Ballymulvey. 
Their  morn  and  midnight  thoughts  like  mine, 
E'er  winging  o'er  the  wind-vexed  brine, 
To  where  your  dew-steeped  blossoms  shine, 

Loved  Groves  of  Ballymulvey ! 

When  sunset  flushed  the  western  sky 
How  sweet  to  mark  with  upturned  eye 
The  crows  in  long  battalions  fly, 

0  Groves  of  Ballymulvey! 
High  over  meadow,  wold  and  wood, 
To  where  their  leaf-roofed  houses  stood, 
Within  the  "  Rookery's  "  solitude, 

Wild  Groves  of  Ballymulvey. 

But  tho'  my  life-path  runs  no  more 
Amid  the  sun -bright  scenes  of  yore, 
The  thought  is  sweet  to  ponder  o'er, 

0  Groves  of  Ballymulvey, 
That  to  some  kindly  hearts  around 
The  borders  of  your  hallowed  ground 
My  name  hath  still  a  meaning  sound, 

Loved  Groves  of  Ballymulvey. 


THE   BUNCH   OF    MAY-BLOSSOMS. 

Now,  dearest  mother,  reach  me  down  that 

lovely  branch  of  May 
A   gentle   neighbor    pluck'd    for    me,   and 

brought  the  other  day. 


Ah!  the  pleasant  hawthorn  trees  that  are 

blooming  in  the  meadows. 
I  know  when  they  are  blooming  by  the  full- 
ness of  their  shadows; 
When  you  prop  me  up  with  pillows  to  watch 

the  dying  day, 
I  know  the  hawthorn  clump,  although  it  lies 

so  far  away ; 
For  there  my  Harry  saw  me  first  among  a 

crowd  of  girls — 
I  held  a  bunch  of  May-blossoms  as  white  and 

round  as  pearls; 
But  one  of  all  the  cluster  with  its  white  star 

yet  was  crown'd, 
And  he  said  it  was  a  fair  young  bride,  with 

all  her  bridemaids  round. 
All  that  day  he  linger'd  by  me,  linger'd  long 

beside  our  gate, 
And  till  the  stars  peep'd  through  the  elms  I 

knew  not  it  was  late. 

In  the  morning,  through  my  lattice,  I  saw 
him  sitting  early 

Beneath  the  ancient  oak-tree,  beside  our  field 
of  barley ; 

It  was  a  pleasant  spot,  I  ween — he  came  there 
day  by  day, 

Until  the  reapers  reap'd  the  corn  and  car- 
ried it  away. 

You  remember,  mother,  when  I  told  you  all 
the  words  he  said — 

How  you  smiled  and  laid  your  dear  hands  in 
blessings  on  my  head  ? 

You  knew  my  noble  loved  one,  though  in 
truth  I  then  did  not — 

Of  all  our  village  maidens  I  had  still  the  hap- 
piest lot. 

Handsome  Harry,  noble  Harry! — or  still 
some  better  name, 

On  the  lips  of  young  and  old  dwelt  the  fra- 
grance of  his  fame. 

Oh !  my  loving,  lingering  heart,  how  it  dwells 
on  all  the  past! 

The  future  holds  the  promise  of  the  pleasures 
that  will  last. 

But  I've  something  now  to  tell  will  make 
you  weep,  I  fear, 

For  I  was  very  wayward  when  he  wed  me, 
mother,  dear. 


POEMS   OF   WM.   GEOGHEGAN. 


You  have  sorrow'd.  meekest  mother,  over  all 

my  willful  ways, 
When  they  dimm'd  the  lovely  Spring-time, 

and  darken'd  Summer  days ; 
Scornful  glances,  angry  answers,  a  woman's 

love  for  sway, 
Made  me  often  seek  to  rule  where  I  promised 

to  obey. 
And  yet  I  loved  him  fondly;  love  is  cruel, 

love  is  blind — 
Breathes  the  words  that  deeply  wound,  darts 

the  looks  that  are  unkind ; 
And  I  think  I  see  him  now,  with  his  dear 

eyes  glancing  down, 
While  the  sunny  smiles  were  chasing  the 

shadow  of  a  frown. 


Oh!  my  angel,  angel  husband!  oh!  my  dar- 
ling gone  forever! 

How  these  bitter,  bitter  thoughts  make  my 
eyes  run  like  a  river ! 

I  think  how  he  would  speak  to  me,  and  point 
me  to  that  love 

Thatstoop'd  to  breathe  o'er  hearts  like  mine 
the  peace  that  reigns  above ; 

For  7ii.v  love  growing  heavenward,  God  sent 
an  angel  down, 

Who  came  to  crown  him  suddenly  with  his 
immortal  crown. 


Yes,  he  my  young  and  beautiful — I  saw  him 

dead  and  cold ; 
I  never  thought  that  I  could  live  and  yet  that 

sight  behold; 
'The  dreary  days  that  follow'd,  ami  the  sad, 

conflicting  strife. 
I  overlived  my  sorrows  and  the  emptiness  of 

life- 
Lived  to  see  the  green  turf  piled  upon  his 

young  and  faithful  breast — 
Lived  to  fathom  that  deep  love  when-  the 

weary  are  at  rest ; 
Until  a  change   came   over   nu — a   ehanp- 

more  mighty  far 
Than  if  a  dew-drop  on   the  earth   had  risen 

to  a  star. 


I  have  a  loving  heart,  mother,  and  that  you 

know  right  well ; 
But  once  it  was  content,  nay,  glad,  on  this 

cold  earth  to  dwell. 
That  all  must  fade  and  perish  here,  I  often 

<li<l  forget, 
Till  Death  upon  my  idol's  brow  his  clay-cold 

seal  had  set. 
There,  take,  that  branch  away,  mother,  and 

sit  you  down  by  me ; 
I'm  not  so  full  of  self,  to-night,  but  what  I 

think  of  thee. 
I  know  there  is  a  dreary  thought  that  winds 

about  your  heart; 
It  is  that  from  your  only  child  you  soon  will 

have  to  part. 
You  need  no  voice  of  mine,  mother,  to  point 

you  to  the  skies; 
From  only  thence  comes  down  the  light  that 

fills  those  tender  eyes. 


We  shall  not  die,  you  often  say,  but  sleep  a 

little  while, 
And  then  wake  up  in  that  bright  world  which 

sin  cannot  defile. 
My  human  heart  is  weak  and  fond — so  give 

me  one  last  kiss; 

Why  will  my  soul  still  stoop  below  the  foun- 
tain head  of  bliss  ? 
Good-night;  it  is  your  voice,  mother,  that 

sounds  so  far  away ; 
What    heights  and    depths   the  soul 

through  in  parting  from  its  clay ! 
And  see  up  there,  how  beautiful!     Ah!  well 

I  know  such  light 
Streams  down  alone  from  that  fair  world  that 

knows  no  shade  of  night. 


I'm  growing  very  weary  MOW;  I  think  that  I 

shall  >lcep. 
Hut     I    shall    wake    ajrain    in    heaven:    then 

wherefore  should  you  weep  r 
N":  dry  those  tears,  look   up,  bo  glad,  and 

banish  all  your  care. 

itrht.   Lr""'l-l'Ve;    forget    in.-    n<»t.  you 

soon  will  meet  UK-  tli 


892 


POEMS   OF   WM.   GEOGHEGAN. 


MAY. 

SING,  ye  blackbirds,  mellow, 
Ope,  ye  blossoms  gay ! 
O'er  the  mead  and  furrow 
Trips  the  laughing  May. 
Run,  ye  rills,  before  her 
Lambkins  skip  and  play, 
Birds  and  bees  implore  her. 
Long  with  us  to  stay ! 


Hark !  her  voice  is  ringing 
Through  the  golden  air; 
See  her  hands  are  flinging 
Blessings  everywhere. 
Age  lays  by  its  burdens 
Childhood  seeks  the  green, 
Youths  and  budding  maidens 
Hail  the  bright-haired  Queen ! 

Garlands  in  the  forest 
Hangs  she  on  her  way, 
Boughs  that  were  the  searest 
Smile  in  green  array; 
Bowers  for  love's  caresses 
Builds  she  day  by  day — 
Every  lover  blesses 
Bright-haired,  blooming  May ! 

Where  her  feet  have  lighted 
Silver  daisies  spring; 
Groves  that  winter  blighted 
Hear  the  song-bird's  sing. 
In  the  heart  of  sorrow 
Hope  lifts  up  her  voice, 
He  that  feared  to-morrow 
Now  can  say  Rejoice ! 


Gather,  happy  children, 
All  these  bells  of  blue, 
Merry  May  hath  filled  them 
With  the  sweetest  dew. 
Clad  are  hills  and  valleys 
In  the  daintiest  hue; 
Send,  ye  courts  and  alleys, 
Thousands  forth  to  view! 


MEMORY'S   BOOK. 
(DEDICATED  TO  MY  WIFE.) 

WHEN"  on  the  maple's  bending  bough  the 

leaf  begins  to  burn 
With  Autumn's  fire  —  and  Summer  birds  to 

tropic  haunts  return  ; 
When  thro'  the  meadow  sobs  the  brook  for 

all  the  fair-leaved  flowers 
That  brightly  starred  its  winding  banks  thro' 

Summer's  sunlit  hours  — 

Oh!  then,  'tis  sweet  in  the  solitude  of  some 

sequestered  nook 
To   slowly  turn  the  mind-traced  leaves  of 

Memory's  magic  book  — 
To  gaze  upon  the  records  bright,  the  annals 

steeped  in  tears, 
The  sorrows,  joys,  vicissitudes  of  life's  evan- 

ished years  ! 

Last  night  that  tender  task  was  mine  —  above 

my  soul  there  rolled 
The  lights  and  shades  of  boyhood's  days,  the 

hopes  and  dreams  of  old; 
I  saw  the  old  home  far  away  by  Inny's  mead- 

marched  side, 
The  hundred  haunts  —  the  thousand  friends 

I  knew  o'er  ocean's  tide. 

And  then  before  my  vision  rose  the  scenes 

of  later  days, 
Some  bright  with  joy,  some  softly  veiled  in 

sorrow's  tender  haze  — 
Here  rolled  a  stream,  with  her  I  loved  low- 

seated  by  its  waves, 
And    there     beyond  —  in    shadowland  —  two 

green,  green  little  graves  ! 


Ah!  Memory's  Book!  'tis  sometimes  sad  to 

turn  its  magic  leaves; 
And  yet  I  read  one  record  there  —  a  tale  of 

bygone  eves  — 
That  filled  my  heart  with  holiest  joy,  made 

all  my  pulses  thrill 
And  lent  atonement  to  my  soul  for  every 

other  ill! 


POEMS  OF  WM.   GEOGHEGAN. 


898 


'Twas  that  sweet  story  always  old,  and  yet 

forever  new 
Which  from  your  lips  my  love — my  wife — 

one  evening  fell,  and  threw 
My  heart  into  Love's  ecstasy — I  spoke  with 

eagerness — 
You  dropped  the  long  lids  o'er  your  eyes, 

and  softly  answered  "  Yes." 

And  now  our  wedded  life  is  hooped  in  joy's 

bright,  golden  ring 
By  two  blithe  boys  who  chase  the  hours  with 

childish  carolling; 
Oh  Memory !  in  your  magic  Book  imprint 

their  pictures  true 
So  that  in  future  years  we  may  with  love  the 

lines  review. 


LEAVES   THAT   ARE   FAIREST. 

LEAVES  that  are  fairest 

Soonest  decay; 

Loved  ones  the  rarest 

Soon  pass  away ; 

Smiles  that  are  brightest 

Soonest  grow  cold, 

Tales  that  are  lightest 

Soonest  are  told. 

But  the  leaf  and  the  tale  give  us  joy  while 

they  last  [past ; 

And  the  smile  of  a  friend  makes  a  joy  of  the 

For  memory  preserves  in  its  tender  embrace 

The  sunbeams  of  life  as  they  flashed  on  his 

face. 

Fortunes  the  proudest 

Fly  with  the  years ; 

Laughter  the  loudest 

Softens  to  tears ; 

Joys  the  completest 

Last  but  an  hour, 

Perfumes  the  sweetest 

Die  with  the  flower. 
But  why  should  we  sigh  for  the  joys  that 

have  fled, 

Or  mourn  the  fond  hopes  that  are  lost  with 

the  dead  ?  [will  bring 

Fresh  hopes  and  new  joys  coming  seasons 

As  perfumes  return  with  the  roses  of  spring. 


THE   DAYS   OF   LONG   AGO. 

1  WONDKK  are  the  fields  as  green,  the  skies 
as  brightly  blue, 

The  birds  as  joyous  in  their  songs — tin- 
flowers  as  bright  in  hue — 

Wild  roses  blushing  fresh  and  fair  in  many 
a  green  hedge  row — 

As  sweet  as  those  I  gathered  in  the  days  of 
long  ago  ? 

"  Oh,  yes,"  replies  the  maiden  fair,  with  voice 

of  melody, 
With  sunbeams  in  her  waving  hair  and  eyes 

like  summer  sea — 
"Yes,  yes,"   responds    the    gallant    youth, 

scarce  pausing  to  reply. 
While  high  resolve  and  happy  love  beam  in 

his  eager  eye. 

"  Oh !  speed  ye  toward  the  mountain  tops," 

we  wise  old  gray-beards  say, 
"  Yet  are  ye  not  so  light  of  foot  as  we  were 

in  our  day, 
So  hardy  on  the  rocky  paths,  so  blithe  among 

the  bowers. 
So  stout  of  heart  as  we  were  when  your  happy 

age  was  ours." 

Oh !  speed  ye  toward  the  mountain  tops,  ye 

maidens  fair  and  sweet 
While  spring-flowers    deck  your  blooming 

hair,  and  dewdrops  bathe  your  feet— 
With    star-bright     eyes,    with     rose-bright 

cheeks,  yet  are  ye  not,  we  know, 
So  lovely  as  the  girls  we  loved  a  long,  long 

time  ago. 

We  linger  in  the  lighted  halls,  for  still  we 
fondly  prize 

The  echoing  laughter  of  young  lips,  the  sun- 
shine of  young  e\ 

Yet  here  we  shake  our  wise  old  heads,  and 
say  with  faltering  tongue, 

"  Old  friend,  old  friend,  things  were  not  so 
when  you  and  I  were  young." 

The  dance  may  sweep  its  giddy  round,  the 

song  its  silvery  flow, 
What  are  they  to   the   .lanee   and   song  wo 

joined  in  long  a- 


894 


A   POEM   BY   DANIEL   R.  LYDDY. 


Thus  looking  from  the  hills  of  age,  along 

youth's  distant  glades, 
We  mark  the  lingering  sunlight  there,  but 

will  not  see  the  shades. 

"  Our  flowery  paths  lie  far  behind,"  regret- 
fully we  say, 

And  think  not  of  the  thorns  that  sprang  be- 
side us  on  our  way, 

So  fair  our  fragrant  pathway  spread,  so  sweet 
its  verdant  bowers, 

Long  hidden  are  the  snares  and  chasms  that 
lurk  beneath  its  flowers. 

Though  early  storms  might  lash  our  sea,  our 

bark  sped  free  and  fast, 
And  what  reck'd  we  of  sunken  rocks  o'er 

which  we  safely  pass'd  ? 
We've  climbed  the  crags,  we've  crossed  the 

chasms,  we've  gained  the  mountain 

height 
And   buried   loves  and   shipwreck'd   hopes 

have  vanished  from  our  sight. 

But  oh !  we  miss  the  lithsome  form,  we  miss 

the  flowing  curls, 
We  miss  the  buoyant  hearts  we  owned  when 

we  were  boys  and  girls; 
We  linger  fondly  on  thy  joy,  forgetful  of  thy 

woe — 
Oh !  happy  age,  oh !  golden  clime !  delusive 

Long  Ago ! 


WINTER. 

THE  trees  are  bare;  the  throstle  sings 

No  more  amid  the  branches ; 
Adown  the  hills  a  thousand  rills 

Old  scowling  winter  launches. 

Oh,  winter !  thou'r't  the  lover's  foe — 

In  vain  their  loud  lamenting; 
With  rain,  and  snow,  and  winds  that  blow, 

Their  wildwood  walks  preventing. 

My  own  dear  maid  no  more  I  meet 

In  leafy  lane  or  meadow; 
No  more  beneath  the  broad  beech  sit 

And  clasp  her  in  the  shadow. 

The  gentle  robin  sits  alone 

And  sings  a  ballad  dreary; 
His  fate  is  mine — his  griefs  mine  own — 

I'm  parted  from  my  dearie. 

The  storm  howls  round  my  cottage  door — 
Rude  blasts  that  may  alarm  her ; 

Oh !  bitter  wind !  oh  fate  unkind 
That  keeps  me  from  my  charmer! 

Soft-breathing  spring  come  back  again 
And  curb  the  fountains  foaming; 

With  sun  and  flowers  make  glad  the  hours, 
And  set  the  lovers  roaming; 

That  they  may  in  thy  primrose  path 

Once  more  join  lips  together, 
And  in  their  bliss  forget  the  wrath 

Of  biting  wintry  weather. 


A  POEM  BY  DANIEL  R,  LYDDY. 


CHRISTMAS  HYMN. 
ALL  hail!  All  hail!     Ye  Christmas  Bells! 

Fling  far  and  wide  your  silv'ry  tones, 
Which  peace  impart  to  captives'  cells, 

To  lowly  cots  and  lordly  thrones. 

When  the  midnight  hour  is  tolling, 
Come  with  me,  ye  pure  in  thought, 

To  that  Crib  from  whence  is  rolling 
Away  the  gloom  Eve's  sinning  wrought. 


CHRIST,  the  Man-God,  is  born  to  us — 
In  lordly  hall  ?     On  downy  bed  ? 

Are  courtly  hands  prepared  to  nurse 
On  kingly  couch  His  Regal  Head  ? 

No !     No !  within  that  humble  shed 
Queen,  matron,  nurse  is  Mary  all  •, 

And  Joseph  shields  the  heav'nly  head 
Of  Him  who'd  sav'd  us  from  our  fall. 


POEMS   OF    WILLIAM    COLLI.\>. 


Oh,  holy  Virgin,  Mother  blest — 

I'.y  that  bright  flame  which  warmed  thy 

mind, 
Teach  us  to  feel  what  fill'd  thy  breast — 

Unbounded  love  with  awe  combined. 

In  pain  thou  stood'st  beneath  the  cross ; 

By  all  the  pangs  that  pierc'd  thee  through, 
Oh,  raise  our  hearts  above  earth's  dross 

That  we  in  heav'n  may  dwell  with  you — 


With  you  in  peace  beyond  the  skies, 
Enwrapt  in  all  heaven's  grand  accord ; 

Singing  sweet  psalms  of  peerless  praise 
To  our  Kedeemer,  Guide  and  Lord. 


All  hail!  all  hail!  glad  Christmas  bells, 
Fling  far  and  wide  your  silv'ry  tom  ~. 

Which  peace  impart  to  captives'  cells, 
To  lowly  cots  and  lordly  thrones. 


POEMS  OF  WILLIAM  COLLINS. 


A  GLEN  IN  THE   GALTEES. 

WHERE  the  mountains  loom  up  with  their 
peaks  to  the  sun, 

Bespangled  with  heath  blossoms  purple  and 
dun; 

Where  the  skies,  in  their  brightness  and 
beauty  aglow, 

Look  down  with  a  smile  on  the  valley  below ; 

Where  the  summer  winds  stray  and  the  sun 
loves  to  shine, 

And  linger  around  it  till  daylight's  decline; 

There,  hid  in  the  mountains,  embowered  mid 
the  trees, 

Lies  that  bright,  fairy  glen  in  the  sunny  Gal- 
tees. 

Enshrined  like  a  gem  in  the  heart  of  the 

hills, 
And  wooed  by  the  voice  of  a  hundred  bright 

rills 
That  unceasingly  sing,  as  in  gladness  they 

stray, 
Making  music  and  mirth  through  the  long 

summer  day; 

Sparkling  in  beauty  and  sunshine  they  flow 
Till  they  mingle  their  song  with  the  river 

below, 
That  rushes  and  foams  to  the  widespread inir 

main 
Like  a  war-charger  freed  from  the  curb  of 

the  rein. 


The  furze  and  the  hazel,  the  beech  and  the 

broom, 
On  thy  sun-lighted  slopes  sweetly  blossom 

and  bloom; 
And  bright  on  thy  banks,  where  the  laughing 

waves  run, 
The  shamrock,  unsullied,  is  nursed  by  the 

sun, 
And  the  scent  of  the  hawthorn  is  wafted  on 

high 
Like  the  incense  of  love  from  the  earth  to 

the  sky, 
Diffusing   its  sweets   on   the  soft   summer 

breeze 
That  plays  round  that  glen  in  the  sunny 

Galtees. 

The  rocks  and  the  ruins  are  moss-grown  and 


The  towers  of  the  Desmond  are  gone  to  de- 

cay, 
Clan  Cauru  no  more  wakes  the  sleep  of  the 

glen 
With  the  shout  and  the  tread  of  their  warrior 

men. 
The  hills  that  resounded  the  shout  of  the 

kern, 
When  his  banner  blazed  out  from  the  heather 

and  fern, 

Are  ei-holess  now  as  the  graves  on  the  plain. 
And  nau.uht    but    their  grandeur  and  glory 

remain. 


896 


POEMS   OF   WILLIAM   COLLINS. 


Oh!  home  of  my  heart,  when  in  youth's 
sunny  time 

I  trod  thy  green  vale,  what  bright  visions 
were  mine; 

When  I  gazed  on  thy  mountains,  so  daring 
and  grand, 

And  heard  the  sad  tale  of  our  wronged 
Mother-land ; 

How  I  longed  on  the  breeze  her  bright  ban- 
ner to  see 

And  yearned  in  the  clash  of  the  conflict  to 
be, 

And  coursed  the  red  blood  in  my  hot  burn- 
ing veins 

To  leap  to  the  onset  and  shatter  her  chains. 


Green  Erin !  the  strangers  who  dwell  in  thy 

land, 

May  rule  with  unsparing  and  merciless  hand, 
But  they  cannot  efface  from  thy  beauteous 

brow 
The  grandeur  that  shone,  and  is  beaming 

there  now. 

Thou  art  fair,  though  by  footstep  of  for- 
eigner trod, 
As  if  newly  sprung  forth  from  the  bosom  of 

God, 
And  the  breath  of  His  love  had  illumined 

thy  frame, 
And  a  ray  of  His  glory  enshrined  with  thy 

name. 


Loved  Mother !  for  thee  in  my  wanderings  I 


With  a  fond  love  that  never  can  languish  or 

die, 
As  the  weary  heart  pines  for  the  sunshine 

and  light, 
When  dungeoned  and  fettered  in  darkness 

and  night, 

So  I  pine  for  thee,  Erin,  and  still  hope  to  see 
Thy  flag  on  the  mountain  soar  upward  and 

free. 
And  backward  my  thoughts  o'er  the  wide 

ocean  stray 
To  that  Glen  in  the  Galtees  that  lies  far 

away. 


THE   FLAG   OF  FONTENOY. 

(1745.) 

AIK — "Auld  Lang  Syne,"  or  "  The  Sword 
of  Bunker  Hill" 

COMEADES,  fill  up  the  parting  glass 

And  drink  this  toast  with  me; 
Round  let  the  sparkling  goblet  pass, 

And  pledge  it  warm  and  free. 
'Twill  kindle  up  the  patriot's  soul, 

And  fire  his  breast  with  joy, 
Then  pledge  it  in  a  brimming  bowl, 

The  flag  of  Fontenoy. 

To-morrow  on  the  battle  plain 

Perchance  'twill  be  our  lot 
To  fall  'mid  heaps  of  mangled  slain 

To  die  and  be  forgot. 
But  brush  that  starting  tear  away, 

For  if  we  fall,  my  boy, 
High  o'er  our  heads  shall  proudly  wave 

The  flag  of  Fontenoy. 

On  many  a  field  beyond  the  sea 

Have  our  brave  fathers  stood, 
And  borne  that  flag  triumphantly 

'Mid  fire  and  flame  and  blood. 
But  never  yet  could  foeman's  hand, 

Or  tyrant's  power  destroy 
The  banner  of  our  own  dear  land, 

The  flag  of  Fontenoy. 

In  vain  perfidious  England  strove 

To  trample  and  defile, 
She  ne'er  could  quench  the  burning  love 

We  bear  our  mother  Isle, 
And  let  her  send  her  hireling  slaves 

To  plunder  and  destroy ; 
We  scorn  her  threats  while  o'er  us  waves 

The  flag  of  Fontenoy. 

On  Limerick's  walls,  the  Yellow  Ford, 

Cremona's  'leaguered  gate, 
On  Leinster's  hills  it  proudly  soared 

In  good  old  Ninety-Eight. 
The  peasant  serf  forgot  his  woes, 

And  grasped  his  pike  with  joy, 
When  o'er  his  native  hills  arose 

The  flag  of  Fontenoy. 


POEMS   OF  WILLIAM   COLLIN-. 


897 


And  prouder  yet  that  flag  shall  wa\". 

And  higher  shall  it  soar 
O'er  Tara's  hill  and  Emmet's  grave 

In  Erin's  Isle  once  more. 
When  joined  together,  heart  and  hand, 

We'll  hail  that  day  with  joy, 
And  plant  upon  our  own  dear  land 

The  flag  of  Fontenoy. 

Then,  comrades,  fill  your  glass  with  me, 

And  drink  before  we  go, 
Fill  up  to-night,  to-morrow  we 

Shall  march  to  meet  the  foe. 
And  if  amid  the  battle's  shock 

Perhance  we  fall,  my  boy, 
High  o'er  our  heads  shall  proudly  float 

The  flag  of  Fontenoy. 


SUNDAY  MORNING    IN  IRELAND. 
Early  Mass. 

How  oft,  when  treading  life's  rude  track, 

'Mid  all  our  hopes,  our  joys  and  fears, 
The  heart,  untravelled,  still  looks  back 

To  other  scenes  and  other  years. 
Fame's  meteor  star  may  gild  the  way, 

And  fortune's  favors  round  us  flow, 
But  backward  still  the  heart  will  stray 

To  the  bright  days  of  long  ago. 

Through  the  dim  haze  of  thirty  years 

I  look,  and  pierce  the  misty  space— 
And  lo !  before  my  sight  appears 

Each  well-beloved,  remembered  place; 
The  hill,  the  glen,  the  waterfall, 

The    meadows    strewn   with    new-mown 

grass; 
The  ruined  tower,  the  abbey  wall, 

The  bell  that  chimed  for  morning  Mass. 

Across  the  fields  the  maidens  trip, 
With  looks  half  roguish,  half  demure. 

With  bright,  brown  eye,  and  cheek,  and  lip 
As  lovely  as  their  hearts  are  pure. 


God  bless  you,  girls,  may  fear  or  frown 
Ne'er  cloud  your  path  uor  linger  i 

And  may  those  eyes  of  ha/.el  brown 
Be  never  dimmed  with  sorrow's  tear! 

In  merry  groups  the  village  swains 

O'er  road  and  meadow  wend  their 
Past  rath  and  hawthorn-seen  ted  lanes, 

All  clad  in  frieze  of  Irish  gray. 
It  is  a  fair  and  gladsome  sight 

To  see  these  youths  and  maidens  pass, 
All  blithesome,  irlowinir,  warm  and  bright, 

To  tell  their  beads  at  morning  Mass. 

But  sure,  'tis  not  of  fast  or  prayer 

Young  Maurice  Daily  thinks  the  while, 
As  gallantly,  with  rustic  air, 

He  helps  fair  Nora  o'er  the  stile. 
He  blushes,  trembles,  vainly  tries 

To  hide  the  love  that  all  can  see; 
Well,  'tis  no  wonder ;  Nora's  eyes 

Would  charm  an  older  sage  than  he. 

From  group  to  group  kind  greetings  run, 

For  all  are  neighbors  in  the  place, 
And  love  and  kindness,  mirth  and  fun 

Are  written  on  each  manly  face. 
The  merry  jest  flies  quickly  hy. 

The  witty  shaft,  with  friendship  aimed, 
And  maid  and  lover,  coy  and  shy. 

Blush  deep  to  hear  their  feelings  named. 

Some,  where  the  hawthorn  shadows  fall, 

Converse  in  whispers  soft  and  low, 
Or  deeply  muse,  apart  from  all, 

As  slowly  toward  the  church  they  go. 
With  faces  bronzed  with  sun  and  toil. 

And     marked    by    mountain    storm    and 

bree/.e. 
O!  never  yet  on  Irish  soil 

Beat  truer,  braver  hearts  than  these! 

"Now,  God  be  praised!  'tis  wondrous  £<x>d, 
To  see  these  hills  so  old  and  pray. 

And  mark  how  ^rand  looks  Held  and  wood, 
All  Clothed   in  jrreell  this  blessed   day. 

Could  we  but  call  these  fields  our  own. 

Free  from  the  tyrant's  ^raspinj;  hand. 
And  see  his  pride  and  power  o'erthrown. 

I  low  blest  and  bright  would  be  our  land. 


:S98 


POEMS   OF   WILLIAM   COLLINS. 


"  Well,  neighbor,  we  must  watch  and  wait, 

And  silently  and  well  prepare 
To  meet  the  hour,  for  soon  or  late 

The  time  will  come  to  do  and  dare. 
Look  yonder,  where  young  Owen  conies, 

How  brave  he  looks,  how  proud  and  free; 
I  wish  to  heaven  that  Erin's  sons 

Were  all  as  well  prepared  as  he  ? 

"  Good-morning,  Owen !     Glad  am  I 

To  see  you  come  to  early  Mass ; 
You  step  so  fleet  and  lightly  by 

You  scarcely  bend  the  dewy  grass. 
Come  nearer !     Don't  forget,  to-night 

The  boys  assemble  on  the  hill ; 
Be  sure  and  have  your  rifle  bright, 

The  captain  will  be  there  to  drill. 

"  Tell  Maurice,  Brian  and  the  rest, 

If  you  should  meet  them  in  the  glen, 
To  wear  a  shamrock  on  their  breast, 

And  that  the  moon  will  rise  at  ten  ! 
Next  Tuesday  night  old  Piper  Blake 

Will  blithely  make  his  chanter  squeal; 
And  troth !  'tis  you  a  foot  can  shake 

With  Moira  in  an  Irish  reel. 

•"  Hush !  here  the  priest  behind  us  rides ; 

Now,  friends  and  neighbors  hurry  on, 
For  time  and  tide  for  none  abide, 

And  very  strict  is  Father  John. 
The  chapel  bell  has  ceased  to  chime, 

The  morning  Mass  will  soon  begin; 
Now — God  be  praised !  (we're  just  in  time), 

And  save  us  all  from  shame  and  sin ! " 

Well,  well ;  those  days  are  over  now, 
And  thirty  years  are  passed  and  gone; 

Time's  hand  has  grizzled  beard  and  brow, 
And  foreign  suns  have  on  me  shone. 


But  still  I  ponder  day  by  day, 
Even  as  I  weave  these  idle  rhymes, 

And  deep  within  my  heart  I  say, 
MAY  GOD  BE  WITH  THE  GOOD  OLD  TIMES. 


THE    MAEINER'S    EVENING    HYMN. 

EVENING'S  shadows  fall  around  us, 

And  the  sun  sets  on  the  sea, 
With  Thy  love,  O  God !  surround  us, 

Trustingly  we  pray  to  Thee; 
Sin  with  all  its  snares  has  bound  us, 

Thou  can'st  cleanse  and  make  us  free. 


Darkness  falls  upon  the  ocean, 
And  the  waves  in  anger  leap, 

And  our  barque  with  troubled  motion, 
Heaves  and  trembles  on  the  deep, 

But  our  hearts  with  true  devotion, 
Nearer  to  Thy  footstool  creep. 

Though  the  winds  in  wrath  are  blowing, 
Thou  the  tempest  can  command, 

Safe  beneath  Thy  guidance  going, 
We  shall  hail  the  welcome  land ; 

And  though  fierce  the  waves  are  flowing, 
Power  and  strength  are  in  Thy  hand. 

Father,  as  the  night  descending, 
Hides  the  sun's  last  golden  ray, 

Hear  our  hearts  and  voices  blending 
As  to  Thee  we  humbly  pray, 

That  Thou,  love  and  grace  extending, 
All  our  sins  shall  wash  away. 


POEMS  OF  DANIEL  CONNOLLY. 


ONE  SUMMER  NIGHT. 

THERE  is  mist  in  the  winding  hollows 

That  fade  on  the  straining  sight, 
And  dimly  the  darting  swallows 

Dip  into  the  gathering  night. 
The  hills  loom  silent  and  solemn ; 

The  stream  makes  a  drowsy  rhyme, 
That  lulls  like  an  echoing  volume 

Of  song  from  a  far-off  time. 

And  here  in  the  moonlight  sitting 

I  ponder  an  old  tale  o'er, 
And  here  in  the  twilight  flitting 

Are  faces  that  smile  no  more. 
There's  one  that  is  fair  and  tender, 

And  one  that  is  frank  and  brave, 
And  one  with  a  darkling  splendor, 

And  beyond,  in  the  gloom,  a  grave. 

Down  a  shaded  pathway  lonely 

Two  forms  in  the  stillness  move, 
And  the  listening  maples  only 

Hear  the  whispered  sweets  of  love; 
A  kiss,  and  the  maiden  slowly 

Returns  to  her  cottage  door, 
With  a  peace  that  is  pure  and  holy 

Upon  lips  that  shall  laugh  no  more. 

Where  the  road  dips  low  by  the  river, 

In  a  hollow  of  gleam  and  shade, 
And  the  silvered  tree-tops  quiver, 

By  the  wandering  night-wind  sway'd, 
Fierce  eyes  from  an  ambush  glisten 

With  a  murderous,  vengeful  glare: 
Keen  ears  in  the  stillness  listen 

For  a  step  that  will  soon  be  there. 

He  comes,  with  his  heart  still  singing 
The  runes  of  a  passionate  love; 

A  bound  as  a  tiger's,  springing 
From  a  vantage  point  above; 


A  glint,  as  of  white  steel  gleaming, 
A  shriek  in  the  startled  night, 

And  low  where  the  moon  is  beaming, 
He  lies  in  the  sad,  pale  light. 

Lo!  the  mists  float  high  o'er  the  hollows, 

No  breath  stirs  the  drowsy  le;; 
That  droop  in  the  moon,  and  the  swallows 

Have  flown  to  their  nests  in  the  eaves. 
Thus  the  mists  and  the  moonlight  floated 

That  night  when  a  brave  youth  died 
In  the  copse,  and  a  dark  face  gloated 

With  a  vengeful  glare  by  his  side. 


THE  EYES   OF  AN  IRISH   GIRL. 

You  may  talk  about  black  eyes  and  blur. 

About  brown  eyes,  and  hazel  and  gray; 
You  may  praise  as  you  please  every  hue 

Known  on  earth  since  its  earliest  day  ; 
But  no  other  eyes  under  the  sun 

Can  set  poor  human  hearts  in  a  whirl, 
With  their  pathos  and  mischief  and  fun, 

Like  the  eyea  of  a  bright  Irish  girl. 

They  are  soft  as  the  down  on  a  <l<>ve. 

They  are  mild  as  a  midsummer  dawn. 
They  are  warm  as  the  rod  heart  of  love, 

They  are  coy  as  the  glance  of  a  fawn ; 
Tender,  pensive,  and  dreamy  as  night. 

Bright  and  pure  as  the  daintiest  pearl, 
Yet  as  merrily  mad  as  a  sprite 

Are  the  eyes  of  a  young  Irish  girl. 

They  can  soothe  and  delight  with  a  beam. 

They  can  rouse  and  inspiiv  with  a  glance. 
They  can  chill  and  reprove  with  a  gleam 

That  is  keen  as  the  flash  of  a  Ian 
To  bring  peace,  or  the  pangs  of  despair 

To  one's  breast,  be  he  noble  or  ••hurl. 
There  is  nothing  on  earth  to  compare 

With  the  eyes  of  a  true  Irish  girl. 


1)00 


POEMS   OF   REV.  JAMES   KEEGAN. 


You  may  search  cabin,  cottage  and  hall, 

Thro'  the  loveliest  lands  that  are  known; 
But  the  loveliest  land  of  them  all 

Has  no  eyes  like  the  eyes  of  our  own; 
There  are  faces,  no  doubt,  quite  as  sweet, 

And  as  fair,  under  ringlet  and  curl, 
But  no  light  like  the  splendors  that  meet 

In  the  eyes  of  a  glad  Irish  girl. 


Ah !  Dame  Nature  was  cruelly  kind 

When  she  took  from  her  tenderest  skies 
The  most  exquisite  tints  she  could  find 

And  bestowed  them  on  soft  Irish  eyes; 
For  no  other  eyes  under  the  sun 

Can  set  poor  human  hearts  in  a  whirl, 
With  their  pathos  and  mischief  and  fun 

Like  the  eyes  of  a  bright  Irish  girl. 


POEMS  OF  KEY.  JAMES  KEEGAK 


SONG  FOR  ULSTER. 

I. 

HURKAH  !  hurrah ! — the  North  is  won, 
Brave  Ulster  is  once  more  our  own; 
From  Innishowen  to  Gowna's  shore 
The  Green  is  waving  proud  once  more — 
From  Earne's  groves  to  banks  of  Bann, 
The  North  is  with  us  to  a  man ; 
Tyrconnell,  Truah,  grand  Tyrone, 
Orange  and  Green  are  now  our  own. 

II. 

Hurrah !  hurrah ! — the  North  is  ours, 
Thro'  hills  and  vales,  in  towns  and  towers, 
The  glorious  sight  once  more  is  seen 
Of  Blue  and  Orange  blend  with  Green. 
The  dawn  has  come,  the  night  has  past, 
Foul  strife  and  feud  aside  are  cast ; 
Hands  joined  in  strife,  now  join  in  love, 
While  Green  and  Orange  float  above. 

III. 

Then  proud,  united  let  them  wave, 
O'er  ranks  that  hold  no  more  a  slave; 
And  proud,  united  let  them  join 
From  stormy  Foyle  to  placid  Boyne  : 
Let  foemen  once,  now  brothers  be, 
Their  watchword— "  Home  and  Liberty  I" 
While  tyrants  crouch  and  traitors  groan, 
Let  true  men  shout,  the  North's  our  own. 


CREIGHAREE. 

A   LEGEND    OF   LEITRIM. 

THERE'S  a  green,  silent  vale  in  the  heart  of 

the  West, 
Where  a  smooth,  glassy  river  steals  on  to 

the  sea; 
A  swan  glides  in  state  on  the  water's  c;ilm 

breast, 

And  the  breezes  blow  slumb'ring  thro'  lone 
Creigharee— 

Thro'  green  Creigharee, 
Thro'  sad  Creigharee — 
Ah !  'tis  silent  and  lone — but  the  winds  make 

their  moan, 
And  the  ring-dove  complains  in  the  tall 

elm  tree; 
In  the  weird  midnight  gale  you  may  list  to 

the  wail 

Of  the  ghosts  that  are  haunting  in  lone 
Creigharee. 

In   green   Creigharee  dwelt  a  fair  queenly 

dame, 
Before  her  proud  chieftains  bent  lowly  the 

knee; 
But  her  breast  was  of  ice  to  their  hot  hearts 

of  flame, 

And  in  sadness  they  parted  from  green 
Creigharee — 

From  loved  Creigharee 
From  dear  Creigharee. 


A   POEM   BY   HON.  W.   E.   ROBINSON. 


'.Mil 


Yet  day  after  day,  from  realms  far  away, 
With  bugle  and  banner  all  gallant  and 

free, 
They  sought  her  in  vain  and  they  left  her 

again, 

With  sad  heart  forever  in  green  Creigha- 
ree. 

At  last  came  a  youth  without  banner,  or 

armor, 

A  minstrel  renowned,  and  excelling  was  he, 
His    song  touched  the  breast  of    the  cold- 
hearted  charmer, 

But  he  left  her  to  weep  him  in  dark  Creig- 
haree, 

In  dim  Creigharee, 
In  drear  Creigharee — 

She  drooped  and  departed,  ere  Winter,  hard- 
hearted, 
The  last  quivering  leaf  snatched  away  from 

the  tree; 

And  her  spirit  for  ever — a  swan  on  the  river, 
Atones  for  her  folly  in  lone  Creigharee. 


THEY  TOLD  ME    SING  A   SONG    OF 
MIRTH. 

THEY  told  me  sing  a  song  of  mirth, 
They  blamed  me  for  my  woful  strain  ; 

They  said:  Behold  the  gladsome  earth, 
And  winds  and  waves  in  gay  refrain. 

Sing  night  and  day  a  song  of  glee — 
And  for  my  grief  they  mocked  at  me. 

I  tuned  my  harp  to  measures  gay, 
I  strove  to  wake  its  chords  of  fire, 

But  soon  to  sadness  joy  gave  way, 
And  mirth  not  long  would  sway  the  v/ire. 

My  harp's  responsive  to  my  heart, 
Whence  gloom  refuses  to  depart. 

Some  day  may  come  in  brighter  years, 
Some  day  of  Hope  no  more  deferred, 

When  flow  no  longer  th'  exile's  tears, 
And  Freedom's  voice  in  Erin's  heard  - 

When  freed  her  every  hill  and  plain, 
Then  may  I  sing  a  joyful  strain. 


THE  AMERICAN  FLAG. 

HAIL  brightest  banner  that  floats  on   the 

gale; 

Flag  of  the  country  of  Washington,  hail! 
Red  are  thy  stripes  as  the  blood  of  the  brave, 
Bright  are  thy  stars  as  the  sun  on  the  wave ; 
Wrapt  in  thy  folds  are  the  hopes  of  the  free; 
Banner  of  Washington,  blessings  on  theel 

Mountain  tops  mingle  the  sky   with  their 

snow, 

Prairies  lie  smiling  in  sunshine  below; 
Rivers  as  broad  as  the  sea,  in  their  pride, 
Border  thine  empires,  but  do  not  divide; 
Niagara's  voice  far  out-anthems  the  sea; 
Land  of  sublimity,  blessings  on  th 


Hope  of  the  world!  on  thy  mission  sublime. 
When  thou  didst  burst  on  the  pathway  of 

Time, 

Millions  from  darkness  and  bondage  awoke: 
Music  was  born  when  Liberty  spoke: 
Millions  to  come  yet,  shall  join  in  the  glee : 

Land  of    the  pilgrim's   hope,  blessings  on 
theel 

Empires  shall  perish  and  monarchies  fail : 
Kingdoms  and    thrones  in    thy  glory   grow 

pale; 

Thou  shalt  live  on,  and  thy  people  shall  <>\vn 
Loyalty's    sweet    where    ea«-h    heart    is    thy 

throne; 

Union  and  Freedom  thy  heritage  i 
Country  of  Washington,  blessings  on  th 


POEMS  OF  MRS.  M,  C.  BURKE. 


LITTLE   SHOES. 

THEY'RE  very  pretty  little  things, 
With  bow  and  buckle  bright, 
And  fitted  to  dear  little  feet 
So  soft,  and  smooth,  and  white. 
And  all  the  children  eager  rush 
To  tell  the  joyous  news, 
That  "  Our  baby  has  short  clothes, 
And  pretty  little  shoes." 

Why  is  it  that  my  mother-heart 
Is  full  of  anxious  fears, 
And  all  unconsciously  my  eyes 
Glisten  with  blinding  tears  ? 
It  is  that,  up  to  this,  my  babe 
Lay  on  a  loving  breast, 
To  which  he  ever  eager  turned 
For  nourishment  and  rest. 

But  little  shoes,  ye  bid  me  think 
That  from  this  very  day, 
I  send  another  pilgrim  forth 
Upon  life's  weary  way. 
Into  the  world's  sin  and  care, 
Its  struggling  and  its  strife, 
Until,  like  J'ob,  his  heart  may  wish 
It  never  had  known  life! 

'Twas  just  two  years  ago  I  put 

On  little  Katie's  feet 

Such  shoes  as  these,  with  warm  caress 

And  kisses  fond  and  sweet. 

They  were  such  pretty  little  things — 

Aye !  not  a  bit  more  stout — 

Yet  she  had  joined  the  angel's  band 

Ere  they  were  quite  worn  out. 

Oh !  many  a  mother's  bitter  tears 

On  little  shoes  are  shed, 

Relics  of  household  treasures  gone, 

Idols  amongst  the  dead ! 

Whether  this  babe  reach  man's  estate, 

Or  soon  his  course  be  run, 

I  only  ask  for  grace  to  say : 

"Father,  Thy  will  be  done!" 


THE   BEGGAR. 

A  BEGGAR  sat  at  Toledo's  gates 
And  a  gallant  train  swept  by, 
Ladies  there  were,  of  beauty  rare, 
And  lords,  of  station  high ! 

The  beggar  raised  his  feeble  hands, 
And  asked  for  a  little  aid ; 
It  was  bitter  cold,  and  he,  very  old, 
"Alms,  for  God's  sake ! "  he  prayed. 

Some  heeded  him  not,  as  they  gaily  spoke 
To  the  fair  ones  at  their  side; 
But  one  of  renown,  he  looked  him  down, 
With  a  scornful  glance  of  pride. 

And  loud  he  laughed  at  the  old  man's  rags, 
And  asked  him  why  he  wore 
That  pitiful  look,  he  could  not  brook 
Sorrow,  it  vexed  him  sore. 

So  he  threw  him  gold,  and  bade  him  begone,. 
For  it  was  not  meet  that  he 
Should  be  sitting  there,  like  sorrow  and  care, 
In  the  sight  of  such  company. 

The  old  man  stooped  to  pick  it  up 
And  his  dim  eyes  grew  more  dim, 
And  he  gave  a  sigh  to  the  days  gone  by 
'Twas  not  always  thus  with  him ! 

Another  beggar,  he  came  by, 

And  seeing  the  old  man  there, 

He  said :  "  You  grieve,  would  I  could  relieve 

Your  heart  of  its  heavy  care." 

The  old  man,  he  looked  gratefully  up, 
For  his  heart  was  deeply  stirred, 
And  he  gave  the  gold  and  a  blessing  tenfold 
To  him  of  the  kindly  word ! 


A  POEM  BY  THOS.  AMBROSE  BUTLER. 


AN   IRISH   MARINKi:. 

[The  "  Santa  Maria  "  carried  sixty-six  persons.  One  of  the 
i-ivu  was  an  Irishman.  His  name  is  found  in  the  official  list 
of  those  who  perished  in  the  colony  of  La  Navidad.  He  was 
a  native  of  Galway.] 

I. 

O'ER  the  shadow'd  sea  they  floated  midst  the 

tangled  weeds  of  ocean, 
And  their  swelling  hearts  were  clouded 

like  the  water's  heaving  breast; 
And  the  sea,  in  ripples  sighing  round  the 

sluggish  ships  in  motion, 
Seem'd  to  sadly  speak  the  longings  of  the 
wearied  souls  for  rest. 

II. 

Ah !  the  troubled  seamen  trembled  as  they 

plowed  with  spirits  daunted 
Where  no  keel  had  everfurrow'd  since  the 

birth  of  sea  and  sky, 
And  the  starry  gems  above  them,  that  the 

Master's  hand  had  planted, 
Seem'd  as  lights  of  foreign  dwellings  with 
no  friendly  spirit  nigh. 

III. 

Yet  a  Star  unseen  they  thought  of,  and   it 

smiled  along  the  water, 
And  the  wearied  woke  to  courage  and  the 

hopeless  hoped  anew, 
And  the  trembling  strung  their  voices  to  the 

praise  of  Heaven's  daughter — 
Mary! — Star  of  earth  and  ocean! — Mother 
mild  and  ever  true  I 

IV. 

Mark  of  beauty! — named  from  Mary — dove 

of  promise  spread  thy  pinions, 
<ilide  along  the  sullen  waters  with   thy 

banner  floating  free — 
Earth   and   air  and   sky  above  us    an-  the 

mighty  God's  dominions, 
And  He  bound  this  globe  of  beauty  with 
the  cincture  of  the  sea ! 


V. 
Great  Columbus  —  guiding  spirit  —  seem'd  to- 

see  his  Lord  and  Master, 
So  he  held  hig  ghip  in  harness  with  a  sea- 

man's steady  hand, 
And  in  Him  alone  he  trusted  to  protect  t  lie  m 

from  disaster, 

And  to  Him  he  look'd  to  lead  them  tow'rds 
the  undiscover'd  land. 

VI. 

Hark!    a  voice  along  the  waters  like   the 

sound  of  angel's  greeting!  — 
It  is  coming  down  from  cloudlets  where 

the  sailor-boy  is  seen,  — 
And  the  eager  eyes  of  seamen  see  where  sky 

and  waves  are  meeting 
Land  !  —  a  virgin  land  of  beauty  clad  in  flow- 
ing robes  of  green. 

VII. 

Lordly  trees  are  gently  waving  leafy  branches 

tow'rds  the  seamen,  — 
Glancing  lakes  are  softly  smiling  sunny 

welcome  tow'rds  the  I 
Giant  bays  with  arms  outspreading  stretch 

to  wearied  limbs  of  freemen,  — 
Sandy  shores  are  ever  ready  for  the  foot 
prints  of  the  free! 

VIII. 

Midst  revivM  rejoicing  comrades  one  alone 

recalls  the  vanish'd!  — 
One  alone  is  mov'd  by  niem'ry  rherished 

visions  waked  awhile!- 
One  —  a  gloomy  Irish  Kxile.  far   from    home 

and  kindred  banish'd. 
Seems  to  see  reflected  valleys  of  his  darling 
mother-isle  ! 


He,  a  "rough  and  ready"  sailor,  lov'd   the 

friendly  Spanish  nation,  — 
I.ov'd  the  likeness  of  the  Saviour  on  the 
floating  flag  of  Spain,  — 


A   POEM   BY  THOMAS   AMBROSE   BUTLER. 


But  his  heart's  affection  centr'd  in  one  spot 

of  all  creation — 
In  the  verdant  isle  of  Ireland  that  seem'd 
looking  o'er  the  main. 

X. 

Loud  the  voice  of  great  Columbus,  trumpet- 
toned  along  the  water, 
.To  the  Pinta,  to  the  Nina  and  the  seamen 

by  his  side, — 
"In  the  name  of  God  our  Father!    in  the 

cause  of  Spain  his  daughter! 
Let  us  bear  the  cross  and  banner  o'er  the 
intervening  tide. 


XL 

"  But,  remember ! — none  may  tread  upon  the 

land  that  lies  before  us, — 
None  may  kiss  the  smiling  island  till  my 

lips  shall  press  her  robe, — 
None  may  follow  in  my  footsteps  till  the 

Cross  shall  glitter  o'er  us, 
And  the  Flag  of  Spain  in  triumph  touch 
this  margin  of  the  globe." 


XII. 

In  the  boat  that  bears  Columbus  tow'rds  the 

new-discover'd  treasure, 
Bends  the  brawny  Irish  seaman  with  his 

deftly  feather'd  oar, 
And   his  azure  eyes  of  beauty  beam  with 

sunny  light  of  pleasure 
As  a  stolen  glance  discovers  spotless  ver- 
dure on  the  shore. 


XIII. 

And  the  sailor's  heart  is  bounding  like  the 

shining  waves  beside  him, 
And  a  smould'ring  wish  rekindles  in  his' 

patriotic  breast — 
.Shall  the  first,  the  sweetest  greeting  to  the 

new  land  be  denied  him — 
To  the  land  that  seems  a  daughter  of  the 
Old  Isle  in  the  West  ? 


XIV. 

He  is  looking  back  tow'rds  Erin  as  he  sweeps 

the  sea  before  him, 
He  is  gazing  tow'rds  her  daughter  as  he 

lifts  the  dripping  oar, 
He  is  whisp'ring  to  his  feelings,  though  the 

flag  of  Spain  is  o'er  him 
His  the  hand  that  first  shall  offer  friendly 
greeting  to  the  shore. 

XV. 

Gladsome  shouts  are  raised  by  sailors  as  they 

hear  the  sands  resounding 
As  the  keel  awakes  soft  music  by  the  ver- 
dant island's  side, 
And  the  boat  that  bears  Columbus,  like  a 

steed  of  beauty  bounding, 
Springs  to  shore  with  trembling  motion 
from  the  foamy-crested  tide. 

XVI. 

Sudden  falls  a  sailor  forward  as  they  rise  to 

stem  the  water; — 
And  it  seem'd  by  chance  he  totter'd,  and 

it  seem'd  by  chance  he  fell, 
But  he  stretch'd  a  hand  unnoticed  to  the 

ocean's  lovely  daughter, 
And  he  touch'd  the  hem  that   sparkled 
'neath  the  wavy  water's  swell ! 

XVII. 

Lift  the  Cross,  0  great  Columbus! — let  it 

stand  beside  the  wildwood, 
Let  it  rest  on  earth  in  token  of  the  Sa- 
viour's sacred  reign; — 
Still  a  hand  that  "  crossed  "  the  forehead  of 

an  exile  in  his  childhood 
Has  been  first  to  take  possession  'ne::th 
the  waters  of  the  main ! 

XVIII. 

Raise  the  Spanish  nation's  banner  where  the 

startled  natives  rally, 
Let  it  wave  a  joyous  greeting  tow'rds  the 

sunny  smiling  shore, 
But  the  unseen  hand  that  touch'd  it  once 

above  a  blooming  valley 
Waiv'd  adieu  to  home,  to  kindred, — Mother 
Erin  evermore! 


POEMS  OF  REV,  JOHN  COSTELLO, 


SONNET. 

WHAT  forgest,  blacksmith!  on  thine  anvil 
there  ?  [bound. 

"  Chains  do  I  forge."     Thyself  in  chains  art 

What  dost  thou  plough,  0  serf  ?  "I  till  the 
ground."  [fare. 

Ay,  for  thy  lords,  the  fruit — weeds,  for  thy 

What  huntest,  sportsman  ?  "  The  swift- 
footed  hare." 

On  thine  own  track  is  now  a  human  hound. 

What  weavest,  fisher?  "Nets;  for  fish 
abound." 

Thyself  art  netted  in  a  deadly  snare. 

Whom,  mother!  in  that  cradle  rockest  thou  ? 

"  My  boy."  That  he  may  live  and  one  day 
smite 

His  motherland  in  service  of  her  foe. 

What,  poet !  in  thy  books  art  writing  now  ? 

"  Of  mine,  and  of  my  people's  shame  I  write, 

That  in  the  dust,  like  slaves,  they  crouch  so 
low." 


ERIN. 

As  rose  of  old  the  Jews  from  out  the  gloom 
Of  Egypt's  thraldom,  fated  not  to  see, 
Themselves  the  Promised  Land  of  liberty, 
Before  upon  them  closed  the  sightless  tomb ; 
So  not  thy  sons  to-day,  but  those  to  come, . 
My  Mother  Erin!  will  behold  thee  fnv: 
For  at  the  fires  that  cleanse  must  kindled  be 
The  torch  that  Freedom's  pathway  would 

illume. 

From  Mount  Sinai's  cloud-encircled  brow, 
The  Prophet  saw  that  shining  land  afar. 
On   which    himself  was   destined    m-Yr   to 

stand ; 

So  gazing  down  the  Future's  vista  now, 
I  see  thy  forehead  crowned  with  Freedom's 

star, 
And  worship  thee  in  silence.  Motherland! 


MY   MOTHERLAND. 


I. 


WHAT  caused  this  Spring  of  Song  to  start 
To  sudden  life  within  my  heart '; 

My  Motherland! 

Long  years  I've  wandered  far  and  wide, 
To  Southern  climes  o'er  ocean's  tide — 
Nor  felt  my  brow  by  breezes  fanned, 
So  soft  as  thine,  My  Motherland ! 


II. 


But  ah!  the  glare  of  Southern  skies 
Awhile  quite  hid  thee  from  mine  eyes. 

My  Motherland! 

For  when  these  sunny  shores  I  sought, 
True  happiness  is  here,  I  thought, 
Till  dim  became,  on  foreign  strand, 
Thine  image  fair,  My  Motherland ! 


III. 

How  blithely  sang  the  feathered  throng, 
In  Spring  thy  leafy  woods  among, 

My  Motherland ! 

Marred  by  the  Summer's  sultry  heat, 
Their  songs  sound  here  not  half  so  sweet : 
They've  winged  their  flight — that  tuneful 

band — 
To  Thee,  My  Emerald  Motherland ! 


IV. 

On.-r  rrlioi-d,  with  a  joyous  ring, 

My  songs  to  music  of  thy  Spri 
My  Motherland! 

The  South  to  me  no  sonj;  hath  brought, 

Of  Spring  itself  I  seldom  thought. 
Oppressed  as  by  enchanter's  wand. — 
Timr  brok'st  the  spell,  My  Motherland! 


906 


POEMS   OF  REV.  JOHN   COSTELLO. 


V. 

The  priceless  gifts  of  Love  and  Truth, 
Thou  gavest  me  in  days  of  youth, 

My  Motherland! 
Ere  I  departed  from  thy  shore, 
Now  draw  me  back  to  thee  once  more; 
I  list  the  voice  of  their  command, 
And  come  to  thee,  My  Motherland ! 

VI. 

And  as  I  turn  again  to  thee, 

My  heart  throbs  with  Joy's  ecstacy, 

My  Motherland ! 

And  like  the  lark,  when  dawns  the  light, 
AVings  heavenward  its  viewless  flight, 
And  greets  with  song  that  smiling  land- 
My  own,  my  Irish  Motherland ! 


HUMAN  LIFE. 

FROM   THE    SPANISH    OF   MELCHIOR   DIEZ. 

Thy  tender  blooms,  0  Spring!  are  they  no 

more  ? 
Where,  Summer,  is  thy  wealth  of  verdant 

leaves  ? 

And  who  hath  robbed  thee,  Autumn,  of  thy 
store 

Of  golden  sheaves  ? 

The  years  ebb  swiftly  from  us  and  decay, 

The  seasons'  varied  gifts  of  loveliness 

Into  the  gulf  profound  are  whirled  away 

Of  nothingness. 

The  bud  that  opens  to  the  dewy  dawn, 
That  blooms  a  perfect  flower  'neath  mid- 
day skies, 

When  Night,  with  sable  wing,  sweeps  down 
upon 

The  earth — it  dies. 

What  then  is  Life  ?    The  shadow  of  a  shade ; 
And  Pride  and  Glory  ?     Playthings  of  an 

hour; 

So  too,  with  all  things  else,  0  Youth,  shall 
fade 

Thy  beauty's  flower. 


THE    TOMB    OF    ALEXANDER. 

FROM   THE    ITALIAN    OF   MANARA. 

Open  this  urn.     What  world-wide  doth  lie 
Shrunk  in  the  compass  of  this  mute  stone 

vase! 

Thou  extinct  thunderbolt  of  war,  lo !  I 
Salute  thy  crownless  ashes  while  I  gaze 
Bewildered  and  abashed,  and  vainly  try 
Of  that  dread  conqueror  to  find  some  trace, 
Whose  wormy  dust  wrung  many  a  tribute 

sigh 

From  heart  of  Asia  in  the  far-off  days; 
Now  dark  Oblivion  covers  with  its  shroud 
The  name  and  tomb  of  him,  before  the  sweep 
Of  whose  victorious  chariot  nations  bowed. 
Upgathering  in  my  hand  the  tiny  heap 
Of  dust :—" Behold,  0  Kings!"  I  cry  aloud, 
"Earth's     conqueror    in    these    ashes     lies 

asleep ! " 


THE   ROSE. 

FROM   THE    ITALIAN    OF    BERTI. 

Queen  of  the  garden  bowers ! 
Who  dost  thy 'sister  flowers 

In  loveliness  outshine; 
I  pray  thee  tell  to  me, 
Who  hath  bestowed  on  thee 

Those  radiant  hues  of  thine  ? 


Two  rays  of  heavenly  light 
Commingle  and  unite 

To  paint  my  crimson  leaves; — 
A  ray  of  dawn-flushed  skies, 
A  purple  beam  when  dies 

The  light  of  vernal  eves. 

Rose,  whom  the  sun  hath  given 
These  lustrous  tints  of  heaven 

With  beauty  as  thy  dower; 
I  marvel  whence  has  come 
Thy  odorous  perfume, 

And  pray  thee  tell,  0  Flower  I 


OF  I;KV.  .JOHN  <  OSTKI.U* 


Two  wooing  winds  have  kissed  me, 
Leaving  as  they  caressed  me 

Their  meed  of  fragrance  rare ; 
A  March  wind  fresh  and  glowing, 
A  breeze  of  April  blowing 

From  fields  of  balmy  air. 

0  incense-laden  blossom! 
Who  openest  thy  bosom 

To  airs  o'er  sea- waves  borne; 

1  pray  thee  tell  to  me 
Who  hath  protected  thee 

With  sharp  and  prickly  thorn  ? 

Two  angels  from  above 
Around  my  frail  stem  wove 

This  wreath  of  thorns,  that  never 
With  touch  profane  and  rude, 
The  hand  of  spoiler  should 

Me  from  that  stem  dissever. 


THE   POPPY-FLOWER. 

FROM   THE    FRENCH   OF    LAMARTINE. 

WHEN    round    our     path   life's    evening 
glooms. 

The  very  Spring  is  sad  to  see, 
For  then  its  wealth  of  verdant  blooms 

Seems  but  a  wanton  mockery ; 
Of  all  the  flowers  we  then  behold, 
Whose  petals  at  Love's  touch  unfold, 

In  radiant  loveliness  outspread — 
Alas !  'tis  meet  we  pluck  but  one 
To  shed  its  perfumed  sweetness  on 

The  pillow  of  a  dying  bed. 

Pluck  me  that  poppy-flower  that  glows 
Amid  the  shadows  of  the  wheat, 

'Tis  said  the  balm  that  from  it  flows 
Trances  the  soul  in  slumber  sweet; 

I, it'c -weary,  worn  with  age  and  pain. 

A  dream,  pursuing  dreams  in  vain— 


Ah !  not  for  me  who  can  but  weep 
The  glory  of  these  vernal  skiefl — 
What  best  comports  with  drooping  e 

The  flower  that  seals  their  lids  in  sleep. 


TWO   SONNETS. 

FROM   THE   GERMAN   OF   HEINE. 
I. 

I'm  wont  to  hold  my  head  erect  always, 
Haughty,  self-willed,  in  this  not  over  wise; 
And  tho'  a  king  should  look  me  in  the  eyes 
I  would  not  lower  them  before  his  gaze : 
And  yet,  I  say  it,  mother,  in  thy  praise, 
When   thou  art  near  no  scornful  thoughts 

uprise, 

The  pride  that  swells  my  bosom  wholly  dies. 
Is  it  because  thy  nobler  spirit  sways 
My  being  with  some  subtle  spell  of  might. 
That  to  my  heart's  recesses  flashes  bright 
Thy  calm,  grave  glance  winged  with  celestial 

light  ? 

It  pains  me  to  remember,  mother  mine, 
How  oft  I've  saddened  that  fond  heart  of 

thine, 
That  heart  which  loves  me  with  a  love  divine. 


II. 

In  mad  delusion  once  I  strayed  from  thee, 
And  fain  would  travel  earth  from  short-  to 

shore, 

Find  love  and  make  it  mine  forevermor 
On  every  street  and  highway  ceaselessly 
I  sought  for  love,  and  oft  on  bended  knee, 
With  hand  outstretched,  I  begged  at  every 

door, 

The  alms  of  love,  I  craved  it  o'er  and  oVr — 
Hatred's  cold  smile  was  all  they  vouchsafed  me. 
And  still  in  quest  of  love  I  wandered  ever. 
Wandered    in    quest   of  love,  but  found    it 

never. 

Ili.meward  I  turned  in  weariness  and  pain. 
Thou  earnest  forth  to  meet  thy  erring  child. 
Then  beaininir  in  thine  eyes,  serenely  mild. 
Wa«,  ah!  that  kindly  love  long  sought  in  vain. 


POEMS  OF  MRS,  M,  F.  SULLIYAR 


THE   IRISH  FAMINE— 1880. 

RENELY  on  the  ocean  sits  an  island  in  the 

sheen 
Of  silver  skies  and  purple  hills  and  pastures 

ever  green. 
The  corn  is  waving  gladsomely,  the  white 

flocks  bleat  with  glee; 
And  tawny  herds  shake  silken  sides  in  valley, 

glen,  and  lea; 
Fish  frolic  in  the  rivers,  birds  carol  in  the 

trees, 
White  sails  gleam  in  the  harbors,  ships  throng 

her  busy  quays: — 
It  was  not  thence  that  groan  came  forth  ? — 

again  it  swells  on  high; 
In  Ireland's  bread  and  meat  enough — not 

Tiers  a  famine  cry  ? 

0  miracle  of  miracles !  0  wondrous  cause  of 
wonder ! 

Proclaim  the  story  to  mankind  with  trumpet 
of  the  thunder! 

A  fertile,  generous,  joyous  land,  forbid  to 
feed  its  people 

By  laws  enacted  'neath  the  shade  of  conse- 
crated steeple! 

Starvation  made  by  statute — famine  a  legal 
code 

For  subjects  of  a  government  with  an  "  estab- 
lished" God! 

Look  not  into  their  genial  soil  for  hunger's 
helpless  cause — 

The  Irish  people  famish — to  obey  their  Eng- 
lish laws. 

They  plough  and  plant,  they  sow  and  reap, 
they  weave  and  spin  all  day, 

The  English  fleet  is  at  their  wharves  to  bear 
it  all  away! 


Their  father's  land  the  alien  owns;  the  land- 

lords own  their  labor; 
Their  mortgaged  lives  have  been  foreclosed 

to  glut  their  English  neighbor! 
Their  rulers,  oh,  are   noble!      See  yonder 

mincing  earl  ! 
His  sire  went  forth  to  Ireland  a  thieving 

English  churl, 
He  pulled  from  out  the  shallows  the  king's 

ship's  entangled  flukes,  — 
His  sovereign  dubbed  him  on  the  shore  the 

first  of  Irish  dukes  ! 

Behold  the  lovely  vista  within  yon  Irish  dale  ! 
The  rosy  dawn  is  blushing  behind  her  hazy 

veil; 
The  brooklet  prattles  on  the  sward,  the  lin- 

net's early  notes 
Are  answered  from  the  foliage  by  countless 

tuneful  throats; 
The  zephyrs  tease  the  tassels  of  the  nodding, 

drowsy  grain 
That  soon  will  be  awakened  to  be  tossed  into 

the  wain  :  — 
Now  o'er  the  luscious  landscape  the  sun's 

broad  rays  are  broke, 
And  from  the  cottage  chimneys  ascend*  the 

cheery  smoke! 


The  morning  mists  hafre  disappeared  —  the 

vision  is  still  clearer,  — 
What  terror-stricken  band  is  that  whose  feet 

are  hurrying  nearer  ? 
God  of  justice!  God  of  mercy!     They  are 

weeping,  they  are  shrieking! 
There  is  frenzy  on  their  faces,  and  some  with 

wounds  are  reeking  ! 
The  bailiff  horde  behind  them  in  cruel  fury 

comes, 
For  the  smoke  we  saw  ascending  was  the 

burning  of  their  homes  ! 


POEMS   OF  MRS.   M.   F.   SULLIVAN. 


S<>  tliis  is  Irish  famine  and   this  is  Knglish 

law, 
And  this  the  saddest   sight  on   earth    that 

Sorrow  ever  saw ! 
Nature's  heart  is  touched  with  pity,  Nature's 

eyes  with  tears  are  filled, 
While  the  people  die  of  hunger  in  the  fields 

that  they  have  tilled! 
From  the  pastures  low  the  cattle,  "  For  the 

stranger  is  our  flesh;" 
Moans  the  wind  unto  the  harvest :  "  For  the 

stranger  you  must  thresh ; " 
And  the  sheep    bleat  sadly  seaward   from 

green  gorges  in  the  rocks; 
"The    stranger    wears    our  wool,  and   the 

stranger  eats  our  flocks;" 

And  the  horses  paw  in  fury  as  they  neigh 

from  out  the  manger, 
"  Oh,  we  would  fight  for  Ireland — but  our 

backs  are  for  the  stranger !  " 
In  this  band  of  homeless  outcasts  limps  a 

cripple  whose  deep  scars 
Tell  of  service  as  a  soldier,  perhaps  in  for- 
eign wars; 
An  arm  is  gone;  he  totters;  in  youth  his 

hair  is  white, 
Is  it  hunger  makes  you  tremble  who  shrank 

not  in  the  fight  ? 
The   coat   he   wears  is    tattered — why,  the 

color!  yes  'tis  blue! 
Were  you  ever  in  America  ?  pale  friend,  oh, 

tell  me  true! 

The  ashen  lips  grow  livid,  the  face  becomes 
less  wan, — 

"Ay,  was  I,"  proudly  answers  he,  "  I  fought 
with  Sheridan! 

Before  the  war  was  over,  here  my  aged  father 
died; 

The  only  daughter,  fair  and  young,  lies 
buried  at  his  side ; 

The  dear  old  mother  lingered  still, — to  shel- 
ter her  from  harm 

I  came  across  the  water,  and  worked  the  lit- 
tle farm ; 

'Twas  taken  from  us  yesterday" — "Ami 
she  ?  "  "  She  died  last  night— 

Of  hunger,  hunger — oh,  great  (Jod  !  that  son 
should  see  such  sight ! 


In  battle  I  ne'er  trembled — in  the  whirr  of 

shot  and  shell 
I  rushed  with  demon  recklessness  within  the 

living  hell! 
To-day  I  shake  with  palsy,  unmanned   by 

hunger's  pangs; 
I  feel  about  my  breaking  heart  a  slimy  o 

hire's  fangs; 
And  all  are  gone  who  loved  me,  the  last  one 

of  my  kin; — 
Patrick  drove  the  serpents  out  to  let  the 

reptiles  in ! '' 
Lo.  here  a  mother  hurries,  in  her  fleshlesc 

arms  a  child, 
Her  limbs  begin  to  fail  her,  her  face  is  white 

and  wild; 

Full  twenty  miles  she  walked  to-day  to  reach 

a  poor-house  door, 
And  keep  the  feeble,  flickering  light  in  eyes 

that  ope  no  more ! 
Dead    the    babe    upon    her    bosom!      Oh, 

mother's  mighty  sorrow, 
Bewail  in  vain  your  journey's  length !  Bewail 

your  awful  morrow ! 
"  Dear  turf,"  she  faintly  murmurs, "  take  t  he 

life  I  could  not  save! 
Oh,  land  that  dare  not  give  her  bread,  give 

my  sweet  child  a  grave !  " 
She  falls — she  dies — but  not  until  her  voice 

has  stirred  the  tombs: 
"Victoria,  with  my  milkless  breasts,  I  curse 

your  English  wombs! " 

Philanthropist  and   missioner  lives  on    91 

George's  channel — 
Sends  Bibles — to  the  Pope  of  Rome,  and  to 

the  tropics — flannel ! 
Prays  godly  prayers  for  foreign  sin  before 

her  holy  altars, 
The  while  her  hands  twist  at  her  back  for 

Ireland's  neck  a  halter! 
In  /o/W</w    lands    protects   the  weak   with 

treaties — or  with  eaiinon! 
Ami  turns  the  dagger  in  the  heart  of  her 

sister  on  the  Shannon! 
So  generous  to  her  foreign  foes  they  praise 

her  to  the  sky — 
Ami  leaves  her  Irish  subjects  one  privilege 

—  to  die! 


.010 


A  POEM  BY  ISABEL   C.   IRWIN. 


Come  nations  of  both  continents,  behold  a 

Land  of  Graves ! 
Come   Russia,  with  Siberia!    France  bring 

your  galley  slaves! 
Come,  leering  Turk,  with  dripping  knife, 

refreshed  in  Christian  gore — 
Bashi-Bazouks,  hold  up  your  heads!  be  ye 

ashamed  no  more! 
0  empires  of  a  humane  world !  behold  this 

Christian  nation, 
That  makes  her  people  paupers,  and  grants 

them  then — starvation! 


A   PAPER-KNIFE   OF  IRISH   OAK. 
I. 

THE  fair  young  oak  that  gave  thy  blade 

To  carver  with  a  cunning  hand, 
Stood  ages  since  within  a  glade 
Of  that  forever  shadowed  land 
Where  lies  a  slave  did  once  command 
The  world  of  science,  art  and  craft : 
The  fair  strong  oak  that  made  thy  haft 
Leafed  first  in  rapture  near  a  strand 
Where  armored  Northmen  once  did  wade 

From  bristling  galleys,  fore  and  aft, 
To  meet  oak  spears,  with  gleaming  tips, 


That  drove  them,  reeling,  to  their  ships, 
Like  pallid  fiends,  with  terror  daft : 
For,  high  above  the  silver  sand, 

Where  spears  and  banners  meet  and  mix, 

They  hear  the  chant  of  holy  lips, 
They  see  a  god-like  figure  stand 
And  hold  against  them,  like  a  wand, 

A  simple  oaken  crucifix. 

II. 

And  deeper  in  the  shadowed  glade 

Where  grew  thy  fair  young  parent  tree; 
Where  spiced  winds  and  cedars  swayed, 
The  sun's  last  rays  reluctant  fade 
On  abbey  tower  overlaid 

With  braided  ivy,  tress  on  tress : 
While,  sweetly,  from  its  dim  recess 

Through  cell  and  chapel,  floats  a  wave 
Of  undulating  stringed  chords : 

The  abbess'  voice,  majestic,  grave, 
Gliding  through  chancel,  crypt  and  nave, 
Repeats  in  glorious  Gaelic  words 

A  song  of  heavenly  joy  and  hope 
That  thrills  the  ancient  gray  grim  dun, 

And  rises  o'er  the  moated  scarp, 
Whose  warders'  sightless  eyelids  ope 
When,  with  the  setting  of  the  sun, 
The  abbess  smites  her  oaken  harp. 


ON  AN  INFANT'S   DEATH. 

IF  but  one  word  could  bring  thee  back 

To  life,  that  word  would  be  unsaid — 
The  world  would  never  give  to  thee 

The  peace  that  slumbers  with  the  dead. 
Wert  thou  a  man,  that  could  go  forth 

And  bravely  meet  the  rushing  tide 
Of  life,  I  then  might  call  thee  back 

To  earth.     Thou  wert  not ;  therefore  hide 
Thy  infant  head  still  calmly  here 

In  this  thy  peaceful  solitude. 
No  tale  of  sin  or  sorrow  can 


In  thy  lone  resting-place  intrude; 
There,  my  sweet  child,  thou'lt  never  know 

The  endless  cares  and  bitter  strife, 
The  few  brief  joys,  the  many  tears 

That  constitute  a  woman's  life. 
Well,  well  I  know  no  tears  but  those 

Which  I  have  shed  will  damp  thy  cheek. 
Removed  from  all  the  cares  that  bow 

The  head  in  sadness,  who  would  seek 
To  bring  thee  back,  when  every  hour 

I  know  that  thou  art  calmly  sleeping, 
Laid  gently  from  thy  mother's  heart 

In  God's  own  holy  keeping  ? 


POEMS  OF  T,  C,  IRWIK 


MINNIE. 

O  CRYSTAL  Well, 

Play  daintily  on  golden  sands, 

When  she  comes  at  morning  lonely 
Followed  by  her  shadow  only 
To  bathe  those  little  dainty  hands, 
Always  gathering 
Seeds  to  make  her  blue  bird  sing, 
O  Crystal  Well. 

O  Forest  brown, 

Breathe  thy  richest  twilight  b;ilm 
As  she  wanders  pulling  willow 
Leaflets  for  her  fragrant  pillow, 
Which,  with  snowy  cheek  of  calm, 
She  shall  press  with  half-closed  eyes, 
While  the  great  stars  o'er  thee  rise, 
O  Forest  brown. 

O  Lady  Moon, 

Light  her  as  she  mounts  the  stair 
To  her  little  sacred  chamber, 
Like  a  mother ;  and  remember, 
When  she  slumbers,  full  of  prayer, 
Sweetly  then  to  fill  her  heart 
With  dreams  of  Heaven,  where  thou  art, 
<>  Lady  Moon. 


SONG   OF  ALL    HALLOWS'  EVE. 
I. 

THE  year  is  growing  aged  and  dull, 

Late  rise  the  days,  and  weary  soon ; 
With  morning  fog  the  fields  are  full, 

And  fall  the  leaves  with  evening's  moon; 
Shut  to  the  doors,  and  gather  nigher. 
Our  Summer  time  is  scarcely  past; 
Beside  the  fire,  with  cup  and  lyre, 
We'll  soon  out-sing  the  winter  blast. 
1 1  nu  r  upon  hour 
Over  our  bower, 
Shining  and  swift,  departs,  departs; 

Time  to-night  will  quicken  his  flight. 
To  follow  awhile  our  bounding  heart-. 


II. 

Lo!  Autumn  passed  with  face  of  care 

This  eve  along  the  dusty  road  : 
Nut  clusters  tinkled  in  his  hair, 

And  rosy  apples  formed  his  load : 
All  friendless,  by  the  withered  thorn. 

The  kind  brown  Spirit  lingered  long — 
Log  heap  the  fire,  sing  higher,  higher, 
And  cheer  his  ghost  with  light  and  song. 
Hour  after  hour 
Over  our  bower, 
Mellow  and  mild,  departs,  dep. 

Time  to-night  must  quicken  his  flight, 
To  follow  awhile  our  bounding  hearts. 

III. 

Send  round  the  wine  of  Summer  earth, 

And  speed  the  Winter's  twilight  game ; 
Send  maidens  round  the  glowing  hearth, 

And  guess  at  lovers  by  the  tlaine. 
Soon  Love  shall  ring  from  yonder  spire 

The  joy  each  fairy  nut  foretells; 
Love  strike  the  lyre,  Love  guard  the  fire, 
And  tune  our  lives  like  marriage  bells. 
Hour  on  hour 
Over  our  bower, 
Shining  and  swift,  departs,  departs; 

Time  to-night  has  quickened  his  flight, 
To  follow  awhile  our  bounding  hearts. 

IV. 

Smile,  silvered  Age,  upon  the  band 

Of  joyous  children  grouped  below. 
Bright  travellers  from  the  morning  land 

Where  we  have  wanden •  :  go. 

The  dawning  heart  to  heaven  is  nii:her 

Than  wis«loin'>  >n.>wiest  brow  can  soar: 
Sing  to  the  lyre,  circle  the  tire. 
And  mingle  with  your  youth  once  morel 
Hour  upon  hour 
Over  our  bower, 
Shining  and  swift,  departs,  departs; 

Time  to-niirht  has  quickened  his  flight. 
To  follow  awhile  our  bounding  hearts. 


912 


POEMS   OF  J.   F.   WALLER,  LL.D. 


V. 

Far-off  the  monarchs  march  to  war, 

Amid  the  trumpet's  storming  tones, 
Or,  frowning,  worship  victory's  star, 

Upon  their  sword-illumined  thrones. 
The  noise  of  chain  and  cannon  dire 

Rolls  bleakly  through  the  barren  hours — 
Sing  to  the  lyre,  close  round  the  fire, 
Our  only  chains  are  chains  of  flowers ! 
Hour  on  hour 
Over  our  bower, 

Shining  and  swift,  departs,  departs; 
Time,  though  a  king,  has  quickened  his 

wing 
This  night,  to  follow  our  bounding  hearts. 


IV. 

Loud  o'er  the  roof  the  tempest  moans, 

And  mirth  would  last  as  loud  and  long; 
But  yonder  bell,  in  trembling  tones, 

Has  blended  with  our  ceasing  song. 
The  children  drowse,  the  girls  retire 

To  dream  of  love  and  fortune's  smile — 
Farewell,  old  lyre,  and  friendly  fire, 
And  happy  souls,  farewell  awhile, 
Hour  on  hour 
Over  our  bower, 
Mellow  and  mild,  departs,  departs — 

Now  Time  will  sing  beneath  his  wing 
A     soothing     song    to    our     dreaming 
hearts. 


POEMS  OF  J.  F.  WALLER,  LLD. 


A  SPINNING-WHEEL   SONG. 

MELLOW  the  moonlight  to  shine  is  begin- 
ning: 

Close  by  the  window  young  Eileen  is  spin- 
ning; 
Bent  o'er  the  fire  her  blind  grandmother, 

sitting, 

Is  croning,  and  moaning,  and  drowsily  knit- 
ting— 

"  Eileen,  achora,  I  hear  some  one  tapping." — 
'  'Tis  the  ivy,  dear  mother,  against  the  glass 

flapping." 

"  Eileen,  I  surely  hear  somebody  sighing." — 
'  'Tis  the  sound,  mother  dear,  of  the  sum- 
mer wind  dying." 
Merrily,  cheerily,  noisily  whirring, 
Swings  the  wheel,  spins  the  reel,  while  the 

foot's  stirring; 

Sprightly,  and  lightly,  and  airily  ringing, 
Thrills  the  sweet  voice  of  the  young  maiden 
singing. 


"  What's  that  noise  that  I  hear  at  the  win- 
dow, I  wonder  ?  " — 

"  'Tis  the  little  birds  chirping  the  holly-bush 
under." 

"  What  makes  you  be  shoving  and  moving 
your  stool  on, 

And  singing  all  wrong  that  old  song  of  '  The 
Coolun'?"— 

There's  a  form  at  the  casement — the  form  of 
her  true-love — 

And  he  whispers,  with  face  bent,  "  I'm  wait- 
ing for  you,  love ; 

Get  up  on  the  stool,  through  the  lattice  step 
lightly, 

We'll  rove  in  the  grove  while  the  moon's 
shining  brightly." 

Merrily,  cheerily,  noisily  whirring, 

Swings  the  wheel,  spins  the  reel,  while  the 
foot's  stirring; 

Sprightly,  and  lightly,  and  airily  ringing, 

Thrills  the  sweet  voice  of  the  young  maiden 
singing. 


POEMS  OF  J.   F.   WALLEIJ. 


913 


The  maid  shakes  her  head,  on  her  lips  lays 

her  fingers, 
Steals  up  from  the  seat — longs  to  go,  and  vet 

lingers; 
A   frightened   glance  turns  to   her  drowsy 

grandmother; 
Puts  one  foot  on  the  stool,  spins  the  wheel 

with  the  other. 

Lazily,  easily,  swings  now  the  wheel  round; 
Slowly  and  lowly  is  heard  now  the   reel's 

sound; 

Noiseless  and  light  to  the  lattice  above  her 
The  maid  steps — then  leaps  to  the  arms  of 

her  lover. 
Slower — and  slower — and  slower  the  wheel 

swings ; 

Lower — and  lower — and  lower  the  reel  rings ; 
Ere  the  reel  and  the  wheel  stopped  their 

ringing  and  moving, 

Thro'  the  grove  the  young  lovers  by  moon- 
light are  roving. 


DANCE   LIGHT,  FOR  MY  HEART   IT 
LIES  UNDER  YOUR  FEET,  LOVE. 

AIR — "Hutsh  the  cat  from  muter  the  table." 

"An,  sweet  Kitty  Neil,  rise  up  from  that 

wheel — 
Your  neat  little  foot  will  be  weary  from 

spinning; 
Come  trip  down  with  me  to  the  sycamore 

tree, 

Half  the  parish  is  there,  and  the  dance  is  be- 
ginning. 
The  sun  is  gone  down,  but  the  full  harvest 

moon 
Shines  sweetly  and  cool  on  the  dew-whitened 

valley ; 
While  all  the  air  rings  with  the  soft,  loving 

things, 
Each  little  bird  sings  in  the  green  shaded 

alley." 


With  a  blush  and  a  smile,  Kitty  rose  ui»  the 

while, 
HIM-  eye  in  the  glass,  as  she  bound   her  hair. 

glancing; 

Tis  hard  to  refuse  when  a  young  lover  sues — 
So  she  couldn't  but  choose  to  go  off  to  the 

dancing, 
And  now  on  the  green,  the  glad  groups  are 

seen— 
Each  gay-hearted  lad  with   the  lass  of  his 

choosing; 
And  Pat,  without  fail,  leads  our  sweet  Kitty 

Neil — 
Somehow  when  he  asked,  she  ne'er  thought 

of  refusing. 

Now,  Felix  Magee puts  his  pipes  to  his  kin'«-. 
And,  with  flourish  so  free,  sets  each  couple 

in  motion; 
With  a  cheer  and  a  bound,  the  lads  patter 

the  ground — 
The  maids  move  around  just  like  swans  on 

the  ocean. 
Cheeks  bright  as  the  rose — feet  light  as  the 

doe's, 

Now  coyly  retiring,  now  boldly  advancing — 
Search  the  world  all  round,  from  the  sky  tn 

the  ground, 

NO     SUCH     SIGHT    CAN     BE     FOl  M>     AS     AN 
IRISH    LASS   DANCING. 

Sweet  Kate !  who  could  view  your  bright  eyes 

of  deep  blue 
Beaming  humidly  through  their  dark  1:< 

so  mildly, 
Your     fair-turned     arm,    heaving     breast,. 

rounded  form, 
Nor  feels    his  heart  warm,  and  his  pulses 

throb  wildly  ? 

Young  Pat  feels  his  heart,  as  his  gazes,  de- 
part. 
Subdued  by  the  smart  of  such  painful 

sweet  love; 
The  sight  leaves  his  eye,  as  he  cries  with  a 

sigh, 

r  /;'/////.  for  in  if  Itciirt  if  lies  under  your 
.'" 


POEMS  OF  ALFRED  PERCIVAL  GRATES, 


THE   BLACK   '46.— A   RETROSPECT. 

OUT  away  across  the  river, 

Where  the  purple  mountains  meet, 
There's  as  green  a  wood  as  iver 

Fenced  you  from  the  flamin'  heat. 
And  opposite  up  the  mountain, 

Seven  ancient  cells  you  see, 
And,  below,  a  holy  fountain 

Sheltered  by  a  sacred  tree; 
While  between,  across  the  tillage, 

Two  boreens  full  up  wid  broom 
Draw  ye  down  into  the  village 

All  in  ruin  on  the  coom; 
For  the  most  heart-breakin'  story 

Of  the  fearful  famine  year, 
On  the  silent  wreck  before  ye 

You  may  read  charactered  clear. 
You  are  young,  too  young  for  ever 

To  rec'llect  the  bitter  blight, 
How  it  crep'  across  the  river 

Unbeknownt  beneath  the  night; 
Till  we  woke  up  in  the  mornin' 

And  beheld  our  country's  curse 
Wave  abroad  its  heavy  warnin' 

Like  the  white  plumes  of  a  hearse. 

To  our  gardens,  heavy-hearted, 

In  that  dreadful  summer's  dawn 
Young  and  ould  away  we  started 

Wid  the  basket  and  the  slan, 
But  the  heart  within  the  bosom 

Gave  one  leap  of  awful  dread 
At  each  darlin'  pratie  blossom, 

White  and  purple,  lyin'  dead. 
Down  we  dug,  but  only  scattered 

Poisoned  spuds  along  the  slope; 
Though  each  ridge  in  vain  it  flattered 

Our  poor  hearts'  revivin'  hope. 
But  the  desperate  toil  we'd  double 

On  into  the  evenin'  shades ; 
Till  the  earth  to  share  our  trouble 

Shook  beneath  our  groanin'  spades; 


Till  a  mist  across  the  meadows 

From  the  graveyard  rose  and  spread, 
And,  'twas  rumored,  ghostly  shadows, 

Phantoms  of  our  fathers  dead, 
Moved  among  us,  wildly  sharin' 

In  the  women's  sobs  and  sighs, 
And  our  stony,  still  despairin', 

Till  night  covered  up  the  skies. 
Then  we  knew  for  bitter  certain 

That  the  vinom-breathin'  cloud, 
Closin'  still  its  cruel  curtain, 

Surely  yet  would  be  our  shroud. 
And  the  fearful  sights  did  folly, 

Och!  no  voice  could  rightly  tell, 
But  that  constant,  melancholy 

Murmur  of  the  passin'  bell; 
Till  to  toll  it  none  among  us 

Strong  enough  at  last  we  found, 
And  a  silence  overhung  us 

Awf  uller  nor  any  sound. 


CHILDEEN  AND   LOVERS. 

WE  were  children  playing  together, 

On  Mona's  magic  isle, 
In  her  witching  April  weather, 

Of  laughter,  and  sigh,  and  smile, 
We  were  children,  playing  together 

For  a  happy,  happy  while. 

We  were  lovers,  straying  together, 

So  lightly  over  the  land 
That  we  scarcely  ruffled  the  heather, 

Hardly  printed  the  sand, 
We  were  lovers,  straying  together, 

On  Mona's  fairy  strand. 

And  still  there  are  children  playing 
On  the  self-same  shore  and  hill ; 

And  still  there  are  lovers  straying 
By  Mona's  elfin  rill; 

For  our  children  are  round  us  playing, 
And  we — we  are  lovers  still. 


POEMS  OF  EUGENE  DAVIS 


IRISH  SPINNING-WHEEL  SONG. 

SHOW  me  a  sight 

Bates  for  delight 

An  ould  Irish  wheel  with  a  young  Irish  girl 
at  it. 

0!  No! 

Nothin'  you'll  show 
Aquals  her  sittin'  and  takin'  a  twirl  at  it. 

Look  at  her  there, 
Night  in  her  hair — 

The  blue  ray  of  day  from  her  eye  laughing 
out  on  us! 

Faix,  an'  a  fut, 
Perfect  of  cut, 
Peepin'  to  put  an  end  in  all  doubt  in  us. 

That  there's  a  sight,  etc. 

How  the  lamb's  wool 
Turns  coarse  and  dull 

By  them  soft,  beautiful,  weeshy,  white  hands 
of  her; 


I>«>wn  goes  her  he. •!. 
Iioun'  runs  tin-  reel, 

Purrin'  wid  pleasure  to  take  the  commands 
of  her. 

Then  show  me  the  sight. 

Talk  of  Three  Fates, 

Suited  on  saits, 

Spinnin'  and  shearin'  away  till  they've  done 
for  me. 

You  may  want  three 

For  your  massacre; 
But  one  fate  for  me,  boys,  and  only  the  one 


for  me. 


And 


Isn't  that  fate, 

Pictured  complate, 

An  ould  Irish  wheel  wid  a  ^Oung  Irish  girl 
at  it! 

0!  No! 

Nothin'  you'll  show 
Aquals  her  sittin'  and  takin'  a  twirl  at  it. 


POEMS  OF  EUGENE  DAYIS. 


CROSS  AND   CROWN. 

MARK  the  cost  of  conflict,  brothers,  count 
your  sorrows  and  your  pains — 

Ruined  homesteads,  stakes  and  scaffolds, 
Chillon  cells,  and  countless  chains ; 

You  must  suffer  while  one  vestige  of  the 
alien  rule  remains! 

Weigh  you  not  the  throes  of  travail,  and  its 

agonies  untold, 
Heralds  of  the  birth  of  Freedom,  prophets  of 

that  age  of  gold 
Where  a  new  world  starts  to  greet  us  from 

the  ashes  of  the  old ! 

Shadows  steal  before  the  sunshine.     After 

darkness  cometh  light; 
Phoebus  is  the  noblest  offspring  of  the  deity 

of  Night; 
Peace  can  snatch  its  olive  laurels  from  the 

gory  arms  of  Might. 


So  we  reach  Aurora's  broadlands,  struggling 

through  the  toilsome  fray, 
Panting  for  a  glorious  guerdon   in  our  eere- 

ments  of  clay, 
Watching  from  our  sable  towers  for  tin-  nn-s- 

sengers  of  day. 

Shall  our  hearts  and  hands  grow  weary,  aft 

we  climb  Golgotha's  hill  ? 
Must  despair  bemnnl>  <>ur  sinews;'    Shall  we 

lose  the  iron  will 
That  could  stay  the  tyrant's  onslaught,  ami 

defy  his  satraps  still  ? 

Know  we  not   the   Crown   awaits   us  on   the 

precipices  high? 
See  we  not  glad   omens   flashing 

wastes  of  sea  and  sky  ' 
Hear  we  not   our  arch-priests    preaching: 

"  Ireland's  Cause  can  never  die!" 


916 


POEMS   OF  EUGENE   DAVIS. 


Must  the  Castle  curfew,  brothers,  be  the  re- 
quiem bell  that  tolls 

Death  to  faith  that  should  sustain  us  long  as 
Time's  broad  river  rolls  ? 

Can  the  gyves  his  henchmen  fashion  for  our 
bodies  bind  our  souls  ? 


Tell  me  not  his  bribes  and  presents  or  his 
sleek  Satanic  art 

Tempted  men  of  brain  and  muscle  e'er  to 
act  the  baser  part ! 

Tell  me  not  his  deepest  dungeons  can  en- 
chain one  Irish  heart! 

"  No  Surrender ! "  let  the  watchwords  flash 
like  starbeams  o'er  the  waves! 

"  No  Surrender ! "  be  the  voices  ringing  from 
our  fathers'  graves ! 

We  must  be  his  equals,  brothers — we  shall 
never  be  his  slaves ! 


A  KEVERIE. 

SAITH  the  dewdrop  to  the  rose :  "  Through 
the  watches  of  the  night 

Fond  delight 

Do  I  find  me  cradled  so,  like  a  welcome  guest 
at  rest 

On  thy  breast!" 

Then  the  rose — it  seemed  to  blush,  just  as 
modest  maiden  would ; 
And  the  hood 

Coyly  o'er  its  face  it  drew,  for  it  well  knew 
that  the  dew 

Dared  to  woo. 


.Saith  the  zephyr  to  the  sea :  "  I  am  weary  of 
the  land — 

Hill  and  strand ; 

I  would  kiss  thee  o'er  and  o'er,  flying  from 
the  prudish  shore 

Evermore ! " 


Then  a  smiling  ripple  stole  o'er  the  features 
of  the  sea : 

Merrily 

Did  it  answer  to  the  dleadings  and  the  melt- 
ing melodies 

Of  the  breeze. 


Saith  the  bridegroom  to  the  bride :  "  I  am  as 
the  dew  that  knows 

But  the  rose, 

Or  the  zephyr  seeking  refuge  from  Earth's 
freezing  cruelty 

In  the  sea." 

Naught  the  trembling  bride  could  utter — 
naught  she  to  the  bridegroom  said, 

But  her  head 

Somehow  slipped  or  somehow  stumbled  to  a 
soft  and  cozy  nest 

On  his  breast! 

And  I  saw  this  threefold  sight,  while  the 
starlets  flashed  their  light 
Thro'  the  night, 

And  the  fragrant  skies  o'erhead  poured  their 
kisses  on  the  mouth 

Of  the  South! 

And  a  sadness,  as  of  Oreus,  pealed  its  dirges 
thro'  my  soul : 

At  each  toll 

Death  came  near  and  ever  nearer  o'er  the 
foolish  dreams  of  love 
I  once  wove. 

For  I  had  no  rose  to  treasure  on  this  Sahara 
of  woe 

Here  oelow; 
And  if  Fates  had  drawn  a  veil  betwixt  the 
sea  and  me 

Rigidly. 

And  the  bride  who  had  her  rest,  once  as  dar- 
ling and  as  guest, 

On  my  breast, 
Changed  for  mine  the  Reaper's  arms,  and 
the  wealth  of  life  I  gave 
For  the  grave ! 


POEMS  OF  T,  D.  SULLIVAN, 


O'NEIL  IN   ROME. 

[Hugh  O'Neil  after  his  flight  to  Rome,  continued  for  some 
years  to  nurse  a  hope  that  another  movement  for  freedom 
might  be  attempted  in  Ireland.  He  knew  that  all  over  the 
Continent  there  were  at  that  time  many  valiant  Irish  officers 
and  soldiers  who  held  the  same  hope,  and  who  were  making 
preparations  to  realize  it ;  and  he  had  reason  to  think  that 
aid  from  some  powerful  quarters  would  be  forthcoming.  His 
expectations  and  plans  were  not  unknown  to  the  English  Gov- 
ernment, who  had  spies  watching  those  Irishmen  everywhere. 
One  of  those  informants,  writing  from  Rome  to  a  person  In 
London,  gave  the  following  account  of  O'Neil's  condition  and 
habits  :  "  Though  a  man  would  think  that  he  is  an  old  man  by 
sight :  no,  he  is  lusty  and  strong,  and  well  able  to  travel ;  for, 
a  month  ago,  at  evening,  when  his  frere  and  his  gentlemen 
were  all  with  him,  they  were  talking  of  England  and  Ireland, 
and  he  drew  out  his  sword.  '  His  Majesty,1  said  he,  '  thinks 
that  I  am  not  strong.  I  would  that  he  who  hates  me  most  in 
England  were  with  me  to  see  whether  I  am  strong  or  no.' 
Those  that  were  by  said, '  We  would  we  were  with  forty  thou- 
sand pounds  of  money  in  Ireland, to  see  what  we  should  do.1 " 
Another  informant,  writing  to  the  king,  says  he  has  learned 
"  that  Tyrone,  whilst  he  is  his  own  man,  is  always  much  re- 
served, pretending  ever  his  desire  of  your  Majesty's  grace, 
and  by  that  means  to  adoperate  his  return  to  his  country  ; 
but  when  he  is  vina  plenus  et  ira,  as  he  is  commonly  once  a 
night,  and  therein  is  veritas,  he  doth  then  declare  his  resolute 
purpose  to  die  in  Ireland,  and  both  he  and  his  company  doth 
usually  in  that  mood  dispose  of  governments  and  provinces, 
and  make  new  commonwealths."  Those  documents  will  be 
found  in  full  in  Father  Meehan's  valuable  work,  "The  Fate 
and  Fortunes  of  the  Earls  of  Tyrone  and  Tyrconnell."  The 
following  poem,  suggested  by  those  circumstances  In  the  life 
of  the  exiled  chieftain,  is  also  published  in  the  same  work :] 

WHERE  yellow  Tiber's  waters  flow, 

Within  the  seven-hilled  city's  bound. 
An  aged  chief  with  footsteps  slow, 

Moves  sadly  o'er  the  storied  ground ; 
Or  from  his  palace  window  panes. 

Looks  out  upon  the  matchless  dome, 
The  ruins  grand,  the  glorious  fanes, 
That  stud  the  soil  of  holy  Rome. 
But,  oh!  for  Ireland  far  away — 

For  Ireland  in  the  western  sea! 
The  chieftain's  heart  is  there  to-day : 
And  there,  in  truth,  he  fain  would  lie. 


On  every  side  the  sweet  bells  ring, 
And  faithful  people  bend  in  pray'r: 

Sweet  hymns,  that  angel  choirs  might  sing, 
And  loud  hosannas,  fill  tlu  air. 


His  place  is  with  the  princely  crowd. 

Amidst  the  noblest  and  the  best ; 
His  large,  white  head  is  lowl^  bowed  : 
His  hands  are  clasped  before  his  bre. 
But,  oh!  for  Ireland  far  away — 

For  Ireland,  dear,  with  all  her  ills — 
For  Mass  in  fair  Tyrone  to-day, 
Amid  the  circling  Irish  hills! 

Kind  friends  are  round  him — pious  freres, 

And  pastors  of  Christ's  mystic  fold; 
The  holy  Pope,  'mid  many  cares, 

For  him  has  blessings,  honors,  gold; 
Grave  fathers,  speaking  words  of  balm. 

Bid  him  forget  the  bygone  strife, 
And  spend,  resigned  in  holy  calm, 
The  years  that  close  a  noble  life. 
But,  oh!  for  Ireland!  there  again 

The  grand  old  chieftain  fain  would  be, 
'Midst  glittering  spears,  on  hill  or  plain, 
To  charge  for  Faith  and  Liberty! 

His  fellow  exiles — men  who  bore. 

With  him,  the  brunt  of  many  a  fight — 
Talk  past  and  future  chances  o'er, 

Around  his  table  grouped  at  night. 
While  speeds  each  tale  of  grief  or  gift-. 

With  tears  their  furrowed  cheeks  are  wet: 
And  oft  they  rise  and  vow  to  see 
A  glorious  day  in  Ireland  yet. 

And,  oh!  for  Ireland  o'er  the  main — 

For  Ireland,  where  they  yet  shall 
Since  Irish  braves,  in  France  and  Spain. 
Have  steel  and  guld  to  set  her  free. 

He  sits,  abstracted,  by  the  board  : 

Old  scenes  are  pictured  in  his  brain — 

Heiilmrb!     Armagh!  the  Yellow  Ford !- 
He  fights  and  wins  them  o'er  again. 

Again  he  sees  fierce  Bagnal  fall; 
Sees  craven  Essex  basely  yield ; 


918 


POEMS   OF  T.  D.  SULLIVAN. 


Meets  armored  Segrave,  gaunt  and  tall, 
And  leaves  him  lifeless  on  the  field. 
But,  oh !  for  Ireland — there  once  more 

To  rouse  the  true  men  of  the  land, 
And  proudly  bear,  from  shore  to  shore, 
The  banner  of  the  "  Blood-red  Hand!" 

And  when  the  wine  within  him  plays, 

Bold,  hopeful  words  the  chief  will  speak; 
He  draws  his  shining  sword,  and  says : 

"  The  King  of  England  deems  me  weak ! 
Ah,  would  the  Englishman  were  nigh 

That  hates  me  most — my  deadliest  foe — 
To  cross  his  sword  with  mine,  and  try 
If  this  right  arm  be  weak  or  no ! " 

But, oh!  for  Ireland,  where  good  swords 

And  valiant  arms  are  needed  most, 
To  fall  on  England's  cruel  hordes, 
And  sweep  them  from  the  Irish  coast ! 

Years  come  and  go ;  but,  while  they  roll, 

His  limbs  grow  weak,  his  eyes  grow  dim; 
The  hopes  die  out  that  buoyed  his  soul; 
"War's  mighty  game  is  closed  for  him. 
Before  him  from  the  earth  have  passed 
Friends,    kinsmen,   comrades     true     and 

brave; 

And  well  he  knows  he  nears,  at  last, 

His  place  of  rest — a  foreign  grave ! 

But,  oh !  for  Ireland  far  away — 

For  Irish  love  and  holy  zeal; 
Oh  for  a  grave  in  Irish  clay, 
To  wrap  the  heart  of  HUGH 


THE   OLD   EXILE. 

A  YOUTH  to  manhood  growing, 
With  dark  brown  curls  flowing, 
O'er  brow  and  temples  glowing, 

I  came  across  the  sea; 
And  now  my  head  is  hoary; 
But  land  of  song  and  story — 
Green  Isle  of  ancient  glory — 

My  heart  is  still  with  thee. 

Thy  hopes  still  clung  around  me, 
Thy  bonds  forever  bound  me 
And  on  all  occasions  found  me 


Within  the  midst  of  those, 
Whose  love  was  ever  paid  thee, 
Who  met  to  cheer  and  aid  thee, 
And  at  a  distance  made  thee 

A  terror  to  thy  foes. 

Long  through  this  sad  sojourning, 
My  heart  and  brain  were  burning, 
With  hopes  of  yet  returning 

To  Erin,  glad  and  free; 
My  hopes  were  unavailing, 
I  feel  my  strength  is  failing; 
And  still  that  bitter  wailing 

Is  drifting  o'er  the  sea. 

But  I  have  yet,  thank  Heaven, 
Four  gallant  sons,  of  seven 
My  Irish  wife  has  given, 

To  soothe  my  life's  decline; 
Four  youths  of  noble  bearing, 
Of  spirits  high  and  daring, 
Wliose  hearts  are  ever  sharing 

Those  cherished  dreams  of  mine- 

And  should  my  dear  land  ever 
Eenew  the  old  endeavor, 
Her  cruel  bonds  to  sever, 

Though  I  can  strive  no  more, 
Four  soldiers  brave  I'll  send  her, 
To  aid  her  and  defend  her; 
And  thus  I  still  can  render 

Allegiance  as  of  yore. 

I  have  one  gentle  daughter; — 
How  fondly  I  have,  taught  her 
Of  Erin  o'er  the  water, — 

An  island  green  and  fair; 
And  marked  her  bright  eyes  shining, 
As,  on  my  knees  reclining, 
I  kissed  her,  while  entwining 

Fresh  Shamrocks  in  her  hair. 

Her  mother's  songs  she  sings  me, 
Sweet  thoughts  of  home  she  brings  me; 
The  secret  pang  that  wrings  me 

Her  breast  can  never  know. 
But  Irish  love,  so  purely, 
Runs  through,  I  rest  securely 
Thereon,  and  say  that,  surely, 

'Twill  never  nurse  a  foe. 


POEMS   OF   T.    I).   Sl'LMVAX. 


But  life  is  fading  slowly, — 
My  friends  must  lay  me  lowly, 
Fur  from  that  abbey  holy 

I  loved  through  all  the  past. 
The  world  grows  dim  before  me, 
A  broad  wing  closes  o'er  me ; 
But,  Erin  dear,  that  bore  me 

I  love  thee  to  the  last ! 


P>\ 


"GOD   SAVE   IRELAM)!' 

I. 

HIGH  upon  the  gallows-tree 

Swung  the  noble-hearted  Three, 

the  vengeful  tyrant   stricken   in   their 

bloom ; 

But  they  met  him  face  to  face, 
With  the  courage  of  their  race, 
And  they  went  with  souls  undaunted  to  their 

doom. 

"God  save  Ireland!"  said  the  heroes; 
"  God  save  Ireland !  "  said  they  all : 
"  Whether  on  the  scaffold  high 
Or  the  battle-field  we  die, 
what   matter,  when   for  Erin  dear  we 

fall!" 


Oh. 


II. 

(Jirt  around  with  cruel  foes, 
Still  their  spirit  proudly  rose, 
For  they  thought  of  friends  that  loved  them, 
far  and  near: 


Of  the  millions  true  and  brave 
O'er  the  ocean's  swelling  wave, 

And  the  friends  in  holy  Ireland,  t-vi-r  dc:ir. 
"  God  save  Ireland !  "  said  tlu-y  proudly ; 
"  God  save  Ireland !  "  said  they  all : 
"  Whether  on  the  scaffold  high 
Or  the  battle-field  we  die, 

Oh,  what  matter,  when  for  Erin  dear  we 
fall!" 

III. 

Climbed  they  up  the  rugged  stair, 
Rung  their  voices  out  in 

Then  with  England's  fatal  cord  around  them 

cast, 

Close  beneath  the  gallows  tree, 
Kissed  like  brothers  lovingly. 

True  to  home,  and  faith, and  freedom  to  tin- 
last. 

"  God  save  Ireland ! "  prayed  tlu-y  loudly : 
"God  save  Ireland!"  said  they  sill: 
"  Whether  on  the  scaffold  high 
Or  the  battle-field  we  die, 

Oh,  what  matter,  when  for  Erin   dear  we 

full!" 

IV. 

Never  till  the  latest  day 

Shall  the  memory  pass  away 
Of  the  gallant  lives  thus  given  for  our  land : 

But  on  the  cause  must  go, 

Amid  joy,  or  weal,  or  \v> 
Till  we  make  our  isle  a  nation  free  and  grand. 

"  God  save  Ireland ! "  say  we  proudly : 

"God  save  Ireland!  "  say  wo  all, 

"Whether  on  th<-  srntToM  high 

Or  the  battle-field  we  die. 
Oh,  what  matter,  when  for  Erin  dear  we 
fall!" 


A  POEM  BY  DR,  WILLIAM  DREMAR 


WHEN  ERIN  FIRST  ROSE. 

[  This  noble  song  might  almost  be  termed  a  national  hymn. 
It  was  composed  by  Dr.  Drennan,  in  the  stirring  period  of 
Ninety  -eight,  and  is  evidence  of  the  patriotism  Belfast  and 
Belfast  Protestants  felt  for  Ireland  at  that  time.  Before  his 
day  the  principal  poems  of  the  land  were  in  Irish,  thence- 
forth the  poetic  patriotism  of  the  land  organized  the  English 
language  to  its  purpose. 

Moore  referred  to  this  poem  as  "that  beautiful  but  rebellious 
song."  Lover  says  of  it:  "  In  the  following  poem  the  feel- 
ings of  an  unflinching  patriot  of  the  period  are  eloquently 
poured  forth,  and  no  one,  I  think,  can  deny  much  poetic  power 
and  artistic  accomplishment  to  these  lines  ;  forcible  imagery 
and  antithetic  point  are  given  in  flowing  verse  and  good  lan- 
guage. Take  it  for  all  in  all,  the  ode  is  worthy  of  admiration, 
and  suggests  proofs  to  a  thinking  reader  of  these  days  (when 
-we  may  calmly  consider  events  more  than  half  a  century  past) 
that  the  disaffection  existing  in  Ireland  at  that  time  did  not, 
as  has  sometimes  been  misrepresented,  exist  principally 
among  the  lower  and  ignorant  classes.  Moreover,  it  appears 
to  me  the  whole  heart  of  a  nation  must  have  been  roused 
before  such  lines  could  have  been  written  ;  they  are  rather 
the  effect  than  the  cause  of  commotion—  the  fringe  of  foam 
on  the  dark  rush  of  the  torrent.  This  ode  may  be  ranked 
among  the  highest  examples  of  patriotic  exhortation  and  po- 
litical invective." 


rin  first  rose  from  the  dark  swelling 

flood, 
God  blessed  the  green  island  and  saw  it  was 

good; 
The   Em'rald  of   Europe,  it   sparkled   and 

shone 
In  the  ring  of  the  world  the  most  precious 

stone  : 
In  ner  sun,  in  her  soil,  in  her  station  thrice 

blest, 
With  her  back  towards  Britain,  her  face  to 

the  West, 
Erin  stands  proudly  insular,  on  her  steep 

shore, 
And  strikes  her  high  harp,  'mid  the  ocean's 

deep  roar. 

But  when  its  soft  tones  seem  to  mourn  and 

to  weep, 
The  dark  chain  of  silence  is  thrown  o'er  the 

deep; 


At  the  thought  of  the  Past,  the  tears  gush 

from  her  eyes 
And  the  pulse  of  her  heart  makes  her  white 

bosom  rise. 

0  Sons  of  Green  Erin !  lament  o'er  the  time 
When  religion  was  war,  and  our  country  a 

crime — 

When  man  in  God's  image  inverted  his  plan, 
And  moulded  his  God  in  the  image  of  man. 

When  the  int'rest  of  State  wrought  the  gen- 
eral woe, 

The  stranger  a  friend,  and  the  native  a  foe; 

While  the  mother  rejoiced  o'er  her  children 
oppressed 

And  clasped  the  invader  more  close  to  her 
breast. 

When  with  Pale  for  the  body  and  Pale  for 
the  soul, 

Church  and  State  joined  in  compact,  to  con- 
quer the  whole: 

And  as  Shannon  was  stained  with  Milesian 
blood 

Eyed  each  other  askance  and  pronounced  it 
was  good. 

By  the  groans  that  ascend  from  your  fore- 
fathers' grave, 

For  their  country  thus  left  to  the  brute  and 
the  slave, 

Drive  the  demon  of  bigotry  borne  to  his  den 

And  where  Britain  made  brutes  now  let  Erin 
make  men; 

Let  my  sons,  like  the  leaves  of  the  Sham- 
rock, unite, 

A  partition  of  sects  from  one  footstalk  of 
right, 

Give  each  his  full  share  of  the  earth  and  the 
sky, 

Nor  fatten  the  slave  where  the  serpent 
would  die. 


POEMS  OF  HUGH  FARRAH  KoDERMOTT. 


Alas!  for  poor  Erin!  that  some  are  still 
seen 

Who  would  dye  the  grass  red  from  their 
hatred  to  Green; 

Yet,  0,  when  we're  up  and  they're  down,  let 
them  live, 

Then  yield  them  that  mercy  which  they 
would  not  give. 

Arm  of  Erin,  be  strong!  but  be  gentle  as 
brave ! 

And  uplifted  to  strike,  be  still  ready  to  save ! 

Let  no  feeling  of  vengeance  presume  to  de- 
file, 

The  Cause  of,  or  Men  of,  the  Emerald  Isle! 


The  cause  it  is  good,  and  the  men  they  are 

true, 
And  the  Green  shall  outlive  both  the  Orange 

and  Blue, 
And  the  triumphs  of  Erin  her  daughters 

shall  share 
With  the  full  swelling  chest,  and  the  fair 


flowing  hair, 


[brave. 


Their  bosoms  heave  high  for  the  worthy  and 
But  no  coward  shall  rest  in  thai  full  swelling 
wave,  [blest. 

Men  of  Erin,  awake!  and  make  haste  to  be 
Rise — Arch  of  the  Ocean,  and  Queen  of  t  In- 
West ! 


POEMS  OF  HUGH  FARRAR  McDERMOTT. 


THE   PARTING   HOUR. 

THE  day  is  past,  the  night  is  here, 
When  friendship's  tie  we  sever, 

And  she  we  love  shall  disappear, 
Returning  to  us  never. 

So  runs  the  world  througli  weary  years: 
Ere  yet  our  joys  are  spoken. 

The  laughing  eye  is  dimmed  with  bean, 
And  tender  links  are  broken. 

Oh,  sweetest  mouth  that  e'er  was  made 

To  kiss  a  parting  lover: 
Oh,  fairest  cheek  that  e'er  was  laid 

Upon  a  downy  cover. 

My  life  you  twine  in  love's  embrace, 
Of  freedom  you  deprive  me. 

And  as  I  dwell  on  every  gnu-.-. 
To  love's  despair  you  drive  me. 

Your  spirit  floats  upon  the  air, 
In  sunny  tides  I  find  it ; 

And  when  it  fades,  the  world  is  ban- 
To  him  it  leaves  behind  it. 


A  HIDDEN  SORROW. 

SAD  in  the  morning,  sad  in  the  nijrht. 

My  life  is  passed  away: 
For  me  this  world  has  no  delight, 

NOr  hope  a  single  ray. 

Pale  in  the  shade  of  fancied  wrong 

I  yield  before  thy  frown, 
While  round  my  life  misfortunes  throng, 

And  clouds  my  sorrows  crown. 

T<>  thee  my  soul  was  ever  true. 
I  lived  f;»r  thee  alone: 

If  other  gentle  eyes  1   knew. 

They  made  thee  more  mine  own. 

Let  not  thy  pride  deny  my  pra\ 

On  bended  knee  and  low. 
1  lay  my  soul's  afflictions  ban  . 

For  none  hut  thee  to  kn« 

Let  not  thy  breast  with  woes  con.-;;mr. 

Nor  brood  o'er  grievance  dead 
My  wayward  love  was  net  ion's  bloom. 

Whose  leaves  were  tear-drops  shed. 


POEMS  OF   HUGH   FAREAE  McDEEMOTT. 


If  anger  should  thy  bosom  burn, 

Or  sorrow  cloud  thy  mind, 
To  bygone  days  0  fondly  turn 

And  there  thy  solace  find. 

Turn  to  the  days  when  all  the  land 

Was  balmed  with  rosy  air, 
When  two  fond  hearts  strolled  hand  in  hand 

Unknown  to  strife  or  care. 

Thy  soul  I  drank  from  out  those  eyes 

That  still  diviner  grew, 
Till  love,  united,  reached  the  skies, 

And  God  pronounced  it  true! 

We  loved  broad  nature,  fresh  and  fair, 

We  loved  our  silence,  too, 
For  love  that's  true  professions  spare — 

Love's  golden  words  are  few. 

When  grief  now  falls  upon  thy  breast, 

Or  sorrow  dims  thine  eye, 
Upon  thy  bosom  let  me  rest, 

Or  with  that  sorrow  die. 


COME   O'EE  THE   HILL. 

COME  o'er  the  hill  when  night  is  still, 

My  coy  and  fickle  rover; 
Come  o'er  the  hill  when  night  is  still, 

Thro'  daisy  leaf  and  clover. 

Here  I  sink  on  the  streamlet's  brink, 
0  here  I  muse  and  ponder; 

Here  I  sink  on  the  streamlet's  brink, 
While  love  for  Bess  grows  fonder. 

0  seek  my  breast  and  give  it  rest, 
Your  head  upon  my  shoulder; 

0  seek  my  breast  and  give  it  rest, 
Ere  love  and  lips  grow  older. 

I'll  seize  yon  sky  and  fill  my  eye 
With  sprites  who'll  bow  before  you : 

I'll  seize  yon  sky  and  fill  my  eye 
With  fairies  who'll  adore  you. 


I'll  bring  a  boon  from  yonder  moon, 

A  veil  of  vestal  beauty ; 
I'll  bring  a  boon  from  yonder  moon 

Of  love  and  faith  and  duty. 

I'll  draw  a  bar  from  yonder  star, 
And  round  your  neck  I'll  wind  it; 

That  bar  will  then  make  you  the  star, 
As  Heaven  at  first  designed  it. 

In  yonder  flower  I'll  find  your  bower, 

With  sweet  aroma  blushing; 
In  yonder  flower  I'll  find  your  bower, 

Your  lips  and  dimples  flushing. 

The  nightingale  shall  tell  her  tale 
Where  cherubs  wing  the  morning; 

The  nightingale  shall  tell  her  tale, 
With  all  my  love's  adorning. 

The  brooks  that  flow  and  purling  go 

Across  the  rocks  to  glory; 
The  brooks  that  flow  and  purling  go, 

Soft  sing  your  sunny  story. 

Your  sweet  red  mouth  tastes  of  the  South,. 

When  from  it  blow  the  spices; 
Your  sweet  red  mouth  tastes  of  the  South, 

And  every  wish  suffices. 

I'll  kiss  your  grace  in  the  streamlet's  face, 

And  tune  you  to  its  singing; 
I'll  kiss  your  grace  in  the  streamlet's  face,. 

And  waltz  you  to  its  swinging. 

The  bud  that's  chief  within  its  leaf, 
In  secret  sweet  shall  hold  you , 

The  bud  that's  chief  within  its  leaf, 
With  all  my  love  shall  fold  you. 

Come  o'er  the  hill  when  night  is  still, 
And  every  star  shall  bless  you ; 

Come  o'er  the  hill  when  night  is  still, 
And,  Bess,  how  I'll  caress  you ! 


MEAGHEE'S   BEIGADE. 

Now  the  green  plumes  nod  to  the  rising  sun,, 
As  it  leads  the  way  to  each  bristling  gun ; 
And  the  soldier's  soul  is  a  harp  of  joy, 
Tuned  to  the  glory  of  Fontenoy. 


POEMS    (>F 


FAKKAl;    M.  I>KKM<  >TT. 


Solid  in  mass  as  woods  of  oak. 
Fierce  for  the  fray  as  lions  awok 
Column  on  column^  with  martial  tread, 
Defy  the  terror  of  shell  and  lead. 

With  shout  and  yell  and  stunning  peal, 
Their  courage  leaps  upon  their  steel ! 
With  shock  and  dash,  and  plunge  ami  stroke. 
'Mid  roaring  seas  of  fire  and  smoke, 
Their  desperate  valor  shakes  the  earth, 
When  the  foe  cries  out:  "Who  gave  them 
birth  ?  " 

With  fearless  breasts  and  rushing  tread, 
Again  they  charge  the  rain  of  lead, 
And  in  the  battle's  clash  and  roar, 
Anoint  their  brows  with  Freedom's  gore. 

When  hand  to  hand  they  press  attack, 
The  thund'ring  cannon  sweep  them  back; 
As  more  they  see  red  currents  flow, 
More  fiercely  on  they  charge  the  foe; 
And  as  the  dying  gasp  for  life, 
Their  spirit  still  impels  the  strife, — 
Like  wounded  eagles  poising  high, 
They  soar  in  triumph  ere  they  die. 

Now  cheering  with  his  bugle  blast, 
The  gallant  Meagher  flies  swiftly  past; 
Through  teeming  groans  and  clash  and  jar, 
His  trumpet  voice  thus  sounds  afar : 
"Again  to  the  charge,  old  Erin's  sons! 
Again  to  the  charge!     Press  on  your  guns! 
Behold  the  green!     Think  of  its  fame! 
Think  how  your  sires  baptized  its  name!" 

Again  they  charge;  it  is  their  last; 
On  battle  mounds  their  die  is  cast, 
They  sink  as  'neath  the  simoon's  blast. 

O  God,  how  grand !  in  battle's  r 

Despising  life,  defying  death, 
Victory  alone  could  those  assuage 

Whose  names  expired  with  parting  breath; 
Fame  blushed  for  Fame  as  heroes  fell: 

They  died  for  glory  more  sublime: 
While  Freedom  struck  their  funeral  knell. 

Which  rings  for  aye  on  the  ear  of  time. 


In  lonely  dell,  on  hill  and  plain. 

When-  lade  the  >lain  ami  blooms  the 
Memory  shall  dwell,  with  pride  and  pain, 

While  Freedom  lives  the  soul  of  God; 
And  pwts  strike  a  joyous  lay, 

A  plaintive  dirge  for  its  refrain. 
When  power  of  wrong  has  passed  a 

And  nature's  laws  shall  rule  again. 


LIGHT   AND    S1IAPK. 

MY  dark  brown  eyes,  be  not  afraid, 

(Jive  me  thy  hand: 
Give  me  thy  breath  of  loving  lips. 
Nor  sink  beneath  thy  wayward  - 

Upon  the  strand 

Where  breakers  land, 
And  pleasure's  wave  engulfs  the  maid 
Atwixt  the  stealth  of  light  and  sh:.de. 

All  plumed  and  spurred  on  fiery  steed 

Love  madly  rides; 

And  when,  with  heaving  bound  and  start. 
He  plunges  o'er  the  yielding  heart. 

It  then  betides 

His  flame  subsides; 
And  what  is  left  his  eager  greed  ? 
Delirious  limbs, — a  passion  freed. 

The  dreamy  vista  marked  betw. 

The  light  and  shade, 

Where  darkness  steals  its  warp  from  liirht. 
And  light  its  wefting  from  the  night, 

t'nfold  love's  glade. 

Where  pleasures   fade, 
Sorties  of  love  and  rapture  keen. 
Which  leave  no  thought  of  what  has  been. 

What  though  hot  nirn-nts  thrilled  thy  Mood. 

And  to  his  breast 

Some  other  hand  had  drawn   thy  head, 
And.  'mid  thy  throbs  of  blis«  and  dread, 

At    his   I.eheM 

Thou  wert  his  £!;• 
And  all  the  leaves  in  virtue's  lnul 
Expanded  on  wild  passion's  flood! 


924 


POEMS   OF  EDWARD   LYSAGHT. 


The  storm  that  swept  across  the  plain 

No  more  we  share; 

The  chastened  mead  to  sunshine  springs, 
And  memory  dwells  on  happier  things; 

Nor  thought  can  bear, 

With  foster  care 

But  treats  with  brow  of  cold  disdain, 
The  waste  of  love  in  love's  domain. 

Whatever  we  see  or  find  or  trace 

In  nature's  laws, 

From  flower  to  man,  from  sun  to  earth, 
Obeys  the  laws  that  gave  it  birth. 

If  by  fell  cause 

One  rule  withdraws, 
One  duty  fails  in  nature's  grace, 
The  structure  whole  is  grim  and  base. 


The  maid  who  waits  and  meditates 

On  single  life, 

And  finds  no  mate  to  place  the  band 
Of  holy  wedlock  on  her  hand, 

And  make  her  wife, 

Sore  feels  the  strife, 
For  incomplete  are  nature's  dates 
Until  love's  function  culminates. 

Draw  near,  my  Bess,  my  angel  bright, 

And  kiss  me  warm; 
Pure  to  this  heart  thou  art  aglow 
Like  diamonds  of  the  glinting  snow, 

And  every  charm 

Doth  doubt  disarm, 
And  twine  thee,  as  my  soul's  delight, 
Round  love  so  true,  sweet  love  might  knight. 


THE   MAN  WHO  LED   THE   VAN  OF 
IRISH  VOLUNTEERS. 

THE  gen'rous  sons  of  Erin,  in  manly  virtue 
bold, 

With  hearts  and  hands  preparing  our  coun- 
try to  uphold, 

Though  cruel  knaves  and  bigot  slaves  dis- 
turbed our  isle  some  years, 

Now  hail  the  man  who  led  the  van  of  Irish 
Volunteers. 

Just  thirty  years  are  ending,  since  first  his 

glorious  aid, 
Our  sacred  rights  defending,  struck  shackles 

from  our  trade ; 
To  serve  us  still,  with  might  and  skill,  the 

vet'ran  now  appears, 
That  gallant  man  who  led  the  van  of  Irish 

Volunteers. 

He  sows  no  vile  dissensions;   good  will  to 

all  he  bears; 
He  knows  no   vain  pretensions,  no  paltry 

fears  or  cares ; 


To  Erin's  and  to  Britain's  sons  his  worth  his 

name  endears; 
They  love  the  man  who  led  the  van  of  Irish 

Volunteers. 

Opposed  by  hirelings  sordid,  he  broke  op- 
pression's chain; 

On  statue-books  recorded  his  patriot  acts  re- 
main; 

The  equipoise  his  mind  employs  of  Com- 
mons, Kings,  and  Peers 

The  upright  man  who  led  the  van  of  Irish 
Volunteers. 

A  British  constitution  (to  Erin  ever  true), 
In  spite  of   state   pollution,   he   gained   in 

"  EigUy-two;" 
"  He  watched  it  in  its  cradle,  and  bedewed  its 

hearse  with  tears,"  * 
This  gallant  man  who  led  the  van  of  Irish 

Volunteers. 


*  Mr.  GrattaiTs  feeling  and  impressive  words  were  these  : 
"  I  watched  by  the  cradle  of  Irish  Independence,  and  I  fol- 
lowed its  hearse." 


POKMS    OF    LA  W  UK  NT  K    <i.    GOt'LDING. 


988 


While  other  nations  tremble,  by  proud  op- 
pressors galled, 

On  hustings  we'll  assemble,  by  Erin's  welfare 
called ; 

Our  G rattan,  there  we'll  meet  him,  and  greet 
him  with  three  cheers; 

The  gallant  man  who  led  the  van  of  Irish 
Volunteers. 


KATE   OF  GARNAVILLA. 

HAVE  you  been  at  Garnavilla  ? 

Have  you  seen  at  Garnavilla 
Beauty's  train  trip  o'er  the  plain 

With  lovely  Kate  of  Garnavilla  ? 
Oh !  she's  pure  as  virgin  snows 

Ere  they  fall  on  woodland  hill;  0 
Sweet  as  a  dew-drop  on  wild  rose 

Is  lovely  Kate  of  Garnavilla ! 


Philomel,  I've  listened  oft 
To  thy  lay,  nigh  weeping  willow; 

Oh,  the  strain's  more  sweet,  more  soft, 
That  flows  from  Kate  of  Garna\illa! 
M  ive  you  been,  etc. 

As  a  noble  ship  I've  seen 

Sailing  o'er  the  swelling  billow, 

So  I've  marked  the  graceful  mien 
Of  lovely  Kate  of  Garnavilla! 

Have  you  been,  etc. 

If  poets'  prayers  can  banish  cares, 

No  cares  shall  come  to  Garnavilla; 
Joy's  bright  rays  shall  gild  her  days, 

And  dove-like  peace  perch  on  her  pillow. 
Charming  maid  of  Garnavilla! 

Lovely  maid  of  Garnavilla! 
Beauty,  grace,  and  virtue  wait 

On  lovely  Kate  of  Garnavilla! 


POEMS  OF  LAWRENCE  G,  GOULDING. 


MY  NATIVE  LAND. 

MY  native  land  how  dear  to  me  art  thou  ? 

The  home  of  childhood  and  aspiring  youth ; 
Farewell  those  charming  scenes  so  distant 

now, 

So  dear  in  days  of  innocence  and  truth. 
How  happy  then !     I  knew  a  mother's  love, 

So  full  of  tenderness  and  gentle  care; 
I  wondered  if  in  that  bright  home  above, 
Such  sweet  felicity  as  ours  was  there. 
I  knelt  in  grave  devotion  at  her  knee, 
And  learned  to  pray  that  Ireland  might 
be  free. 

'Twas  then  the  gentle  spring  time  of  the 

year — 

When  tender  youth  receives  its  first  im- 
press, 

When  all  it  fondly  loved  on  earth  were  near, 
To  grant  desires  or  fancied  wrongs  redress; 


Where  are  those  loved  ones  now,  those  sa> 

ties 
That  link   the   dearest  memories  of  tin- 

past? 

Ah!  some  are  gone  to  rest  beyond  the  ski--.-. 
Where  peace  endures  as  long  as  time  shall 

last, 

While  others  yet  in  distant  lands  al>i«le. 
Tossed  on  the  waves  of  every  passing 
tide. 

Come,  memory,  lead  me  to  those  daisy  ileil-. 

So  full  of  beauty  in  serene  repose, 
Beside  that  fairy  brook  that  sweetly  tells 

Its  rippling  numbers  murmuring  as  it  goes; 
Where  long  ago  in  boyhood's  happy  hours, 

In  peaceful  Miss  I  loved  to  pass  the  day 
With  sweetly  warbling  birds  and  blushing 
flowers, 

Whose  song  and  fragrance  welcomed  nun  y 
May. 


POEMS   OF  LAWKENCE   G.    GOULDING. 


How  full  of  joy  all  nature  seemed  to  be, 
And  0!  how  bright  and  beautiful  tome. 

I  thought  no  other  land  on  earth  so  fair, 
Her  lovely  vales  were  paradise  to  me — 
There  rosy  health  bloomed  in  the  morning 

air, 

That  fanned  my  native  village  by  the  sea ; 
Fair  village !  I  must  linger  ere  I  pass, 

If  but  to  glance  at  scenes  of  happier  days, 

That  dear  old  chapel  where  I  first  heard  Mass, 

And  joined  devoutly  in  God's  holy  praise. 

How  grandly  wild  the  roaring  billows 

play, 

O'er  those  rude  rocks  that  grimly  guard 
Malbay. 

That  chapel  bell  its  matin  anthem  toll'd. 
Even  as  the  sun  arose  to  bless  the  day, 
Its  joyous  chimes  beyond  the  village  roll'd, 
And  sunbeams  danced  responsive  to   its 

lay; 

From  cot  and  castle  youth  and  maiden  fair, 

With  aged  sire  and  honored  matron  came, 

To  pass  the  morning  hour  in  holy  prayer, 

And  tell  a  decade  o'er  to  Notre  Dame. 

How  truly  sweet  those  joys  that  fill  the 

soul 
When  early  orisons  our  thoughts  control. 


THE   PEN  AND   SWOKD. 

NOT  epic  verse  alone  inspires, 
Though  it  the  fervid  bosom  fires, 

To  reach  heroic  fame; 
For  where  the  tyrant's  heel  is  set, 
Oppression  claims  its  dam'ning  debt, 

And  glory  sinks  to  shame. 
But  when  the  tyrant's  flaming  brand 
Sweeps  wildly  o'er  a  fated  land — 

A  land  no  longer  free ; 
Not  then  a  thousand  golden  lyres, 
However  high  the  soul  aspires, 

Can  change  the  stern  decree ; 
However  tender  the  refrain, 
Though  it  may  soothe  his  bitter  pain, 
It  cannot  break  the  bondman's  chain, 

Or  give  him  liberty. 


The  Pen  and  Sword  must  needs  unite, 
And  side  by  side  in  Freedom's  fight, 

Proclaim  their  sovereign  sway; 
For  where,  but  on  the  battle-field, 
Was  tyrant  ever  known  to  yield, 

Or  tamely  part  his  prey  ? 
Nor  silver  tongue,  nor  flowery  speech, 
The  pirate's  stolid  soul  can  reach, 

Whose  home  is  on  the  sea; 
A  simple  dose  of  charmed  lead 
That  works  upon  the  heart  and  head, 

Will  bring  him  to  his  knee. 
Its  force  assails  the  pirate's  ear, 
He  feels  the  end  is  drawing  near, 
And,  fiercely  writhing,  falls  to  hear 

The  shout  of  victory. 

'Tis  thus  a  nation's  cause  is  won, 
'Twas  thus  our  patriots  begun 
Their  freedom  to  obtain; 
And  in  the  magic  of  the  sword, 
Eedeemed  the  country  they  adored, 

From  Britain's  galling  chain. 
Like  men  who  dared  assert  their  right 
They  spring  like  giants  to  the  fight- 
To  conquer  or  to  fall. 
And  bearing  down  upon  the  foe, 
With  steady  aim  and  telling  blow, 

Drove  Britain  to  the  wall; 
And  raised  aloft  o'er  fort  and  crag — 
In  place  of  England's  crimson  rag — 
Our  own  immortal  starry  flag, 
To  answer  Freedom's  call. 

May  this  thy  story  be,  ere  long, 
0,  Erin  of  my  soul  and  song! 

The  story  men  shall  tell! 
How,  in  the  battle,  breast  to  breast, 
With  Freedom  graven  on  th}r  crest, 

The  Saxon  tyrant  fell. 
How,  to  redeem  his  native  land 
The  Irish  soldier,  hand  to  hand, 

Cut  down  the  British  horde ; 
As  high  above  the  conquered  "  red/' 
The  "  green  "  waved  o'er  a  nation's  head, 

To  liberty  restored. 
And  o'er  the  earth,  from  end  to  end, 
Wherever  Ireland  has  a  friend, 
Who  e'er  loves  liberty  will  bend 

To  bless  the  Pen  and  Sword. 


I 'OK  Ms   <>K    I. .  \\VK-KNCK   (i.    QOULDING, 


- 


ROBKRT    KM.MKT. 

NOT  born  for  himself,  but  for  his  country, 
In  early  youth  he  knelt  before  her  shrine; 
And.  in  the  fervor  of  impassioned  love, 
He  pledged  a  noble  life  to  her  redemption. 
Hr  saw  her  writhing  in  the  tyrant's  grasp. 
With  England's  iron  heel  upon  her  neck; 
Despoiled  of  all  her  heritage  and  power ; 
Maligned,  condemned,  enslaved  and  perse- 
cuted. 

To  rescue  her  from  that  ignoble  state, 
And  place  her  proudly  where,  in  other  days. 
She  bore  the  sceptre  of  a  nation's  splendor — 
Henceforth  became  his  care — his  sole  ambi- 
tion. 

To  the  consummation  of  this  noble  end 
His  energies  and  talents  were  directed ; 
His  daring  courage  and  unyielding  will 
Found  inspiration  in  his  deep  devotion. 
In  ceaseless  toil,  remote  from  human  #ize, 
His  weary  days  and  sleepless  nights  were 

passed, 

I  )c vising  plans  by  which  he  hoped  to  fire 
The  dormant  spirit  of  a  fettered  nation. 
A nd,  in  that  hope,  he  felt  the  time  had  come 
To  wrest  his  suffering  country  from  oppres- 
sion : 

His  spirit  could  not  longer  brook  suspense- 
He  courted  liberty  or  welcomed  death ; 
And,  in  the  flush  of  his  determination. 
He  sprang  to  rend  the  clanking  chain   that 

bound  her. 
Dread  hour  of  hope  and  fear,  despair  and 

promise ! 
The  die  was  cast— the  effort  proved  abortive. 

Mysterious  Fate,  which  men  call  Destiny! 

Before  whose  stern  decree  the  bravest  trem 
ble! 

What  purpose  moved  thee  on  to  stay  the  hand 

Whose  virtue  sought  a  n:it  i«.n's  resurrect  i<m  ': 

But  now  'tis  <»vcr!     Wherefore  speculate  ? 

It  brought  a  victim  more  t..  pampered   Jus- 
tice, 

Whose    rank    intolerance     has    shamed     tin- 
world. 

And  left  but  odium  to  a  hated  name. 

But  Emmet's  memory  lives  as  green  a*  Spring 


In  every  heart  that  loves  its  native  land; 

His  virtuesand  nobility  inspire 

An  emulation  time  cannot  dcst : 

His  patriotic  fer\or  glows  as  bright 

As  when  lie  fired  the  pyre  of  insurrection; 

For,  when  In-  fell  to  earth,  his  spirit   • 

As  sinks  the  western  sun,  to  rise  to-morrow. 

The  dawn  is  breaking  in  the  mellow  sky: 
The  shepherd's  lute  awakes  the  sluml" 

vale; 

And  from  the  Orient  comes  a  flood  of  li<:ht 
To  shed  its  beauty  o'er  the  vernal  scene. 
And  now  a  superhuman  voice  is  heard 
Hulling,  as  if  from  heaven  descending, 
In  thunder  tones  upon  the  fragrant  air; 
The  vast  blue  arch  beyond  wears  not  a  cloud — 
The  ocean  seems  at  rest,  without  a  ripple. 
And  all  around  is  hushed  in  solemn  silence: 
A  nation  springs  to  life,  as  it  proclaims. 
"  Liberty  to  Emancipated  I  reland  !  " 
Behold!  0  spirit  of  immortal  Kmmet ! 
The  glory  that  awaits  your  native  land ! 
For  ere  we  celebrate  thy  birth  again 
Thy  epitaph,  in  gold,  shall  be  inscribed. 


AKOON. 


[A  greeting  to  th»-  K.-V.  James  J.  Dough. 

.  •*  Cliun-li.  on  hi*  installation  M  Chaplain  of   il,. 
.ran  (  'or|Mi,  Sixty-ninth  Kf  ifimrut  .  ] 


Cead  milli'  fniltlH' 

jarth  Aroon! 
Herald  of  peace  and  truth! 

Boggart  h  An 

You're  welcome  to  our  corps 
You'll  be  its  pride,  ti 
\       '  our  love 

Boggart  h  Aroon  ! 

Your  coming  brings  UH  joy, 

Boggart  h  Aroon' 
Pleasure  without  all. 

.  irth  Aroon! 
Con  rage  to  bear  our  woes, 

•  •n  as  life's  current  flowt, 
However  fortune  goes, 

.rarth  Arooii! 


028 


POEMS   OF   LAWRENCE   G.    GOULDING. 


We'll  have  your  blessings  sure, 

Soggarth  Aroon ! 

Blessings  that  must  endure, 

Soggarth  Aroon ! 

Hope  for  us  day  and  night, 

Hope  for  eternal  light, 

Strength  to  maintain  the  right, 
Soggarth  Aroon! 

In  that  hope  we'll  abide, 

Soggarth  Aroon! 
You'll  find  us  side  by  side, 

Soggarth  Aroon ! 
Comrades  united  all, 
Waiting  for  Ireland's  call, 
Ready  to  stand  or  fall, 

Soggarth  Aroon ! 


IRELAND   AND   AMERICA. 

[Read at  the  Annual  Banquet  of  the  "Irish  Historical  So- 
ciety" of  New  York,  on  Washington's  Birthday,  February 
22,  1888.] 

Two  nations  meet  in  harmony  to-day, 
In  social  union  'round  the  festive  board, 
To  memorize  the  glories  of  the  past, 
When  both  stood  side  by  side  for  liberty. 
One  nation  yet  is  in  the  tyrant's  grasp, 
The  victim  of  a  brutal  usurpation; 
But  still  protesting,  still  defiant,  stands 
Before  the  world  unconquer'd,  undismayed  : 
The  other,  free  as  Heaven's  balmy  air, 
Whose  gentle  current  fans  her  starry  flag — 
That  flag  which  floats,  to-night,  on  ev'ry  sea, 
To  celebrate  the  birth  of  Washington. 

Immortal  Washington! 
His  glory  fills  the  land  from  shore  to  shore, 
From  end  to  end  of  this  vast  continent; 
Flashing  its  radiance  from  pole  to  pole, 
To  light  the  oppress'd  peoples  of  the  earth, 
To  this  free  land  where  they  might  find  a 

home, 

And  share  the  blessings  liberty  bestows. 
In  peace  and  waresteem'd  his  country's  sire; 
In  virtue  and  in  majesty  her  pride; 
He  soared  beyond  the  flight  of  other  men, 
Unconscious  of  his  lofty  eminence  ; 


And   with   that   modest    bearing   greatness. 

gives, 
Brought   wisdom    to    the    Councils    of   the 

State ; 

While,  from  the  patriotism  he  inspired, 
A  bondaged  Nation  sprang  to  Independence. 

In  that  fierce  struggle  which  convulsed  the 

land, 

With  all  those  terrors  war  alone  incites, 
When   England's  tyrant  King  was  pledged 

to  conquest, 
And,  be  it  said  to  their  eternal  shame, 
When  Tory  colonists  espoused  the  King, 
When  even  Hope  shed  but  a  glimmering  ray 
O'er  the  horizon  of  the  patriot's  cause, 
The  Irish  exiles,  with  intrepid  will, 
March'd  to  the  front  to  conquer  or  to  fall. 
The  mem'ry  of  their  galling  servitude ; 
The  wrongs  of  years ;  the  suff 'rings  they  had 

borne; 
Their  plundered,  rviin'd  homes;  their  mar- 

tyr'd  sires; 
Torture,  treachery,  and  extermination 
Inflamed  their  souls  and  steeled  their  hearts 

to  vengeance. 
With  stern  resolve  they  rushed  upon  the  foe,. 
As  panting  lions  spring  upon  their  prey; 
Revenge !  revenge !  they  cried,  the  time  has 

come: 

Again  we  meet  upon  the  tented  field ! 
And  in  the  shock  those  Saxon  vassals  fell 
Like  quivering  pines  lashed  by  the  hur.  - 

cane. 

Again  the  green  is  seen  above  the  red, 
Again  it  triumphs  as  at  Fontenoy, 
But  triumphs  in  a  greater,  holier  cause, 
The  glorious  cause  of  Independence. 

On  ev'ry  field,  from  Lexington  to  Yorktown,. 
Wherever  courage  dared  assert  its  right, 
Or  death  claimed  hostage  from  the  battle's 

brunt, 

There,  in  the  van,  breasting  the  raging  storm, 
Their  patriotic  swords  to  Freedom  pledged, 
The  Irish  stood  determined  and  unawed; 
Their  resolutions  set  to  reach  the  goal, 
Where  Liberty  should  crown  their  heroism .- 
There  stood  "  St.  Patrick's  Friendly  Sons," 

prepared 


TOEMS  OF    LAWK'KNCK   O.   GOULDINO. 


To  vindicate  the  glory  of  their  nice; 
To  aid  in  the  erection  of  a  structure. 
Whose  bulwarks  should  defy  despotic  power. 
And  as  they  raised  Columbia's  flag  on  high — 
With  Erin's  banner  to  the  breeze  unfurled — 
Resolved  to  march  to  victory  or  death ; 
Resolved   that   Ireland's  wrongs  should  be 

avenged. 

I  low   well   those    sacred    pledges   were   re- 
deemed, 

Is  written  in  their  triumph  and  their  blood; 
For  in  the  contest,  long  and  fiercely  waged, 
When  soldier  stood  to  soldier,  foot  to  foot, 
And   trooper   pressed   on  trooper,  horse  to 

horse ; 

With  no  escape  from  death  except  in  flight, 
They  plunged  into  the  wild,  devouring  tide, 
Nor  left  until  the  Hessian  host  had  perished. 
Those  "  Friendly  Sons,"  so  dear  to  Washing- 
ton, 
Whose  emerald  badge  he  wore  upon  his 

breast, 

Whose  loyalty  and  courage  he  commended 
To  national  esteem  and  gratitude; 
(!ave  to  American  Independence, 
As  noble  hearts  as  valor  ever  fired ; 
As  daring  soldiers  as  the  world  can  boast; 
As  ardent  patriots  as  Freedom  knows. 
The  names  of  Moylan,  Sullivan,  Barry, 
And  Montgomery,  their  virtues  and  achieve- 
ments, 

Arc  graven  in  imperishable  characters 
In  the  redemption  of  the  Colonies; 
In  the  vast  grandeur  of  the  Union; 
And  in  the  glory  of  the  Republic. 
Their  monuments,  reared  to  human  liberty, 
On  the  ruins  of  a  vile  despotism, 
Shall  stand  to  adorn  ages  yet  unborn. 
When  the   British  Empire  shall  be  forgot- 
ten. 

Witli  unmeasured  loveforthat  dearold  land. 
We  hope  in  God,  ere  long,  may  he  redeemed: 
While  our  greetings  go  to  her  faithful  sons, 
Whoso  devotion  claims  our  admiration  ; 
We'll  pledge  that  Union,  long  since  ratified. 
I'.v  men  whose  valiant  arms  sealed  our  liberty; 
And  in  the  spirit  of  enduring  love, 
We'll  touch  our  cups  to  the  inspiring  toast: 
IRELAND  AM>  AMKKH  A! 
59 


THE   SLANDKIIKi;. 

I. 
LICENTIOUS  ribald!  vilest  thing  on  earth ! 

Conceiv'd  in  envy  and  in  malice  born, 
Rude  nature  in  convulsions  gave  thee  birth — 

A  writhing  wretch  in  anger  and  in  scorn. 
Like  the  volcano  vomiting  its  flame 

Of  livid  lava  in  a  burning  rage, 
So  the  midnight  storm  in  its  fury  came, 

And  cast  this  viper  on  the  public  stage 
To  play  perfidiously  the  villain's  role. 

Which  shocks  the  sense  and  horrifies  the 
soul. 

II. 

Of  all  the  scourges  that  afflict  mankind, 

The  lying  tongue  is  far  the  worst  of  all: 
Its  damned,  cursed  sting  remains  behind 

Long  after  years  have  told  its  victim's  fall ; 
Like  some  dire  plague  that  sweeps  across  the 
land, 

And  smites  to  death  with  sharp,  unerring 

blow — 
Although  we  know  not  the  destroying  hand, 

The  lonely  hamlet  tells  its  tale  of  \\ 
The  poison'd  arrow  pierces  but  to  kill. 

But  slander  kills  and  after  pierees  still. 

III. 

Why  could   not   this  good  world  be  niov'd 

along 
Without  that    hitter    pain  which   slander 

gives? 
So  that  a  man  would  rather  serve  than  wrong 

His  fellow-man  the  little  while  he  lives; 
Like  the  great  Master  of  the  human  ra 
Who  ciime   on    earth    to    save   and    teach 

mankind. 
His  gre«t  bequest   in    faith    and    hope   and 

grace. 

His  boundless  charity  He  left  behind: 

It  soothes  to  tenderness  the  human  breast, 

And  lights  our  pathway  to  eternal  rest 

IV. 
If  calumny  were  but  a  mortal  thing, 

To  live  but  for  a  time,  then  pass  away, 
Then  to  its  victim  hope  might  serve  to  bring 

The  prospect  of  a  brighter,  happier  day. 


!)30 


POEMS   OF   LAWRENCE   G.    GOULDING. 


But  no;  malignant  slander  never  dies — 

Its  vicious  breath  contaminates  the  air, 
And  swift  as  thought  its  damned  stigma  flies, 
And  leaves  behind  but  torture  and  despair. 
By  Hcav'n  accurs'd,  no  mortal  tongue  can 

tell 

Whence  slander  comes,  except  it  be  from 
hell. 

V. 

The  morbid  mind,  the  savage  appetite, 
Like   carrion-kites    devour   unwholesome 

fare; 

The  vampire  seeks  its  victim  in  the  night, 
When  nature  seeks  repose  from  common 

care. 
The  human  ghoul,  facetious  or  demure, 

With  lofty  air  or  gentle,  pious  mien, 
Who  feeds  on  scandal  like  an  epicure, 

And  slakes  his  thirst  with  rank  malicious 

spleen — 

The  most  perfidious  wretch  unwhipp'd  is  he, 
The  vilest  thing  that  shames  humanity. 

VI 

Tear'd  and  despis'd,  a  terror  to  mankind, 

The  slanderer  revels  in  his  neighbor's  woe ; 
With    heavy   hand   e'en   while   his   tongue 
malign'd, 

He  never  fail'd  to  strike  the  coward's  blow. 
Beyond  the  tomb  by  that  infernal  shore, 

Where  furies  riot  in  eternal  hate, 
The  slanderer  wakes  at  last  to  sleep  no  more, 

His  guilty  conscience  struggles  with  his 

fate, 
The  arch-fiend's  howl  is  heard  above  the  roar, 

"  The  slanderer  is  mine  for  evermore." 


0  ERIN!    I  ADORE   THEE. 

0  ERIX  !  I  adore  thee, 
Would  I  could  restore  thee, 
To  that  bright  goal  before  thee 

To  freedom's  holy  shrine ; 
Where  oft,  our  fathers  kneeling, 
While  convent  bells  were  pealing, 
The  foeman,  red  and  reeling, 

.Confess'd  your  right  divine. 


How  brilliant,  then,  the  story 
Of  Ireland's  golden  glory, 
When  bard,  revered  and  hoary, 

In  epic  verse  sublime, 
His  harp  the  glory  sharing — 
He  told  the  chieftain's  daring, 
His  noble,  fearless  bearing, 

In  ancient  Gaelic  rhyme. 

He  sung  the  dazzling  splendor, 
As  he  alone  could  render, 
In  language  rich  and  tender, 

Of  happy  Innisfail; 
The  lore  of  gifted  sages, 
Who,  down  from  distant  ages, 
Told,  in  immortal  pages, 

The  valor  of  the  Gael. 

Sweet  home  of  boyhood's  pleasure, 
To  me  the  exile's  treasure, 
I  love  thee  without  measure, 
'   Acushla  gal  machree! 
And  here,  profoundly  kneeling, 
To  Heaven's  throne  appealing, 
My  fondest  wish  revealing, 
That  I  might  see  you  free. 


ST.   PATRICK'S   DAY. 

[Dedicated  to  Rev.  J.  M.  Kiely,  rector  of  Transfiguration 
Church,  Brooklyn,  whose  learning,  piety,  and  patriotism 
eminently  characterize  the  Irish  priesthood.] 

TRUE  as  the  needle's  to  the  pole,  as  this  dull 

earth  goes  round, 
And  certain  as  the  lightning's  flash  evokes  a 

rumbling  sound; 
The  Irish  heart,  where'er  it  beats,  at  home 

or  far  away, 
Expands  with  joy  as  morning  breaks  to  hail 

St.  Patrick's  Day. 

Its  advent  truly  chronicles  the  glory  of  the 

Gael, 
Since  the  banner  of  the  cross  was  raised  in 

happy  Innisfail; 
Since  the  light  of  our  enduring  faith  illumed 

her  pagan  sky, 
When  Erin,  faithful  Erin,  knelt  to  worship 

God  on  high. 


mi-: MS  OF  T.   O'D.  O'CALLAGHAN. 


931 


Behold  her  in  the  Springtime  of  u  blooming, 

golden  age! 
The  hope  of  nations,  then  unknown,  writ  in 

her  virgin  page; 
HIT    mission    sketch'd    by   Providence — in 

Christian  robes  array'd, 
She  preach'd,  with  burning  eloquence,  the 

cross  of  her  crusade. 

And  then,  we  see  her  seated  on  a  throne  of 
blazing  light, 

Resplendent  in  her  mission  like  the  vernal 
moon  at  night; 

A  crown  of  learning  on  her  brow,  the  cruci- 
fix her  crest; 

Her  famous  schools  and  colleges  the  glory  of 
the  West. 

Her  holy  men  and  women  sought  new  fields 

in  ev'ry  land, 
Wherein  to  plant  the  tree  of  life  to  blossom 

and  expand; 
Spreading  hope  and  consolation  around  them 

on  their  way; 
Teaching  liberty  and  progress  where  they 

went  or  came  to  stay. 


What  precious  fruits  were  gathered  i:i  the 

vim-yards  they  hud  till'd! 
What    richly    laden    granaries    with    golden 

grain  were  lill'd ! 
While   flocks   raU-eufd    from   slavery  were 

nurtured  in  the  fold, 
By  those  faithful  shepherds  of  the  cross  by 

whom  they  were  consoled. 

What  a  glorious  mission,  Erin,  for  ages  has 
been  thine! 

And  still  goes  onward,  Erin,  with  no  sem- 
blance of  decline; 

Still  preaching  and  professing;  still  disj 
ing,  far  and  wide, 

That  charity  and  peace  and  love  for  which 
the  Saviour  died. 

And  iii  that  sacred  mission,  Holy  Island  of 
the  Sea! 

Thy  children,  scattered  o'er  the  earth,  pre- 
serve their  faith  in  thee; 

That  faith,  which  knows  no  waning,  seeks  a 
home  beyond  the  skies, 

Where,  when  human  thrones  have  crumbled, 
the  immortal  soul  shall  rise. 


POEMS  OF  T,  O'D,  O'CALLAGHAN. 


MOONLIGHT   MUSI"N<.x 
I. 

I   \  >r  sad  to-night  in  the  mellow  light 

Of  the  silvery,  pale-faced  moon, 
And  the  night-wind  moans  like  the 
tones 

Of  the  Banshee's  boding  croon  : 
I  sit  watching  the  glow  of  the  Hudson's  flow, 

As  it  dashes  against  the  shore. 
And  its  sprayi-y  splash  and  unceasing  dash 

But  sadden  me  more  and  more. 


II. 

Oh!  my  thoughts  hie  away  to  a  bygone  day, 

In  the  "Green  Isle"  o'er  the  main: 
'Mid  each  vale  and   glade  where  my  boyhood 
strayed 

I'm  wandering  once  again  — 
In  night's  solemn  noon  when  I  watched  \on 
moon 

Ascending  the  starry  dome. 
While  her  silver  beams  lit  the  si iceiiy  streams 
Where  the  sportive  fishes  roam. 


932 


POEMS   OF   T.   O'D.   O'CALLAGHAN. 


III. 

Where  I  hailed  the  flowers  in  the  Springtide's 
hours 

Fresh  starting  from  the  earth; 
And  the  mushrooms,  too,  in  the  Autumn 
dew, 

I  plucked  as  they  got  their  birth — 
Where,  in  the  shade  by  some  ruin  made, 

Through  the  golden  Summer  day, 
I  oft  mused  o'er  some  tale  of  yore, 

Of  genii,  ghost,  or  fay. 

IV. 

And  dreamed  the  hours,  while  the  Summer 
flowers 

Lent  perfume  to  the  gale, 
WThich  sighed  away  all  the  live-long  day, 

With  a  sad,  sad  keening  wail, 
Through  the  ruined  halls  and  the  rent  old 
walls 

Of  tower  and  abbey  gray, 
Which  bravely  stand  in  that  olden  land, 

Through  chance  and  change  alway. 

V. 

Through  the  regions  vast  of  the  storied  past 

My  spirit  wings  its  flight, 
And  the  days  long  fled  and  the  friends  long 
dead 

Loom  up  in  the  weird  moonlight; 
And  the  hot  tears  start,  and  my  home-sick 
heart, 

Sad,  lone  and  sorrow-torn, 
Throbs  as 't  would  burst,  as  the  hopes  I  nursed 

In  life's  fair,  cloudless  morn ; 

VI. 

Seem  buried  all  'neath  a  funeral  pall, 

Like  those  friends  of  my  early  years, 
Who  have  passed  away  to  eternal  day 

From  sorrow,  and  woe,  and  tears — 
Like    that   morning    light   whose   radiance 
bright 

Ting'd  life's  stream  with  a  golden  sheen, 
Ere  worldly  woe  dimmed  its  genial  glow, 

And  darkened  each  happy  scene. 


VII 

But  vain  are  tears  for  the  vanished  years, 

For  the  friends  who  have  passed  away 
To  that  glorious  clime  where  old  tyrant  Time 

Rules  not  with  a  despot's  sway — 
From  this  world   below,  with  its  crushing 
woe, 

Its  transient  hopes  and  vain, 
And  its  ills  that  crowd  like  cloud  on  cloud 

Ere  thunder  rolls  amain. 

VIII. 

Oh!  this  hour  is  meet  to  recall  those  sweet, 

Though  saddening  scenes  of  yore, 
For  no  sound  is  near  save  the  dashing  drear 

Of  the  water  'gainst  the  shore, 
And  the  night  wind's  rune  like  the  rueful 
tune 

Of  that  harp  *  whose  fairie  strain 
No  power  can  sway  save  the  winds  which 
play 

Through  Summer's  bright  domain. 


THE   RIVER   OF   TIME. 

0,  River  of  Time !  in  the  long  ago  thou  wert 

but  a  rippling  rill, 
And  the  dulcet  rhyme  of  thy  crystal   flow 

was  sweet  as  a  wind-harp's  trill ; 
That  song  of  joy,  like  a  lullaby,  on  the  air 

rose  soft  and  low, 
As  thy  ripples  sped  from  their  fountain-head 

and  flashed  in  the  morning's  glow; 
While  Earth's  fair  queen,  in  radiant  sheen, 

flower-crowned  by  angel  hands, 
The  beauteous  grace  of  her  mirror'd  face  oft 

scann'd  in  thy  golden  sands ; 
And   the  dreamy  moon,  in  night's  mystic 

noon,  when  her  full,  round  orb  shone 

bright, 
Gazed  down  with  pride  on  thy  silvery  tide, 

pale  shimmering  in  her  light, 
While  the  primal  stars  in  their  gilded  cars 

rolled  on  through  the  azure  height- 
Fair  glittering  gems,  bright   diadems,  high 

set  on  the  brow  of  night. 


*  The  jEolian  harp. 


Ms   OF  T.  O'D.  O*OALLAGHAN. 


O,  River  of  Time!  thy  stream  has  swelled 
thro'  the  centuried  lupse  of  years — 

Has  grown  and  swelled  since  of  old  it  welled 
from  its  fount  'mid  the  starry  spheres, 

Till  now,  broad  and  deep,  with  majestic 
sweep,  like  the  roll  of  an  inland  sea, 

That  stream,  erst  a  rill,  turns  God's  mighty 
mill  on  its  course  to  eternity ! 

Oh,  methinks  I  hear,  rising  high  and  clear 
on  the  ghostly  midnight  wind, 

The  surge  and  the  roar  of  thy  waves  ever- 
more, and  the  rush  of  the  flood  behind. 

And  the  shrieks  of  the  lost  on  thy  bosom 
tossed,  like  wrecks  on  the  ocean  waves, 

Drifting  out  to  sea,  0,  River,  with  thee,  far 
away  from  the  land  of  graves ! 

O,  River  of  Time!    from  the  days  of  yore 

flowing  on  to  the  billowy  sea, 
Bring  us  back  once  more  from  the  silent  shore 

the  friends  who  have  flown  with  thee, 
The  myriad  host  of  the  loved  and  lost — the 

hearts  that  were  fond — ah,  me! — 
The  beauty  and  bloom  in  the  grave's  dark 

womb — the  spirits  that  wander  free 
From  sin's  dark  slime  in  that  wondrous  clime 

— bright  land  of  the  ransomed  souls, 
Where  Death's  cold  shadow  never  falls,  nor 

death-bell  sadly  tolls. 
Ah !    in  vain  we  crave,  for  thy  ebbless  wave, 

when    it    passeth    the    grave's    dark 

bourne, 
With  its  freight  of  souls,  as  it  seaward  rolls, 

never  can  nor  will  return! 

O,  River  of  Time!  flowing  solemnly  on,  with 

the  wrecks  of  our  hopes  and  dreams 
On,  evermore  on   to   the  great   Unknown, 

•where  the  rapturing  vision  gleams, 
And  the  white  souls  float  in  space,  as  the 

mote  on  Summer's  irradiant  beams — 
Oh!  swollen  thy  flood  with  the  priceless  blood 

which  ever  and  aye  doth  well 
From  human  souls  slain  <>n  Life's  battle-plain 

by  the  ambushed  ho.- is  of  hell; 
Sin's   juggernaut  rolls  over  prostrate  souls 

thick  strewn  on  the  field  of  strife, 
While  thy  mystic  tide  with    their  blood   is 

dyed — red  blood  from  the  battleof  life! 


0,  River  of  Time!  in  the  dim,  dark  past, 
full  many  and  many  a  year, 

Thou'stleft  thy  fount  on  that  sacred  mount. 
long  lost  to  both  "  sage"  and  "  se« 

No  human  eye,  as  the  years  sped  by,  ha* 

beheld,   I    Ween, 

That  mystic  mount,  or  that  crystal  fount,  all 

bright  in  its  virgin  sheen. 
Since  the  first  twain  fell  'neath  the  tempter's 

spell,  amid  Eden's  flowery  bowers, 
When  earth  was  young,  ere  yet  upsprung  the 

thorns  among  the  flowers ; 
When   thy  limpid  stream  in   the   morning 

gleam  reflected  the  heavenly  tow. 
And  Paradise  rang  with  the  silvery  clang  of 

the  harps  of  seraphic  powers; 
For  Earth,  at  its  birth,  in  its  child-like  mirth. 

flower-gemmed  and  green  and  fair, 
Careering  through  space,  in  emulous 

with  the  stars  and  the  spirits  of  air. 
Was  nigher,  I  ween,  to  the  angelic  scene, 

than  this  Earth  of  ours  to-day. 
With  its  deep,  dark  crime,  0,  River  of  Time! 

— in  sorrow  and  sin  grown  gray! 


LAMENT   FOR  THE   IRISH    I  AIKIK-. 

WIIKKK  are  the  fairies  of  Ireland  gone 

Who  dwelt  here  in  days  of  yore  ': 
In  vain  we'd  search  for  them  no\«  :  mavronc 

They  have  vanished  for  evermore. 
Tho'  the   Ruths  where   they   danced    their 
roundel 

In  the  mystic  noon  of  ni«:ht. 
Are  still  the  name  as  in  those  old  days 

To  outward  sense  and  sight. 

But  changes  we  wot  not  of,  have  come 

Over  those  old  Ruths  BO  green  : 
Dark  clouds  shall  loom  'till  the  day  of  doom 

Where  fotive  troops  have  he- 
Of  merry  making  Klvrs,  who  sported  away, 

And  Implied  at  mortal  care — 
Who  danced  all  night,  ami  slept  all  day 

On  flower  beds  snugly  there. 


934 


POEMS   OF   T.  O'D.  O'CALLAGHAN. 


No  more  swells  the  Banshee's  boding  caoine 

Over  haunted  vale  and  plain; 
She,  too,  has  vanished  for  aye,  I  ween, 

And  never  will  mourn  again 
For  those  of  the  old  Milesian  race 

Who  were  pre-doomed  to  decay 
In  Death's  oblivious  and  cold  embrace 

Ere  a  moon  had  waned  away. 

Where  is  the  gay  little  Cluricaune  now 

With  his  hammer  and  stool  and  awl, 
And  his  quaint  French  hat  cocked  over  his 
brow, 

And  his  Spanish  boots  nice  and  small? 
No  more  will  he  chant  his  merry  old  song 

'Neath  the  mushroom's  friendly  shade, 
As  he  patient  sat  through  the  Autumn  day 
long 

For  evermore  plying  his  trade. 

Where  is  the  Phooka  with  sable  mane 

Wild  floating  in  the  wind, 
And  (never  yet  checked  by  mortal  rein), 

Whose  speed  left  thought  behind; 
Whose  eyes  like  fiery  balls  glowed  bright 

As  he  swept  over  hill  and  dale 
In  his  mad  career  through  the  live-long  night 

Till  the  stars  waxed  dim  and  pale  ? 

All,  all  are  gone,  aye,  forever  gone, 

They  have  vanished  this  many  a  year, 
And  their  ancient  halls  stand  drear  and  lone, 

Without  a  sound  of  cheer 
To  wake  the  echoes  which  long  have  lain 

In  dreary  and  silent  thrall, 
And  chase  that  heavy  gloom  again 

Which  looms  like  a  funeral  pall 

O'er  the  silent  realm  of  Faerie  land, 

Hill,  rath,  and  crag,  and  lake — 
No  more,  no  more,  will  the  fairy  band 

Night's  mournful  silence  break 
With  their  merry  songs,  or  their  roundelays 

In  the  moon's  pale,  silvery  light; 
Alas !  alas !  like  those  good  old  days, 

They  have  vanished  from  mortal  sight. 

Ah !  well  they  loved  the  olden  land, 

Through  chance  and  change  alway — 

Her  castles  tall,  her  mountains  grand, 
And  Abbeys  old  and  gray — 


Her  mystic  raths,  and  murmuring  rills, 
Her  crystal  wells  and  sheeny  lakes, 

From  Antrim's  coast  and  Wicklow's  hills 
To  Kerry's  grim  and  towering  peaks. 

Where  are  the  Fairies  of  Ireland  gone 

Who  dwelt  there  in  days  of  yore  ? 
In  vain  we'd  search  for  them  now;  mavrone 

They  have  vanished  for  evermore. 
They  have  faded  away  with  the  land's  decay 

Where  they  ever  loved  to  dwell, 
And  their  festive  halls  are  mute  to-day 

'Neath  lake  and  rath  and  well. 

Some  say  they  have  followed  the  exiled  Gael, 

(Tho'      others      that      romance     have 

spurned), 
And  some  assert — but  I  doubt  the  tale — 

That  they  have  to  Heaven  returned — 
That  home  which  they  forfeited  long  ago 

For  opposing  the  Godhead's  will; 
But  wheresoever  they've  gone  or  go, 

My  blessing  be  with  them  still. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 
GENERAL  JAMES   SHIELDS. 

DIED    JUNE   4,    1879,   AT   CAKKOLTON,   MO. 
I. 

A  MONTH  since  thine  ashes  were  laid,  Shields,. 

To  rest  in  thy  Western  grave,-1- 
A    month     in    death's    trappings    arrayed, 
Shields, 

Lying  stark  by  Missouri's  wild  wave, 
And  not  one  Irish  poet  or  bard,  Shields, — 

Though  rhymers  a  legion  there  be, — 
O'er  thy  heroic  clay,  battle-scarred,  Shields,. 

Has  chanted  a  requiem  for  thee ! 

II. 

Old  Ireland  is  mother  of  sons,  Shields, 
Eight  »famous  in  historic  lore, — 

Of  soldiers  who  stood  by  their  guns,  Shields,. 
On  battle-fields  crimson  with  gore: — 

The  O'Neills — Shaun,  the  valiant,  and  Owen, 
Shields, 


I 'UK  MS   OF   T.  O'D.  0'CAIJ-.\(,IIAX. 


Fought  bravely  for  freedom  of  yore; — 
'Honest    the   hills    of    thy   native    Tyrone, 

Shields, 
Their  memory  is  green  evermore. 

III. 

And  Sarsfield  was  clever  and  brave,  Shields, — 

Defender  of  Limerick's  wall; — 
At  Landon  he  found  a  red  grave,  Shields, 

And  Ireland  long  mourned  his  fall; 
Tom    Meagher    was     brilliant     and     bold, 
Shields  ;• — 

Gallant  soldier  of  Freedom  proved  he, 
Where   battle's    mad    billows    high   rolled, 
Shields, 

Like  the  waves  of  a  storm-lashed  sea ! 

IV. 

Phil  Kearney  was  found  in  the  front,  Shields, 

When  freedom  stood  struggling  for  life; 
In  many  a  fierce  battle's  brunt,  Shields, 

His  sword-flash  illumined  the  strife! 
Kilpatrick  rode  fearless  and  free,  Shields, 

On  many  a  dead-cumbered  plain; — 
When  Sheridan  gave  greeting  to  Lee,  Shields, 

Dark  treason  fled,  routed  amain ! 

V. 

Soldier-heroes  besides  those  we've  named, 
Shields, 

Have  sprung  from  the  old  Gaelic  sod, — 
Before  whom  pale  cowards  slunk,  shamed, 
Shields, 

In  the  presence  of  man  and  of  God; 
But  'mongst  all  her  soldiers  of  fame,  Shields, 

In  ancient  and  modern  day, 
Thy  country  shall  treasure  thy  name,  Shields, 

In  story  and  record  and  lay. 

VI. 

And  Freedom  will  never  forget,  Shields, 

Her  gallant  and  chivalrous  knight, 
Who  on  many  a  battle-fiel<l  met.  Shields, 

The  foes  who  dared  question  her  right; 
Those  wounds  on  thy  cold  clay  attest,  Shields, 

How  freely  thy  blood  had  been  sheil. 
\\Yath  the  star-spangled   flag  of  the  West, 
Shields, 

In  Heaven's  own  glory  outsnrea-l ! 


VII. 

On  Mexico's  tower-capped  hills,  Shields, 

Old  Echo  is  whispering  thy  name; 
By  Mexico's  rivers  and  rills.  Shields, 

The  peasants  remember  thy  fame; 
Though  years  nigh  two  score  have  flown  by, 
Shields, 

Over  Mexican  valleys  and  bowers, 
Since    you   planted   the    starry   flag    high, 
Shields, 

On  her  Capitol's  turrets  and  towers. 

VIII. 

CONTRERAS,  in  letters  of  gold,  Shields, 

Is  blazoned  on  history's  scroll ; 
CHERUBUSCO'S  proud  story'll    be  fold, 

Shields, 

While  men  deeds  of  valor  extol; 
CHEPULTEPEC'S     record     shall     stand, 

Shields, 
While  the  "  Star  Spangled  Banner  "  floats 

free; 
CERRO   GORDO  towers  solemn  and  grand, 

Shields, 
Monumental  forever  of  thee! 

IX. 

The  memory  of  Winchester's  day,  Shields, 

Is  linked  with  thy  name  evermore, — 
Where    Jackson's    grim    host    in    dismay. 
Shields, 

Fled,  vanquished,  thy  onset  before; 
Till   the    last   flickering   moment  of  time. 
Shields, 

Expires  in  the  red  flame  of  Doom, 
Tin-  light  of  that  storv  sublime.  Shields. 

Shall  shine  Jnid  thy  sepulchre's  gloom! 

V 

No  "Soldier  of  fortune"  wert  thou.  Shi- 
Save  fortune  (uncertain)  of  war: 

And  nought  of  war's  fortune.  I  trow.  Shields, 
thine,  save  the  red  l>:»ttle-saur! 

Ah!  meagre  and  mean  the  reward.  Shi. 
Dead  soldier  of  Freedom,  th. 

But  Honor  shall  evermore  -mini.  Shields, 
The  ashes  which  hallow  thy  grave, 


POEMS   OF  T.  O'D.  O'CALLAGHAN. 


XL 

On  this,  Freedom's  memoried  day,  Shields, 

While  her  cannon  triumphantly  boom, 
This  tribute  I  tearfully  lay,  Shields, 

With  reverent  heart,  on  thy  tomb. 
May  Heaven  grant  peace  to  thy  soul,  Shields, 

High  o'er  the  fierce  storms  of  War ! 
While.  Missouri  may  ocean  ward  roll,  Shields, 

Undimmed  be  the  light  of  thy  star. 

New  York,  July  4,  1879. 


AN  IRISH-AMERICAN  LAND  LEAGUE 

BALLAD. 

I. 

COERCE  away,  while  yet  you  may; 

Your  sway  is  nigh  its  ending. 
The  people's  will  you  may  trammel  still, 

But  the  Right  shall  stand  unbending. 
You  may  crowd  your  jails  with  "  rebel "  Gaels, 

And  flash  your  hireling  sabres 
In  Ireland's  face;  but  the  brave  old  race 

You'll  find  as  stubborn  neighbors. 

II. 

Your  pompous  force,— both  foot  and  horse, — 

Your  "  Peelers  "  and  your  cannon, 
March  back  and  forth,  from  south  to  north, 

By  Avonmore  and  Shannon. 
Be  this  your  day  to  make  display 

Of  steel  and  guns  and  banners ; 
But,  by  our  land !  with  steel  and  brand, 

We'll  teach  you  better  manners. 

III. 

By    Jove    and    Mars!     your    "Coldstream 
Guards," 

Your  footmen  and  your  "  Lancers  " 
Shall  soon  retire  before  the  fire 

Of  Freedom's  grand  advance,  sirs; 
For,  Saxons,  know,  where  Thames  doth  flow 

In  tortuous,  muddy  courses, 
We've  men  enough  of  Gaelic  stuff 

To  smite  your  hireling  forces! 


IV. 

On  Saxon  land  our  legions  stand 

United  and  reliant; 
And  there  you'll  feel  old  Ireland's  steel 

When  those  men  rise,  defiant, 
To  burn  and  sack,  'mid  ruin  and  wrack, 

Your  cities  and  your  castles ; 
Then,  then  shall  quake,  and,  palsied,  shake 

Your  lordlings  and  their  vassals. 

V. 

From  "  Treaty  Stone  "  to  old  Athlone, — 

By  Shannon's  storied  water, 
Hill,  vale  and  glen, — dwell  daring  men, 

Unf earing  death  or  slaughter; — 
Where  songful  Lee  flows  to  the  sea, 

In  waves  of  crystal  beauty, 
Are  brave  men  true,  to  dare  and  do 

In  danger's  hour  of  duty. 

VI. 

Tipp'rary's  vales  hold  gallant  Gaels, 

Who  dread  nor  gun  nor  sabre : 
When  comes  the  fight  for  Ireland's  right, 

They'll  bravely  "  die  to  save  her.'' 
Round  Ulster's  coast  a  mighty  host 

Of  patriot  men  stand  ready; — 
Give  Connaught's  sons  e'en  empty  guns, — 

They'll  march  to  battle  steady. 

VIII. 

On  Leinster's  plains  and  broad  domains, — 

Where  erst  ruled  brave  O'Beirne, — 
Are  Celts  galcre,— ^enough  or  more 

Old  Dublin  to  environ, 
And  plant  the  "  Green,"  in  victory's  sheen, 

On  rampart,  tower  and  Castle, 
Whence  now,  old  foe,  'mid  Ireland's  woe, 

Outrings  your  heartless  wassail. 

VIII. 
By  Hudson's  banks  our  Celtic  ranks 

Stand  vigilant  and  stern; — 
We've  brooked  too  long  our  country's  wrong, 

And  now  for  vengeance  yearn. 
Reserve  your  power  until  the  hour 

Of  Gaelic  vengeance  direful, 
When  on  your  shores  impetuous  pours 

The  tide  of  valor  ireful. 


l'oKM> 


T.  O'D.  ()'(  1AI.I.AGHA.Y 


IX. 
For  eeuturied  years  of  blood  and  tears, — 

Since  false  MacMurrough's  treason, — 
Our  native  land  you've  chained  and  banned 

With  "neither  rhyme  nor  reason;" 
You've  ruled  by  force,  and, — what  is  worse, — 

\\\  force  and  fraud  united  : 
But  mark  you,  Bull,  the  cup  is  full ; — 

Those  wrongs  shall  now  be  righted. 

X. 

That  land  is  ours,  and,  by  the  powers 

That  reign  above,  we'll  gain  it ! 
Your  braggart  sway  has  had  its  day. 

With  bayonets  to  maintain  it. 
That  day's  nigh  past;  the  die  is  cast : — 

Lo !  Freedom's  dawn  is  streaming 
On  Ireland's  hills  and  streams  and  rills! — 

This  is  not  idle  dreaming. 


FAITH,   HOPE   AND    LOYK. 

WHKX  our  lives  are  on  the  wane,  and  youth's 

sunlit  joys  are  fled, 
And  we  long  to  end  earth's  pain  and  lie  down 

among  our  dead; 
When  our  dearest  ones  have  flown,  and  life's 

tree  stands  bleak  and  bare, 
Its  sere  Autumn  leaves  far  strown — spectral 

symbol  of  despair — 

Then  comes  Faith,  with  guiding  hand,  point- 
ing, 'mid  the  gathering  gloom, 
1  >Vr  Death's  river  to  that  land — mystic  land 

beyond  the  tomb, 
Where  our  friends  expectant  wait,  they  whose 

souls  have  flown  before, 
'Round  the  Great  White  Throne,  elate,  for 

our  coining  evermore. 

When  life's  storms  come  rushing  down,  like 

rude  Winter  from  the  pole, 
And   misfortune's  dark   clouds    frown,   like 

grim  fate,  o'er  heart  and  soul: 
When  Faith's  pole-star  in  life's  skies  wanes 

to  weak  and  tlickeriu^  rav. 
And  our  deeds  of   hi^h   emprise  echoe- 

from  yesterday : 
When  our  dreams  of  pride  and  pnw'r  prove 

nought  else  than  Dead  Sea  fruit, 


And  the  sorrow  of  the  hour  'round  our  1. 

strings  twines  its  root — 
Then   Hop.-   sprin-reth    from    the  slough  of 

that  dark  hour's  deep  despair. 
And    with    pinion    strong,   I   trow,   upward 

cleaves  the  lurid  air. 
Till  God's  light,  heart,  soul  and   brow  fills 

once  more  with  radiance  rare. 

When  earth's  loves  all  scattered  lie.  dead  on 
Memory's  charnel  waste, 

And  the  love-light  in  the  eye  lacks  the  old 
fire — lewd  or  chaste; 

When   our   airy  castles   grand,  frescoed   by 
Love's  magic  art, 

I 'rove  but  fabrics  built  on  sand,  and  our  fairie 
dreams  depart ; 

When  the  heart-strings  thrill  no  more 'i. 
the  touch  of  fond  desire. 

And  fair  "  Love's  young  dream  *'  is  o'er. 
youth's  incandescent  fire 

Smolders   darkly  on    life's   hearth,  and 
ponder  sad  and  lone, 

On  the  vanished  joys  of  earth  that  our  dream- 
ful days  have  known — 

Then  the  soul,  like  carrier  dove,  fain  would 
spread  its  winirs  for  home. 

Where  God's  all-absorbing  Love  tills. like  in- 
cense, Heaven's  dome. 

God  of  mercy  and  of  love,  God  of  justice  ami 

of  truth. 
From  Thy   throne  supreme   above. 

from  sin's  bane  and  ruth! 
When  our  life's  green  Spring  is  past,  an 

Summer  waned  away. 
And  its  Autumn's  faded  fast,  and  its  Winter. 

Lrrim  and  irrey. 
-'hills  the  life-blood    in  the   heart  —  ; 

vision  of  the  soul. 
Pill  our  Ihes  s.-eiii  but  apart  of  sad  Nat, 

dreary  dole — 
Then.  O    Father!   when   old    Karth   seei 

corpse  within  its  shroud 
Vouchsafe    us  a    second    birth,   'neath     '. 

sorrows  bent  and  l>-.\> 
Grant  us  Love  and    Faith    and    Hope,   our 

poor,  trembling  souls  to  .-. 
Let  us  not  in  darkness  grope  through 

Winter  to  the  gi 


938 


POEMS   OF   T.   O'D.   O'CALLAGHAN. 


OUR  'PRISONED   IRISH   CHIEF. 

I. 

PARNELL  !  all  hail !  in  Saxon  jail 

To-day  immured— 
Bold  champion  of  our  trampled  race. 

Who've  long  endured 
Deep  wrong,  though  strong  each  man  among 

The  Clan-na-Gael 
Who  long  to  front  the  battle-brunt 

In  Innisfail. 
Thou'st  nobly  strove,  with  patriot  love, 

For  native  land ; 
In  Freedom's  cause  'gainst  alien  laws 

Your  fight  was  grand ; 
Since  gallant  Tone  fell  stricken,  prone, 

Since  Edward's  spirit  fled, 
Since  Emmet  died  by  Liffey's  side, 

Than  thou  none  truer  led 
The  Celtic  race,  with  chieftain  grace, 

Brave  heart  and  hero  head. 


II. 

When  clouds  hung  dark  o'er  Ireland  stark — 

A  corpse  almost ; 
When  cynics  said  the  cause  was  dead, 

And  Ireland  lost, 
Your  spirit  flamed,  your  banner  streamed 

Like  meteor  bright, 
And  lit  the  land  from  shore  to  strand — 

Bold  beacon  light. 
Brave  Chief!  to-day  within  those  gray 

Old  walls  of  stone ! 
Thy  grand  soul  shines,  like  diamond  mines 

To  light  us  on ; 
Nor  gyves  nor  chains  can  shackle  brains 

Or  brawn  like  thine; 
Thy  spirit  soars  o'er  Ireland's  shores 

From  brine  to  brine 

III. 

Dear  'prisoned  Chief!  the  Saxon  thief 
Our  rights  who  stole, 

With  guilty  fear  may  hold  thee  there 
In  dungeon's  dole; 

Kilmainham's  walls  and  felon  stalls 


May  shut  the  sun 
Out  from  thy  sight ;  but  Ireland's  fight 

Goes  bravely  on. 
0  patriot  heart !  how  true  thou  art 

Let  history  tell; 
This  much  we  know — old  Freedom's  foe 

Fears  thee,  Parnell ! 
None  braver  rose  to  beard  our  foes, 

Through  all  the  years, 
Than  thou,  0  Chief,  whose  battle  brief 

Blanched  England's  Peers, 

IV. 

Parnell,  'tis  well,  in  dungeon  cell, 

A  martyr  thou — 
Truth's  coronet  sublimely  set 

Upon  thy  brow! 
Nor  prison's  murk,  whose  shadows  lurk 

In  corners  dank, 
Can  dim  thy  light  which  shineth  bright 

By  Liffey's  bank. 
Chained  chieftain  now — like  eagle  thou 

Wilt  soar  anon 
On  pinion  strong,  when  Saxon  wrong 

Is  past  and  gone; 
"  Old  Ironsides  "  brave  soul  abides 

In  thy  heart's  core; 
With  those  of  old  in  fame  enrolled 

Thy  name  ranks  evermore. 

V. 

Nor  woman's  tears,  nor  craven  fears, 

Have  we  for  thee 

Who'st  fought  the  fight  'gainst  fraud  and 
might 

For  liberty ; 
No  banshee  croon  with  woeful  rune 

Is  meet  to-day; 
No  funeral  knell  with  solemn  swell 

Sounds  "  clay  to  clay." 
All  that  is  past,  and  now,  at  last, 

Let  triumph's  song 
Ring  out  amain  o'er  hill  and  plain, 

And  vales  among, 
For  thee,  bold  chief,  whose  sorrow  brief 

Is  but  prelude 
To  vict'ry's  strain — a  people's  paean, 

For  new-born  nationhood. 


POEMS  OF  T.   O'D.   O'CALL  AC  HAN. 


VI. 

On  with  the  cause!  nor  idly  pause 

While  still  remains 
One  cursed  link,  with  rusty  clink, 

Of  Ireland's  chains. 
Parnell,  to-day,  within  those  gray, 

Cold  prison  walls, 
Wields  mightier  rod  than  when  he  trod 

Proud  Britain's  hulls. 
My  countrymen !  be  guarded  then — 

Let  wisdom  guide 
At  Council  Board ;  and  gun  and  sword 

Be  yet  untried ; 
The  day  will  come,  at  tuck  of  drum 

And  trumpet  blast, 
When  freedom's  force,  both  foot  and  horse, 

Shall  smite  at  last 
That  hireling  host  whose  braggart  boast 

In  Ireland's  face  is  cast. 


THE   MARCH   OF  SCIENCE. 

OUT  upon  this  "  march  of  science,"  with  its 

wheels  of  Juggernaut, 
Crushing   out  the  soul's  reliance   on    kind 

Nature's  tender  thought — 
Severing  that  fond  alliance  which  in  solitude 

was  wrought! 

Hill  and  glen  and  dale  and  meadow  rest  no 

more  in  solitude, 
For  in  sunshine  and  in  shadow  iron  footsteps 

now  intrude; 
Nor  remains  an  El  Dorado  in  recesses  of  the 

wood. 

Birds  of  song  within  the  forest  silent  sit  t  In- 
whole  day  long, 

While  old  Echofindeth  no  rest,  hills  or  woods 
or  vales  among; 

But  the  Poet  is  the  sorest  and  the  saddest  of 
the  throng. 

As  the  dove,  of  old  tradition,  flying  outward 

from  the  Ark, 
Found  no  green  spot  on  its  mission  'mid  the 

watery  desert  dark, 
So  the  Muse, to-day, in  vision  findeth  Nature 

dead  and  stark. 


Bridges  span  brook,  creek  and  river,  cir 
solitude  in  twain;   ' 

Sylvan  sunbeams,  frightened,  quiver,  shadow- 
guarded  all  in  vain- 

E'en  the  hoary  mountain.*  shiver,  from  the 
summit  to  the  plain. 

Silence  peaceful  shelter  seeketh  vainly,  vain- 
ly thro'  the  night : 

Still,  as  backward  she  retreateth.  like  fair 
maiden  in  affright, 

Science  his  advance  repeateth  in  his  rude 
and  iron  might. 

Iron  horses,  snorting,  prancing  through  the 

valley  and  the  plain. 
Fright  the  timid  moonbeams  dancing  on  the 

greensward  of  the  lane— 
In  their  mad  career  advancing,  like  fierce 

demon-steeds,  amain. 

Hills  that  erst  were  Nature  throning,  now 
are  tunneled  through  and  through. 

And  their  ancient  trees  are  groaning — oak 
and  pine  and  ash  and  yew ; 

List!  the  grey  old  rocks  are  moaning,  while 
the  wind  is  wailing,  t 

Like  a  mighty  boa  constrictor,  iron  bands 
coil  round  the  earth — 

Or,  to  speak  in  language  stricter,  huge  octo- 
pus, monstrous  birth; 

Sceptred  Science  is  the  victor,  banning  van- 
quished Nature's  mirth. 

Mother  Earth!  cease,  cease  thy  weeping  for 

the  dead  and  Imried  {mat; 
Fateful    shadows  o'er  thee  creeping,  dark 

eclipse  upon  thee  e;; 
Time  is  madly  onward  sweeping,  for  this  age 

may  prove  his  last 

Out  upon  this  "march  of  science,"  steel-be- 

dight  and  iron-shod! 
Man  may  style  it  self- reliance.     Who  is  man  ? 

>V///.v  soul,  a  clod 
And  his  "  march  "  means  rank  defiance  of  the 

laws  of  nature's  God. 


POEMS  OF  WILLIAM  D,  KELLY, 


FANNY   PAENELL. 

WOE  and  alas, 

Unheralded,  how  often  cometh  death : 
Swifter  than  ever  summer  tempests  mass 
The  clouds  that  hide  the  lightning  under- 
neath; 
Faster   than   whirlwinds   gather,   and   then 

move 

In  rapid  race  across  the  startled  waves, 
It  comes  betimes,  and  hurries  those  we  love 
To  early  graves. 

"Well  may  we  weep : 

The  bravest  of  our  sisters  here  lies  dead, 

Where  the  sad  hearts  of  stricken  kindred 

keep 

Their  mournful  watch  above  her  narrow  bed; 
Grief  is  not  weakness  here,  and  we  who  stand 
Tearful  beside  this  lifeless  form  of  clay, 
Not  for  ourselves,  but  for  her  motherland, 
Sorrow  to-day. 

For  whose  dear  sake 

She,  whose  mute  lips  were  touched   with 

sacred  fire, 

Bade  her  sweet  harp  its  sweetest  chords  awake 
That  all  the  world  might  know  her  heart's 

desire; 

Soft  as  the  cooing  dove's  could  be  her  song 
When  she  would  sing  her  love  for  Innisfail, 
But  when  she  branded  tyranny  and  wrong, 
Fierce  as  the  gale. 

Ah!  bright  blue  eyes, 

In  whose  clear  depths  we  saw  the  soul  within, 
No  more  in  mute  but  eloquent  replies 
Shall  ye  flash  courage  to  your  kith  and  kin : 
Sweet,  silent  lips,  so  tenderly  and  oft 
Whence  flowed  the  numbers  of  immortal  lays, 
Never  again  shall  Erin  hear  the  soft 
Notes  of  your  praise. 

Had  she  survived 

To  see  the  glory  of  that  coming  day, 

When  her  dear  land  impoverished  and  gyved, 

Cast  all  its  woes  and  manacles  away, 


Death  had  not  seemed  as  cruel  then  as  now,. 
When   hence   it   calls  her  as   the   dawning 

bright 

Flushes  the  paleness  of  her  mother's  brow 
With  its  glad  light. 

Over  her  grave 

Green  grow  the  triple  leaves  forever  more : 
Of  her  young  life  and  love  she  freely  gave 
Their  best  endeavors  to  her  native  shore. 
Sing,  summer  winds,  your  sweetest  lullabies 
Above  the  grasses  on  her  tomb  that  grow, 
The  bravest  daughter  of  green  Erin  lies 
At  rest  below. 


AN    APRIL    FANCY. 

AROUND  the  borders  of  the  meadowlands, 
Broad  belts  of  green  upon  whose  bosoms 
show, 

Where,  smiling  at  the  contrast,  April  stands^ 
Glisten  white  circles  of  remaining  snow. 

The  robin  flitting  yonder  through  the  hedge, 
Where  the  warm  zephyrs  welcomes  to  him 

croon, 

Scans  these  white  fringes  on  its  outer  edge, 
And  marvels  if  he  northward  carne  too 
soon. 

The  lissome  rushes  and  the  slender  reeds, 
Awakened  by  the  singi7ig  of  the  brook, 

Look  with  amazement  on  the  ermined  meads, 
And  wonder  if  the  summons  they  mistook. 

The  little  flowers,  whose  slumber-laden  eyes 
Open  beneath  the  kisses  of  the  rain, 

View  the  pale  lingerers  with  quaint  surprise, 
And  half  incline  themselves  to  sleep  again. 

"  But  it  is  spring ! "  cries  April,  as  in  glee 
She  twines  a  snowdrop  in  her  flaxen  curls ; 

"  I  merely  called  these  strangers  in  to  see 
How   emeralds   would    look    offset   with 
pearls." 


POEMS  OF  JOSEPH  I.  C,  CLARKE. 


OUSTER'S   LAST  CHARGE. 

BATTLE   OF   THE   LITTLE   BIG   HORN',   JUXE 
25,  1876. 

ON  through  the  mist  of  the  morning, 

On  through  the  midday  glare ; 
A  hard,  rough  ride  by  the  Rosebud's  side, 

Cutting  swaths  through  the  sultry  air. 
With  tightened  girths  and  with  bridles  free 
Their  sabres  clattering  beside  the  knee; 
Pistol  and  carbine  ready  at  hand, 
And  one  brave  heart  through  the  wide  com- 
mand, [red 
Rode  the  sun-browned  troopers  till  eve  grew 
Rode  Custer  right  at  the  column's  head. 

"  Small  rest  to-night ;  by  to-morrow's  sun 

We'll  strike  the  red  man's  trail, 
But  an  hour  to  breathe  till  the  fight  is  won, 
Till  the  climax  caps  the  tale."          [more, 
And  the  troopers  spring  to  the  saddle  once 
For  Custer  has  heard  that  the  Sioux  are  near, 
And  he  longs  for  Glory  as  never  before, 
And  he  knows  not  the  name  of  doubt  or 
fear. 

"  On  by  the  stars,  scan  well  the  trail, 

And  miss  not  an  Indian  sign." 
Now  the  dawn  is  gray  and  the  stars  are  pale, 

And  hope  is  high  on  the  lengthened  line — 
The  hope,  half  joy,  of  the  soldier's  trust, 

That  waits  not  trump  or  drum. 
"  Scatter  out,  my  lads,  so  the  heavy  dust 

Shall  not  tell  the  Sioux  we  come." 

But  up  on  the  hills,  a  moveless  shape — 

An  Indian  plumed  for  war — 
Sees  the   mad  advance,   sees  the  carbines 
glance 

'Mid  the  galloping  lines  afar. 
"  Custer,  the  Chief  of  the  Yellow  Hair," 

He  mutters  with  bated  breath, 
"Boldly  you  ride  to  the  red  man's  lair: 

Welcome,  white  chief,  to  Death.'' 


And  Custer,  still  at  the  column's  head, 

Spurs  on  that  none  may  share 
The  first  glance  down  the  river's  bed — 

The  game  he's  hunted  there. 

Brave  child  of  the  battle,  with  hope  elate, 
See  you  not  with  your  frank  blue  eyes 

They  are  five  to  one  and  they  lurk  and  wait, 
On  every  brow  the  stamp  of  Hate 

That  never  wears  out  or  dies. 
But  the  soldier  turns  in  his  saddle  and 
cries : 

"  Hurrah  for  Custer's  luck,  the  Sioux 

Have  met  me  face  to  face, 
The  game,  lads,  is  for  me,  for  you, 

Who  would  a  step  retrace  ? 
Not  one,  for  never  twice  to  man 
Such  battle-chance  was  given 
To  snatch  red  honor  in  the  van 
Since  yon  steep  crags  were  earthquake 

riven. 

Reno,  dash  over  the  river  there. 
God,  how  the  prancing  devils  swarm ! 
The  squaws  shall  wail 
Thro'  the  mile-wide  vale 
When  sweep  we  down  it  like  a  storm. 
Mine  be  the  charge  on  their  midmost  band." 
And  his  broad-brimmed  hat  in  the  air  he 

tossed. 

Now,  lads,  ride  on  like  a  prairie  flame, 
You  follow  a  man  who  has  never  1- 

I'hree  hundred  horsemen  spring  at  his  heels, 
And  every  trooper  his  ardor  ft  •• 
\ml  the  clatter  and  rush  of  their  horses'  feet 
The  terrible  rhythm  <.f  War  repeat, 
As  they  sweep  by  the  bluffs  while,  cocked  at 

hand, 
Their  earhines  glint  long  tho  brave  com- 

inantl, 

luster  in  front,  down  ;  incline. 

nto  the  Indians'  ambushed  line. 


POEMS   OF  JOSEPH   I.  C.   CLARKE. 


On  through  the  smoke  of  the  battle  - 

Dimming  the  blinding  glare, 
A  headlong  ride  to  the  riverside, 
Cutting  swaths  through  the  redmen  there. 
Cutting  swaths,  but  the  troopers  are  falling; 

Falling  fast,  while  the  swarming  foe 

From  the  earth  and  the  hills  seem  to  grow, 
And  the  roar  of  their  rifles,  appalling, 

Rolls  out  in  a  long  thunder  rattle. 
See !  Custer  has  swerved  from  the  river, 

"Fire!  fight  to  the  hill !  we'll  have  Reno 

soon  here ! "  [quiver, 

His  voice  like  a  clear  trumpet  sound,  without 

Is  heard  by  the  remnant  unfallen.  A  cheer 
Is  their  answer;  but  leaving  their  cover 

Fresh  swarms  of  the  Sioux  ride  down  on 
the  band. 

In  the  grim  wild  fight  from  the  river 
Three  hundred  had  shrunk  to  a  score, 

Their  track  was  of  heroes'  gore 
And  corses  of  heroes  who  went  to  rest 

Fighting  one  against  ten,  but  breast  to  breast, 
With  savage  foes  in  their  death-embrace, 

The  brave  and  the  braves  dying  face  to  face. 

Unhorsed,  in  a  narrow  circle 

That  blazed  at  its  outer  rim, 
Whence  their  fast-fired  bullets  hurtle, 

Stood  Custer  and  ten  with  him. 
"  If  Reno  comes  he  will  find  us  here, 

If  he  comes  not  we'll  meet  him  there" 
And  he  looked  up  to  Heaven  unblanched  by 
fear, 

With  the  sun  on  his  yellow  hair. 
"  Here,  while  a  man  is  left,"  he  cried, 

"  Let  a  gun  be  heard  till  dust  is  dust. 
Death  is  in  front,  but  the  end  of  Fame 

Comes  not  to  the  brave  who  keep  their 
trust." 

A  rampart  of  dead  men  around  him, 
Doomed  Custer  stands  all  but  alone. 

He  but  speaks  through  the  mouth  of  his  rifle, 
And  there's  death  in  its  every  tone. 

On  through  the  smoke  of  the  battle, 
With  maddening  cries  on  the  air, 

The  wild  Sioux  rush  from  the  riverside 
Like  wolves  on  a  man  in  their  lair. 


Like  wolves,  and  trusting  to  numbers 
They  sweep  on  the  desperate  few, 
Who  each  bid  a  stern  adieu 
To  the  tried,  to  the  trusted  and  true, 

Then  die  where  they  stand,  as  the  oncoming 
yell 

Of  the  savages  lifts  up  its  chorus  from  hell. 

Ere  the  horse  hoofs  trampled  the  ramparts 

dread — 

The  last  of  the  whole  command  lay  dead, 
A  sight  for  the  world,  in  pride,  to  scan, 
While  Valor  and  Duty  lead  the  van. 
They  charged,  they  struggled,  THEY  DIED 

TO  A  MAN. 

And  Fame  will  never  forget  that  ride, 
That  wild,  mad  dash  to  the  riverside, 
Where  Custer  died. 


AT   LIBERTY'S   FEET. 
I. 

GODDESS,  slow-born  of  the   ages — Liberty, 

light-giving  soul ! 
Raised,  looking  seaward,  gigantic  in  sheen 

of  bronze, 
What  dost  thou  see  in  the  wastes  afar, 

Beyond  where  the  waters  throb. 
Out  where  the  future's  nurselings  are 

And  the  woes  of  the  future  sob  ? 
What  glory  the  coming  day  dons, 
What  gleams  and  what  glooms  hither  roll  ? 

II. 

Here  we  have  set  thee  in  majesty  fronting 

the  rising  sun, 
Rock-bastioned,    steel-strengthened     and 

splendid  with  crown  of  fire, 
To  last  while  man   treads  the  circling 

world, 

To  hold  us  to  hate  of  the  wrong, 
To  live  'neath  Love's  banner  unfurled, 

To  be  good  and  for  Justice  strong, 
To  ascend,  to  uplift,  to  aspire, 
To  stand  fast  by  each  right  well -won. 


POEMS   OF  JOSKI'H    I.    ('.    CLAUKE. 


III. 

Dost  thou  see  the  fulfilment  of  this,  grand 

Queen  of  all  men  free ! 
The  old  law  moving  to  better,  the  new 

law  on  to  the  best, 
Ever  on  Toil  a  more  sunny  brow, 
Ever  in  thought  a  purer  flight, 
With  songs  of  sweetness  undreamed  of 

now, 

Silver  laughter  and  golden  light, 
A  bond  of  Trust  from  east  to  west, 
A  band  of  Peace  from  sea  to  sea  ? 

IV. 

But  ah,  when   thy   mantle   of  bronze   has 

crusted  with  rust  of  green, 
And  the  fresh-cut  stones  at  thy  feet  are 

worn  by  cycles  of  storm, 
And  all  who  gazed  at  thy  new-lit  flame 

Are  gone  on  the  wind  of  Time, 
Shalt  thou  stand  for  an  empty  name  ? 
Shall  our  hopes  and  dreams  sublime 
Be  as  rust  and  dust  of  thy  form, 
Be  as  dust  of  thy  rust  of  green  ? 

V. 

Oh  never  be  thou  in  one  glory  dimmed  or 

thy  stars  be  less, 
Great  image  of  all  men's  strivings  to  reach 

man's  topmost  goal ! 
Thy  flame  we'll  watch  for  the  years  un- 
born, 

Though  the  olden  wrongs  die  hard ; 
Thine  altar  with  flow'ring  deeds  adorn ; 
Thy  throne  with  our  lives  we'll  guard, 
That  thou  may'st  enter  the  broad  world's 

soul, 
Forever  to  light  and  to  bless. 


A  DECADE   OF  LOVE. 

Ax  angel  came  down  with  a  golden  lyre 

And  the  strings  of  the  lyre  were  ten, 
And  the  sounds  of,  its  notes,  phi  veil  one  by 

Trembled  and  intertwined;  [one, 

And  he  passed  away  ere  the  playing  was  done, 

But  the  harmony  dwelt  on  the  wind 
Like  the  mingling  of  all  the  celestial  choir — 

And  the  echoes  it  waked  were  ten. 


A  spirit  came  bearing  a  chalice  of  t- 

And  the  sighs  that  he  breathed  were  ten. 
And  the  tears  from  the  chalice  dropped  one 

by  one 

On  my  bride's  fair  face  and  mine; 
But  above  us  was  glowing  Love's  glorious 

sun, 

Whose  rays  are  a  joy  divine 
That    shines    serene    through  the  passing 

years — 
And  the  drops  that  it  dried  were  ten. 

A  nymph  came  laughing  o'er  fields  of  June. 

And  the  roses  she  bore  were  t 
And  they  dropped  from  her  fingers,  one  by 

one, 

Kissing  our  brows  as  they  fell, 
While  her  laughter  rang  clear  as  the  str. 

lets  run, 

Or  the  tones  of  our  marriage  bell, 
Till  our  hearts  beat  time  to  the  blightsome 

tune — 
And  the  perfumes  she  breathed  were  ten. 

Oh  decade  of  love  to  my  marvelling  soul ! 

Can  the  years  be  truly  ten 
That  have  flown  like  a  rhapsody,  one  by  one. 

O'er  me  and  my  darling  bride  ? 
Was  it  yesterday  morn  that  her  heart  was 
won  y 

Oh,  years  that  in  moments  glide! 
Still  rapt  into  ecstasy  may  ye  roll 

Though  time  counts  slowly  ten. 

June  18, 1888. 


SPECULUM   VIT^E. 

LKT  us  look  in  the  glass  for  a  moment. 

Let  us  brush  off  the  mist  from  its  face — 
The  mirror  of  life  that  is  broken 
When  Death  in  our  ears  knells  the  token 

To  crumble  in  space. 

Wo  must  fall  whether  praying  or  pii 

Whether  fearing  or  mocking  the  Mow. 

Ilrush  the  mist  from  the  mirror,  then,  trem- 
bling; 

The  grave  is  no  place  for  dissembling — 
There  vaunting  lies  low. 


944 


POEMS   OF  JOSEPH  I.   C.   CLARKE. 


The  eyes,  as  they  glaze  to  earth's  glory, 

Peer  into  that  mirror  of  pain 
Where  the  slain  of  our  years  lie  all  gory 
Bent  over  by  grim  shadows  hoary 

Eecording  each  stain. 

Not  a  blot  nor  a  blemish  escapes  them, 
The  sins  of  the  lone  and  the  crowd, 

The  crime  where  we  pandered  or  paltered. 

The  dark  things  that  lips  never  faltered 
There  cry  out  aloud. 

They  are  there,  and  no  tempest  can  hide 
them; 

They  glow  with  accusing  and  shame. 
Tho'  the  years  be  all  dead,  they  are  living. 
'Mid  the  silence  they  cry  for  forgiving 

With  direful  acclaim. 

On  the  wreck-plank  of  life  is  there  pardon 

When  joy  is  worn  hollow  in  sin  ? 
When  the  heart  sees  no  light  in  the  sparkle, 
Nor  gloom  where  the  drowsy  waves  darkle 
O'er  f  oeman  and  kin  ? 

Then  brush  the  world's  mist  from  the  mirror 

While  life  in  our  bosom  is  sweet, 
And  turn,  with  a  love  of  the  purest, 
O'er  pathways  the  fairest  and  surest 
The  trace  of  our  feet. 


GERALDINE. 

THE  rose  is  sweetly  blushing 

And  virgin  lilies  bloom, 
While  Summer-winds  are  bearing 

Their  heaven-sent  perfume, 
And  blithe. young  birds  are  singing 

Upon  the  beechen  tree 
Beneath  whjose  shade  I'm  thinking, 

Dear  Geraldine,  of  thee. 

The  vesper  bell  is  tolling 

Its  solemn,  measured  chime, 
And  nature  all  seems  telling 

Of  the  golden  Summer  time. 
But  the  sun  shines  not  forever 

And  Summer  perfumes  flee, 
And  so  these  musings  whisper, 

Dear  Geraldine,  of  thee. 


For  when  in  Old  Dunleary, 

On  many  a  Summer's  eve, 
We  wandered  through  the  meadows 

The  future's  spell  to  weave, 
My  joy,  my  rose,  my  sunlight, 

Lily  and  birdie  free 
Were  love  bound  and  I  dreamed  for  aye, 

Dear  Geraldine,  in  thee. 

All's  gone  save  mem'ry's  lonely  smile, 

From  Erin  far  away ; 
Thy  glowing  soul  to  Heaven  flown, 

Thy  frame  in  churchyard  clay. 
While  the  inward  hope  celestial 

Is  all  remains  to  me, 
And  a  dream  across  the  twilight,. 

Dear  Geraldine,  of  thee. 

1865. 


ON   THE   SOUND. 

AT  eve  from  the  Pilgrim's  lofty  deck 

As  we  cleave  through  the  waveless  Sound 

I  gaze  on  a  hamlet's  spire — a  speck 
Far  over  the  land's  dim  bound. 

I  fancy  I  hear  its  silvery  bell- 
As  from  out  of  the  sunset's  soul — 

Sound  over  the  opaline  sea  to  tell 
Of  a  calm  life's  joy-lit  goal. 

A  yacht  with  its  canvas  and  masts  aglow 
In  crimson  and  gold  of  the  west       [know. 

Points  fair  for  the  shore  where  the  bell,  I 
Is  singing  its  song  of  rest. 

0  fair  bark  reaching  for  home  and  cheer, 
With  ripples  aflame  at  thy  prow, 

1  would  that  my  haven  of  life  were  near 
And  lovely  as  thine  is  now ! 

But,  lo !  a  fisher  with  shadowed  sails 
Steers  into  the  north  and  the  night 

Where  a  dark  cloud  over  the  water  trails 
From  the  sky's  still  starless  height. 

0  brave  bark  driving  on  duty's  track 
Where  it  takes  thee,  shine  or  shade, 

With  thee  goes  my  heart  'neath  the  night 

and  rack 
And  the  storm  for  our  work-world  made ! 


POEMS  OF  MICHAEL  J,  W  \  LSH, 


IN  MEMORIAL. 

SADLY  repining  and  musing  alone 

Over  hopes  that  are   blighted  forever  and 

flown ; 

As  the  past  that  was  blissful  I  sadly  review, 
I  am  thinking,  and  fondly,  my  lost  love  of 

you. 

I  have  tokens,  my  darling,  and  long  may 

they  last, 
To  remind   me  of   thee   and  the  beautiful 

past — 
The  past  which  to  me  in  my  sorrow  doth 

seem 
Like  a   spell   of   enchantment,  a   vision,  a 

dream. 

There  is  sorrow  and  grief  at  my  heart  every 

day, 
And  each  night,  as  the  little  ones  cross  them 

and  pray. 

That  heart  in  its  anguish  is  rent  to  the  core 
As   they   mention  the  name   of  my   Katie 

atthore. 

No  more  shall  I  drink  the  rich  measure  of 

love 
That  was  balm  to  my  soul,  like  a  smile  from 

above, 
For  its  source  has  run  dry,  and  my  darling 

doth  sleep 
In  a  cold,  narrow  cell  where  the  tall  willows 

weep. 

My  own  love!  my  lost  love!  I  seek  no  re- 
spite 

From  the  grief  that  is  mine;  I  shall  ; 
invite 

A  means  to  forget  thee;  henceforth,  love,  for 
me 

There  is  nothing  but  sorrow  and  thinking  of 
thee. 


Full  soon  shall  the  summer  lend  beauty  again, 

Through  its  sunshine,  to  woodland,  and 
meadow,  and  plain ; 

But  the  summer  to  me  can  no  pleasure  im- 
part, 

For  the  winter  of  sorrow  has  blighted  my 
heart. 

I  will  go  to  your  grave  when  the  roses  are 

blown, 
They'll  remind  me  of  thee  that  was  fondly 

my  own; 
There  my  heart  will  find  ease  in  the  tears 

that  I  shed 
As  I  kneel  'mong  the  sad,  silent  homes  of 

the  dead ! 


AN  IRISH  SON'-. 

AIR:  /  d  Mourn  the  Hopet." 

HAS  fate,  alas!  consigned  thee 

To  endless  wrongs,  asthore -ma -chree? 
Shall  the  future  come  to  find  thee 

A  captive  still  beside  the  sea  ? 
Or  will  thy  sons,  united, 

At  last  throw  down  the  gage  of  war. 
And,  till  all  thy  wrongs  are  righted, 

Give  blow  for  blow,  and  scar  for  scar  f" 

Though  dastards  base  defame  thee, 

To  us  thou'rt  always  Innisfail. 
And.  henceforth,  to  reclaim  thee, 

The  sundered  children  of  the  Gael, 
With  torch  and  brand  united, 

Will  truck  the  footsteps  of  th. 
And.  till  all  thy  wrongs  are  ri^ht.-d. 

(Jive  scar  for  scar  and  Mow  for  Mow. 

N,,r  do  they  strninrle  vainly. 
Who  keep  the  beacon  lights  ablaze; 

better  thus  than  tamely 
Yield  up,  before  the  world's  gaze, 


946 


POEMS   OF   MICHAEL  J.   WALSH. 


The  sworn  ties  that  bind  us, 

Sent  down  from  "  bleeding  sire  to  son/ 
And  that -ever  true  will  find  us, 

Till,  gra-ma-chree,  thy  rights  are  won. 


O'CONNELL'S  BIETHDAY  ANNIVER- 

SAEY    CELEBRATION. 

I. 

1  FAIN  would  weave,  in  deathless  song, 

A  chaplet  worthy  of  the  fame 
Of  him  who  Kerry's  hills  among 

Shed  lustre  on  our  country's  name. 
Of  him,  who  in  the  penal  times, 

E'er  those  who  hear  me  yet  were  born, 
Denounced  the  demons  by  whose  crimes, 

Our  mother  land  was  rent  and  torn. 

II. 

As  Cam  Terul  salutes  the  sky, 

A  giant  'mong  his  lesser  neighbors, 
;So  he,  o'er  men,  rose  ever  high, 

Till  heaven  smiled  upon  his  labors. 
And  royal  apes  and  vassal  lords 

Blanched  pale  before  his  higher  station ; 
With  Irish  pike  he  dared  their  swords, — 

Why  did  they  yield  emancipation  ? 

III. 

"  That  drop  of  blood  "  was  all  a  lie, 

No  Kerry  man  was  ever  born 
Who  would  not  choose  to  fight  and  die, 

Than  live  a  slave,  a  thing  of  scorn, 
Nor  say  that  Ireland's  great  tribune, 

To  end  all  foreign  domination, 
Would  shrink  from  blood  or  wild  commune, 

To  make  his  bleeding  land  a  nation. 

IV. 

'Tis  Kerry's  boast,  no  brighter  name 

Illumes  the  page  of  Ireland's  story; 
The  world  pays  homage  to  his  fame, 

And  crowns  him  with  a  wreath  of  glory. 
Down  through  the  years  no  other  land 

Was  ever  blest  witn  fairer  token, 
Of  purpose  high  sublime  and  grand, 

Than  ours,  when  Erin's  pride  had  spoken 


V. 

His  spirit  lives  at  Ballyheigue, 

Where,  like  his  voice,  and  never  ceasing, 
The  breakers  roar,  and  where  the  League 

By  rebel  force,  goes  on  increasing. 
From  Traleetown  to  Dingle  Bay, 

Thence  to  Listowel,  up  near  the  Shannon, 
The  moonlight  men  still  lead  the  way 

Beyond  the  reach  of  English  cannon. 

VI. 

oercion  greets  them  with  a  frown, 

They  show  no  panic  or  alarm, 
The  people's  voice  'twill  never  drown, 

'Twill  only  nerve  the  rebel's  arm. 
But  come  what  may,  we're  rebels  still, 

Like  Emmet,  Tone  and  Hugh  O'Donnell ; 
Then,  brothers  mine,  your  glasses  fill 

To  the  memory  of  our  own  O'Connell. 


MUSINGS    REMINISCENT. 

DARK  visaged  Fate  looks  through  the  clouds, 
to-day  as  in  the  past, 

Nor  forty  years  have  cleared  away  the  shad- 
ows 'round  me  cast; 

When  Fortune's  then  uncertain  hand,  at  boy- 
hood's early  morn, 

Saw  me  descend  old  Shannon's  tide  an  exile 
seaward  borne. 

Ah!  well  do  I  remember  now  the  sad,  sad 
parting  scene 

When  my  young  heart  was  riven  sore  con- 
tending ties  between ; 

I  wept  the  friends  I  left  behind,  whilst  those 
I  longed  to  meet 

Spoke  to  my  heart,  across  the  main,  in  ac- 
cents fond  and  sweet, 

At  length  came  days  of  transient  bliss,  re- 
union's welcome  boon, 

Brought  sunshine  to  the  exile's  home,  alas,  to 
vanish  soon ; 

The  cherished  friends  that  blessed  my  life 
with  ardent  love  and  strong, 

Are  sleeping  now  in  alien  graves,  their  ex- 
iled race  among. 


POEMS   OF   GERALD    (  AIM.KTON. 


Mnvrone!  the  pleasant  days  are  gone,  when 

life  was  young  and  gay ; 
The  hurling  matches  on  the  green  have  long 

since  passed  away; 
Alas !  the  sturdy  villagers,  so  full  of  heart 

and  soul, 
With  their  "  Comauns,"  no  more  I'll  see  doing 

battle  at  the  goal. 

And  though  I've  passed  through  busy  scenes 
down  through  the  fleeting  years, 

Though  joy  and  sorrow  gave  their  meed  of 
pleasure  and  of  tears, 


It  seems  as   though   'twere  yesterday,  that. 

sore  at  heart,  I  cast 
On  scenes   forever  dear   to   me   my  parting 

gaze,  the  last. 

I  watched  the  dear  old   hills  recede,  and 

though  the  sun  shone  bright, 
My  eyes  grew  dim,  nor  ask  me  why,  to  me 

the  day  seemed  night; 
The  ocean's  rim  reached  to  the  sky;  behind 

its  wall  of  blue 
I  left  my  heart ;  'tis  there  to-day,  my  native 

land  with  you. 


POEMS  OF  GERALD  CARLETOR 


ASPIRATION. 

UPWARD  as  the  mountain  eagle, 
When  the  storm-cloud  hovers  nigh, 
Scorns  to  fold  its  quiv'ring  pinions 
Where  the  darkling  shadows  lie; 
But  above  the  rolling  thunder, 
Wheeling  in  his  tireless  flight, 
While  the  earth  he  spurns  beneath  him- 
Basks  in  Heaven's  unclouded  light. 

Upward  as  the  little  oak  tree, 
Bursting  from  its  prison  clod, 
While  to  earth  its  roots  are  clinging, 
Hears  its  head  above  the  sod; 
As  the  sky-lark  heavenward  springing, 
With  the  morning's  earliest  ray, 
Woos  the  golden  sunlight  streaming 
Through  the  portals  of  the  day. 

Thus  with  true  and  noble  purpose, 
Let  us  seek  a  higher  life — 
Ever  upward,  ever  onward, 
Never  weary  of  the  strife; 
'Till  the  Glorious  Sim  of  Science, 
I  Bursting  through  far  realms  of  light, 
Sheds  a  flood  of  undim'd  radiance 
Through  the  shadows  of  the  night. 


THOMAS  MOORE.1 

ILLUSTRIOUS  poet!  thou  whose  tuneful  lay. 
Wakes  in  the  heart  the  beams  of  freedom's 

ray, 
Whose  love-fraught  pen  replete  with  tender 

est  light 
Cheers  from  its  transient  gloom  fair  Ireland's 

night, 

We  hail  thee!  joyous  bard  of  Erin's  story. 
And  twine  our  hearts  in  wreaths  to  deek  thy 

glory. 

We  linger  o'er  thy  lays  of  byirone  d. 

And  shower  on  thee  the  well-earned  meed  of 

praise ; 
Hail   bard  of   Erin!    the    Muses   loved  thy 

song, 
The  patriot  heart  dost  still  thy  notes  ]>n> 

long. 

The  "  loves  of  angels  "  now  thy  chorus  I 
And  heavenly  houris  chant  thee  on  the  wing. 

Tom  Moore!  I  bless  thee  not  when  from  thy 

heart 
This  bygone  legend  found  a  new  born-] 


!)•«•  unvHIIngof  Moore's  Monument  •»  Conceit 
Oroyc.N.Y.,M«y«P' 


948 


POEMS   OF   MINNIE   GILMORE. 


I  bless  thee  not  when  by  yon  lake's  dark 

gloom, 
The    beauteous   Kathleen   found  a  watery 

tomb. 
St.    Kevin    ne'er    had    felt   her  blue   eyes 

love, 
Or  she  had  rested  ere  she  soared  above. 

Again  we  tread  with  thee  the  magic  strand 
Thy   princess    peerless   trod    in    Cashmere 

land; 

"We  catch  the  tear  the  mournful  Peri  wept 
As  downward  from  her  heavenly  home  she 

swept; 
With  Khorassan's  veiled  prophet  we  have 

wailed 
As  at  his  charnel  vows  his  lost  bride  paled. 


In  childhood's  years  I've  roamed  with  Lalla 
Rookh,  [brook ; 

Her  beauteous  soul  has  touched  each  fairy 
The  Parsee's  love  of  her  transcendent  tale 
Has  from  my  o'erwrought  soul  brought  forth 

a  wail, 

I  see  the  "  Harem's  Light,"  the  Sultan's  pride 
Rest   for  one   golden  hour,  the   monarch's 
bride. 

Brilliant  and  tender,  gay  and  passing  sweet — 
Unworthy  we — thy  glorious  memory  greet, 
Bard  of  the  Emerald  Isle,  thy  peerless  name 
Has    stamped    thy  memory   with   undying 
fame,  •  [fade, 

While  Ireland  lives  Tom  Moore  can  never 
No  greater  name  can  e'er  his  laurels  shade. 


POEMS  OF  MINNIE  GILMORE. 


THE    RIVER    ON    THE    PLAIN. 

ON  high  Sierra  a  young  spring  glows, 
White  as  a  babe,  from  its  natal  snows. 

The  soft  winds  over  its  cradle  sway; 
Croon,  as  they  rock  it,  a  roundelay. 

Their  dewy  chaplets  tell  mists  in  gray, 
Veiling  it  chastely  from  day  to  day : 

And  flocks  of  raindrops,  on  earthward  quest, 
With  light  wings  dimple  its  pulsing  breast. 

A  crown  of  sunshine  it  dons,  as  born 
Of  ruddy  Eos,  the  infant  Morn : 

A  crown  of  starshine  it  dons  by  night, 
Waiting  the  kiss  of  the  pale  moonlight : 

As  censors  swaying,  blown  pines  that  guard, 
Pan  it  with  odors  more  sweet  than  nard, 

And  strong  young  eagles,  on  royal  wing, 
Winnow  the  heart  of  the  mountain  spring. 


Over  the  mountain  a  streamlet  speeds, 
Spurred  by  the  prick  of  the  bulrush  reeds. 

The  woodbine  tracks  it  from  ledge  to  ledge, 
Twining  her  tendrils  along  its  edge : 

A  willowed  army,  with  cedared  flank, 
Presses  its  pathway,  close  rank  on  rank : 

And  files  of  fir-trees,  armed  with  cones, 
Riddle  its  picketing,  lichened  stones. 

Bright  bluffs  and  canyons  it  spans  apace, 
Clematis  after,  in  purple  chase : 

Her  wee  green  tassels  the  wild  hop  sways, 
Listing  its  lyrics  through  sunny  days : 

The  timid  aspen  takes  heart  and  dips 
Tremulous  boughs  for  its  warm  young  lips : 

The  blue  wind-flower  holds  out  her  cup, 
Yearning  its  ripples  that  sparkle  up — 

And  coyly  tinkles  the  plashed  harebell, 
Ringing  the  way  to  her  citadel, 


POEMS   OF    MINNIE   (JILMORK. 


As  down  the  mountain  the  streamlet  speeds, 
Spurred  by  the  prick  of  the  bulrush  reeds. 


Over  the  prairie  a  river  glides, 
Tuft-grass  a-tilt  on  its  sloping  sides. 

Its  white  foam  ripens  to  buds  of  spray, 
Blooming  the  river  as  field  of  May : 

It  gaily  sprinkles  with  opal  show'r 
Robes  of  the  glittering  mustard-flower: 

Then  slows  and  hushes,  where  rose  on  rose 
Beside  it  anchors  in  pink  repose. 

Under  the  heavens,  its  clear  tide  glints 
Rich  as  a  rainbow  in  tangled  tints : 

And  fair  as  Eden,  along  its  flow, 
Gardens  of  vetch  in  the  sunlight  glow. 

Yet  on  forever,  with  panting  breast, 
Presses  the  river  in  vague  unrest. 

O,  little  recks  it  of  mountain  spring, 
Winnowing  eagles,  and  winds  that  sing ! — 

Of  piney  gulches  it  leaped  in  glee, 
Chasing  the  blue-eyed  anemone : 

Of  cloistered  canyons  with  scented  ways, 
Flowery  haunts  of  its  early  days. 

For  naught  that  has  been,  nor  naught  that  is, 
Merits  the  river's  light  loyalties — 

But  fairer  ever,  as  moon  than  star. 
Visions,  that  shadow  what  were  or  are/ 

Of  goal  that  beckons,  whose  fair  shores  lie 
On  the  veiled  breast  of  futurity. 

Alas!  0  river,  not  we,  not  we, 
Meetly  may  chide  of  disloyalty! 

Nor  bid  you  tarry,  while  yet  you  may. 
Prizing  the  bloom  of  your  sunny  way — 

For  we,  too,  reckon  to-day  a  bond 

And  yearn  the  morrow  that  wait.-  l>c\ond. 


A   PIONEER 

SEE  thet  tent  t  liar,  wlmr'  th'  grass 
Follers  up  th1  mounting-pass? 
See  thet  chap  ez  looks  a  clown, 
Walkin'  slowly  up  an'  down  ? 
Thar's  his  tent,  sir,  an'  t  liar's  him 
Ez  ye  axed  fur — poet  .Jim. 

Wot  on  'arth  folks  gits  ter  see 
In  thet  feller,  squelches  me. 
Dashed  ef  I  hain't  showed  th'  way 
Three  more  times  afore,  tenlav. 
Nuthin'  much,  he  ain't,  in  look 
S'pose  ye've  hearn  ez  he  writes  books  ? 
'Read  em?'  Jest  draw  mild, panl !    M« •':- 
Ya — as !  thet's  jest  th'  sort  I  ! 

Knowed  his  father;  me  an'  him 
Onct  wuz  pards.     He  wuz  a  limb, 
Old  Jim  wuz  in  his  young  da; 
Till  one  year  he  tuk  a  craze 
Fur  a  gal  ez  with  her  par 
Kem  ter  summer  on  th'  Bar. — 
W'ite  an*  peaky;  a  poor  lot — 
Not  my  style  by  a  long  shot ! 
Full  o'  flowery,  high  talk 
Ez  hed  nary  stem  nor  stalk. 
Howsomever,  Jim  wuz  struck 
Hard  an*  hot;  an'  she,  wuss  luck, 
Caved-in  ter  his  han'some  fa. , . 
Settled  down  in  thet  same  pla 
Stayin'  jest  till  thet  cha{>  kum. 
Then  put  out  her  light,  sir,  plum  '! 
Jim  died  later,  fifteen  year. 
Jest  ez  he  hed  struck  luck  here — 
Left  his  claim  an'  tent  t»-r  him. 
Thet  poor  chap  thar — poet  Jim. 

W'uMn't  guess  it,  seci'n  him, 
But  he  hed  th'  sues,  hed  Jim, 
Ter  git  sweet  upon  my  gal — 
My  one  ilarter.  sir.  my  .Sal. 
Hi!  l>ut  thet  ni«:ht  !>'*  wux  thick— 
I  swar  some.  I  did.  l»y  Nick! 
Sal,  she  cried.  ••/.  wimmen  do, 
Hut  I  guess  xhe'll  live  it  thro'. 
Taint  fur  her.  so  prnrt  an*  trim. 
Ter  l.e  j.-.-t  Mi-'  I'-'.t  Jim! 


950 


POEMS   OF  MINNIE   GILMORE. 


Hain't  no  gumption,  tliet  Jim  hain't — 
Gosh !  his  ways  'ud  rile  a  saint. 
Works  a  spell,  when  he's  cleaned  out, 
Then  jest  idles  roun'  about, 
Roamin'  up  an'  down  th'  pass, 
Lyin'  in  th'  summer  grass, 
Starin'  up  them  same  old  skies, 
(Ez  is  kin  ter  his  blue  eyes — ) 
Watchin'  now,  jest  a  wild  rose 
Bowin'  ez  th'  breezes  blows, 
Lookin'  up  et  them  dark  pines 
Yaller  when  th'  noon  sun  shines, 
Countin'  all  th'  birds  thet  fly, 
Smilin',  sighin';  by  an'  by 
Sets  ter  writin'  fur  dear  life — 
Nice  chap  thet,  ter  hev'  a  wife ! 

Wot's  his  line — trees,  birds,  an*  stars, 
Ain't  it  ?     Tho't  so !     Like  his  mar's. 
Fore  she  merried,  she  writ,  too, 
Hevin'  nuthin'  more  ter  do. 
Gals  afore  they  git  a  beau 
Kinder  find  life  dull,  ye  know, 
An'  some  high  uns  tek  ter  rhyme, 
Jest  ter  pass  away  th'  time — 
Wich  I  ain't  on  leanin'  rough, 
Ez  they'll  drop  it  sharp  enough 
Et  a  chance  ter  settle  down, 
With  a  man  an'  babies  roun'. 
But  a  chap  with  no  more  vim 
Then  ter  be  a  poet,  like  Jim — 
Shunt  it,  pard,  it  makes  me  sick ! — 
Eh  ?— 0  thankee !     Yer  a  brick ! 

Prime  stuff — thet!  More?  No,  pard,  no  !- 
Wai,  I  don't  keer — let  her  go ! 
Ain't  no  poet,  ye  ain't,  sir !     Hey  ? 
Blast  my  ears,  wot's  thet  ye  say  ? 
Jest  thet  same,  sir  ?    Wai,  I  vum ! 
Dern  my  boots  ef  thet  ain't  rum ! 
Tuk  ye  fur  a  tearin'  swell. — 
Jest  a  poet  ?    Ain't  thet  a  sell ! 

Eh  ?  Good  Lord !     Let  me  set  down ! 
Jim  th'  talk  o'  town  on  town  ? 
Great  folks  thro'  th'  hull  wide  land 
Holdin'  him  warm  heart  an'  hand  ? 
Him  th'  pride  o'  comin'  times, 
Jest  thro'  his  falutin'  rhymes  ? 


Him  a  gen'us — him  a  star — 
His  name  ringin'  near  an'  far — 
Gold  a-runnin'  up  his  claim  ? 
Gosh! 

0  Jim,  I  say!     Jest  aim 
Roun'  our  way  some  night,  an' — wal, 
S'pose  ye  jest  talk  over  Sal  ? 


A   SORGHUM    CANDY-PULL. 

FIVE  miles  out  from  house  or  village  stands 
the  old  farm  on  the  prairie; 

From  its  roof  red  lanterns  dangle,  lest  we 
miss  the  lonely  way. 

Lamps  are  shining  at  each  window,  in  the 
barn  and  in  the  dairy, 

And  red  pine-flames  on  the  snowdrifts  o'er 
the  kitchen  threshold  play. 

Rows  of  sleighs  stand  in  the  barnyard;  rows 
of  steeds  paw  in  the  stable; 

There  is  sound  of  many  voices,  then  a  sud- 
den listing  lull, 

As  we  sweep  through  the  great  gateway  to 
the  porch  beneath  the  gable, 

Where  the  farmer  bids  us  welcome  to  the 
sorghum  candy-pull. 

At  the  door  his  good  wife  curtsies,  with  both 
hands  outstretched  in  greeting; 

Points  us  up  to  the  front  chamber,  where 
young  voices  bid  us  "  Come! " 

And  we  file  up  the  wide  stairway,  followed 
still  by  her  entreating 

That  we  "  Give  th'  gals  our  bunnits,  an'  jest 
make  ourselves  t'  hum." 

On  the  top  stair  wait  her  daughters,  twin 
wild-roses  blushing  newly 

In  their  fear  lest  "  city-people  find  wild  wes- 
te'n  doin's  dull  "— 

Till  their  warm  young  hands  enfolding,  we 
assure  them,  (and  most  truly,) 

That  we  know  no  sweeter  frolic  than  a  sor- 
ghum candy-pull. 

As  we  enter  the  bright  kitchen,  the  gray  host 

presents  us  duly : — 
"Friends,  th'  city-folks  from  east'ards,  ez  is 

stoppin'  ter  Mis'  West's." 


POEMS   OF   MINN  IK   <;ILM<»KK. 


961 


And  the  bows  and  handshakes  over,  the  red 

logs  are  kindled  newly, 
And  a  hush  of  expectation  deepens  'mong 

the  waiting  guests. 
Then  from  off  the  high  pine  dresser  comes 

the  great,  brass  shining  kettle, 
And  the  farm-wife  pours  the  sorghum  till 

the  girls  proclaim  it  full; 
When  they  lift  it  to  the  fire,  and  the  former 

from  his  settle, 
Claps  his  knee,  and  hurrahs  gaily  for  the 

sorghum  candy -pull. 

As  the  pine -flames  leap  and  crackle,  we  can 

see  the  sorghum  stealing 
In  great  golden  coils  that  shimmer  round 

the  kettle's  circled  brim; 
And  the  lads  crowd  to  the  pantry,  tall  heads 

dodging  the  low  ceiling, 
For  the  great  spoons  peeping  brightly  from 

the  shelf's  resetted  rim. 
Then  what  gallantry  and  blushes,  as  each  to 

his  chosen  maiden 
Holds  the  shining  pewter  handle,  the  deep 

bowl  still  in  his  hand; 
And  the  pretty,  quaint  procession,  as  they 

file  in  twains,  so  laden, 
And  group  gaily  round  the  kettle,  at  the 

leader's  blithe  command ! 

Swift  the  first  spoon  seeks  the  sorghum,  and 

the  stirring  goes  on  fleetly, 
Two  hands  clasped  about  the  handle,  hers 

for  holding,  his  to  guide; 
And  as  o'er  the  ruddy  hearthstone,  soft  young 

cheeks  flush  out  so  sweetly, 
0,  I  dream  the  flames  steal  deeper,  and  warm 

soft  young  hearts,  beside! 
And  as  twain  each  twain  replaces,  till  the 

spoons  have  all  been  christened, 
Sitting  back  in  the  still  corner,  while  the 

kettle  brims  and  boils, 
To  my  heart  float  faint,  stray  echoes  of  shy 

words  the  fire  has  listened, 
As  the  spoons  went  slowly  circling  through 

the  golden  sorghum-coils. 

Out  unto  the  ice-bound  bucket  go  the  last 

twain,  snows  unheeding, 
For  a  bowl  of  water  sparkling  from  the  well. 

like  rare  old  wine; 


And   what  pretty  anxious  faces,  and   what 

rapture  swift  sueeeeo!in<r, 
As  the  sorghum  seeks  the  bottom  in  a  crisp 

and  brittle  line  ! 
Then  the  putting  out  of  platters;  routing  of 

canine  infringers; 
And  the  restless  time  of  waiting  till  the  frosty 

air  shall  cool; 
And  the  eager  choice  of  partners,  and  the 

buttering  of  fingers, 
As  the  farm-wife  names  the  candy  as  all 

ready  for  the  pull. 

What  a  merry  tussle  follows,  with  the  golden 

ropes  that  shimmer 
Titian-red  between  the  embers,  and  the  lamps 

of  ruddy  light; 
And  what  rival  boasts  and  daring,  while  the 

gold  grows  ever  dimm. 
Till  the  yellow  merges  slowly  first  to  cream 

and  then  to  white  ! 
What  an  awed  and  anxious  silence,  as  from 

defter  hands  fall  gleaming 
Hearts,  and  rings,  and  blent  initials,  linke.l 

in  true  lovers'  knots  — 
And  what  calls  for  water,  after,  for  the  sticky 

palms'  redeeming, 
And  what  girlish  toss  of  ribands,  and  what 

brushing  off  of  spots! 


Then  the  bearing  of  the  candy,  in  a 

dish  to  the  table 
In  the  dining-room  adjoining,  where  the  juicy 

apples  wait  : 
Where  the  giant-jugs  of  cider  foam  like  nec- 

tar of  old  fable, 
And  the  nuts  for  philopening  lie  in  lone  and 

dusky  state. 
And  the  merry  hours  that  follow,  winged  in 

jest  and  song  and  lau^h; 
While  the  apples  grow  but  phantoms,  and 

the  nuts  but  shells  that  seem, 
And  the  cider  ebbs  out  surely  as  the  candy. 

that  leaves  after 
But  the  lovers'  knots,  that  cherished,  pledge 

each  maid  a  charmed  dream. 

Twelve  strokes  echo  from  the  stairway. 

the  last  good-nights  are  spoken. 
Kre  the  steeds  turn  from  the  stable*,  and  the 

sleighs  stand  at  the  door; 


952 


POEMS   OF  EDWARD  J.   O'REILLY. 


And  the  farmfolk  from  the  threshold,  after 

each,  in  kindly  token, 
Throw  a  pippin  from  the  basket  newly  filled 

from  their  rich  store. 
As  the  merry  sleighs  speed  by  us,  I  lean  back 

against  the  cushion, 
And  the  moonlight  blinds  me  strangely,  for 

my  eyes  and  heart  are  full, 
As  I  question  if  my  city,  with  its  eastern 

wealth  and  fashion, 
Boasts  so  truly  sweet  a  frolic  as  a  sorghum 

candy-pull. 


AFTER   THE    BALL. 

O  LITTLE  glove,  do  I  but  dream  I  hold  thee, 
So  warm,  so  sweet,  and  tawny  as  her  hair  ? 
Nay !  from  her  hand  to-night  I  dared  unfold 
thee, 
As  we  went  down  the  stair. 


She  said  no  word;  she  did  not  praise  nor 

blame  me; 
She  is  so  proud,  so  proud  and  cold  and 

fair ! — 

Ah !  dear  my  love,  thy  silence  did  not  shame 
me, 

As  we  went  down  the  stair. 

Thy  dark  eyes  flashed;  thy  regal  robes  arrayed 

thee. 

In  queenly  grace,  and  pride  beyond  com- 
pare; 

But  on  thy  cheek  a  sudden  red  betrayed  thee, 
As  we  went  down  the  stair. 

0,  lady  mine,  some  near  night  will  I  prove 

thee! 

By  this  soft  glove  I  know  that  I  may  dare 
Take  thy  white  hand,  and  whisper,  "  Sweet, 
I  love  thee," 

As  we  go  down  the  stair! 


POEMS  OF  EDWARD  J,  O'REILLY. 


THE  EMIGRANT'S  LOVE. 

BESIDE  her  couch  I  bend  the  knee, 
Where  she,  my  earliest  love,  had  died, 

And  vowed  she  should  in  Heaven  be — 
Though  not  on  earth — my  spirit  bride. 

Upon  a  foreign  soil  my  oath 

Of  love  proclaimed  her  mine  to  be, 

But  she  had  deemed  it  wise  for  both 
To  wait  till  fortune  smiled  on  me. 

When  fortune  came  death  trod  the  path 
Of  gold  the  fickle  god  had  taken, 

And  smote  the  idol  in  his  wrath 

For  whom  I  would  have  all  forsaken. 

A  relic  from  the  emerald  sward 

Which  I  had  plucked  from  Erin's  breast 
J  placed,  as  love's  supreme  reward, 

Above  her  exiled  daughter's  rest. 


She  bade  me  plant  it  o'er  her  dust — 
I  promised  it,  and  own  I  wept; 

In  truth  it  was  a  holy  trust 

That  darkest  demon  would  have  kept! 

She  loved  the  land  that  gave  it  birth, 
And  deemed  if  it  should  mark  her  grave 

She  still  should  sleep  'neath  Irish  earth, 
Despite  the  barriers  of  the  wave. 

Long  may  its  tender  plumage  wave, 
Enjoying  spring's  first  virgin  smile, 

And  bloom  above  her  foreign  grave, 
As  when  it  graced  her  hapless  Isle. 

Her  tomb,  the  Mecca  of  my  love, 
Shall  be  the  temple  of  my  prayer — 

That  I  may  meet  her  yet  above 
And  live  forever  with  her  there. 


POEMS   OF   EDWARD   J.    <  »'i;Kl  LLY. 


LIFE. 

WHAT  is  life  ? 

A  fated  being  sent  from  God 
To  tread  the  path  his  fathers  trod, 
To  toil  for  gold,  perchance  in  vain, 
With  heated  brow  and  hurried  brain, 
And,  dying,  all  forgotten,  go 
To  the  deep  shades  of  death  below, 

With  darkness  rife  ? 

What  is  life  ? 

A  war  with  all  of  human  breath — 
Hushed  only  by  the  conq'ror  Death! — 
Ambition,  honor,  glory's  dreams, 
Are  shadowed  with  deceptive  names  — 
Even  love's  a  mockery  of  life — 

'Tis  strife— all  strife! 

Is  life  no  more  ? 

Yes — with  its  dark,  chaotic  gloom, 
Withering  all  that  erst  should  bloom — 
The  Eden  of  primeval  earth, 
Proclaims  some  relic  of  her  birth — 
And  through  all  human  bosoms  still, 
Inspires  the  heart's  instinctive  will, 

Upward  to  soar! 

Poor  child  of  toil ! — 
Stricken  with  life's  organic  care, 
Wake  from  thy  dreams  of  sad  despair; 
The  earth  which  seems  to  thee  so  dark, 
Shall  perish,  but  that  vital  spark, 
The  soul  by  the  Deity  first  given, 
With  the  seraphic  host  of  heaven, 

Shall  play  its  part. 


JULY  THE  FOURTH. 

IMMORTAL  day!  thy  history  writes 

The  epitaph  of  kings, 
And  bids  the  soul  take  nobler  flights 

Than  even  Homer  sings. 
A  continent  bows  down  to  thee, 

The  herald  of  its  peace, 
And  while  its  giant  breast  is  free 

Its  homage  ne'er  shall  ce. 


There  was  a  day  when  it  was  crime 

That  sealed  for  death  the  brow 
To  pray  at  freedom's  holy  shrine, 

So  firmly  guarded  now. 
Then  Hessians  for  a  bloody  mite 

Obeyed  an  idiot  king, 
And  eclipsed  for  a  time  the  light 

A  nearer  day  should  bring. 

Now  from  this  broad,  unmeasured  shore 

Illumed  by  freedom's  rays, 
The  cannon  to  the  skies  shall  pour 

Its  tributary  blaze! 
And  from  the  instruments  of  death 

The  millions  will  conspire 
To  show  with  one  united  breath 

Their  rights  were  won  by  fire! 

Bright  day!  thy  dawn  made  Heaven  cheer 

The  patriot  fathers  on 
Till  mankind  owned,  in  every  sphere, 

Their  work  was  nobly  done ! 
And  when  God's  herald  gave  a  tongue 

To  what  He  made  us  be, 
With  patriots'  love  the  angels  sung 

"America  is  free ! " 


THE  PARTING. 

THE  bark  weighed  slowly  from  her  seat, 

While  on  the  strand  a  crowd 
Of  kindred  viewed  the  human  freight 

With  hearts  and  spirits  bow'd; 
And  as  she  glided  like  a  bird 

Above  the  gathering  spray 
'Mid  sighs  and  tears  their  prayers  were  heard 

That  o'er  her  liquid  way 
An  angel  pilot  might  preside 
And  be  the  wandering  exiles'  guide! 

The  bark  now  seems  to  strike  a  cloud 

In  earth's  last  guard  of  air 
Ere  lost  within  the  ether  shroud 

That  wraps  it  slowly  there, 
A  maiden  still  surveys  the  main 

Though  all  have  left  the  heaeh. 
And  deems  in  fancy's  kindling  flame 

The  bark  in  vision's  reach: 
Her  musing  spirit  soars  in  air 
And  travels  with  her  lover  tin 


PRESENTING  THE   SHAMROCK. 

THE   IEISH   SOLDIER  TO   COLUMBIA   ON  ST. 
PATRICK'S  MORNING. 

Columbia,  gra,  just  bear  awhile 
With  a  soldier  of  the  rank  and  file, 
A  stepson  from  the  Emerald  Isle, 

Your  uniform  adorning, 
Who  comes  his  poor  respects  to  pay, 
In  the  good  old  democratic  way, 
To  wish  you  on  St.  Patrick's  day 

The  very  crame  of  the  morning; 
And  ask  you,  Ma'am,  if  you  would  wear 
Amid  the  glory  of  your  hair, 
Right  in  that  nest  of  Cupid's  there, 

This  emblem  of  his  sireland ! 
Fed  by  soft  winds,  and  rarest  dew, 
Wept  down  from  skies  of  softest  blue, 
This  little  sprig  of  Shamrock  grew 

Near  the  very  heart  of  Ireland ! 

You  now  have  royal  beaus,  aroon, 
Who  flash  about  you  late  and  soon, 
Like  stars  about  the  summer  moon 

Outrivaled  by  your  glory; 
But  in  the  days  when  you  were  young, 
And  sleuth  hounds  on  your  traces  hung, 
And  royal  lovers  gave  them  tongue, 

'Twas  then  a  different  story; 
But  in  those  dark  and  bloody  days 
Old  Ireland  rose  beyond  the  says 
And  backed  your  throne-upsetting  ways, 

In  the  face  of  rack  and  prison, 
And  gave  you  all  she  had,  asthore, 
Strong  arms,  true  hearts,  and  love  galore, 
And  cheer'd  you  from  her  sea-beat  shore 

Till  all  your  stars  had  risen. 

When  you  had  sprung  from  war's  alarms, 

Jack  Barry  took  you  in  his  arms, 

And  smiled  to  see  your  budding  charms, 

On  a  cold  St.  Patrick's  morning. 
He  wrapped  you  in  the  flag  and  said, 
"When  thrones  are  moldered, empires  dead, 


Amid  the  stars  she'll  hold  her  head, 
Their  petty  kingdoms  scorning ! " 

Montgomery  was  standing  near, 

And  on  your  pleased  and  listening  ear 

Rang  Dragoon  Moylan's  charging  cheer; 
While  the  Shamrock  was  adorning 

That  curl-crowned  head  and  brow  of  thine, 

Along  the  Continental  Line, 

That  cheer  was  passed  with  nine  times  nine, 
On  that  St.  Patrick's  morning. 

You  may  forget  those  misty  things, 
Which  time  hath  shaded  with  his  wings, 
And  yet  they  are  the  living  springs 

Of  all  your  fame  and  glory : 
When  Jackson  fought  at  New  Orleans, 
And  by  his  side  the  Jasper  Greens, 
You  were  a  maiden  in  your  teens, 

And  can't  forget  the  story — 
Your  olden  foe  had  come,  once  more, 
To  trail  you  as  in  days  before: 
You  met  him  on  the  sounding  shore 

And  dared  the  haughty  foeman! 
Then  Jackson  shook  your  banner  free 
And  swore,  "  By  the  Eternal,  she 
"  Shall  hold  her  course  o'er  land  and  sea, 

Nor  cringe,  nor  stoop,  to  no  man ! " 

And  in  your  fullest  womanhood, 
Sure,  Ireland's  sons  about  you  stood, 
And  freely  poured  their  hottest  blood 

For  you,  their  second  Mother; 
Where'er  along  the  battle  tide, 
One  of  your  own  boys  fought  and  died, 
An  Irishman  was  by  his  side, 

Like  brother  unto  brother — 
Tho'  sundered  in  the  plodding  mart, 
You  cannot  tell  their  graves  apart, 
Two  in  race,  but  one  in  heart 

For  God  and  godlike  freedom ! 
Whene'er  the  dread  occasion  comes, 
And  War  should  lower  above  your  homes, 
Lo,  at  the  rattle  of  your  drums, 

They're  ready  when  you  need  'em ! 


POEMS  OF  MICHAEL  SCANLAV 


068 


Your  cheeks  like  reddest  roses  blow, 
Your  eyes  with  fires  of  freedom  glow, 
Your  bosom,  chaster  than  the  snow, 

Can  dare  the  world's  inspection; 
In  looks,  in  acts,  in  pride,  in  mien, 
You  seem  like  nature's  freeborn  queen — 
Darlin\  n  1  if  tie  bit  of  green 

Wimlil  xii  it  ifnnr  Jim-  complexion; 
By  tears  bedewed,  by  martyrs  blest, 
'Twas  borne  in  many  a  gallant  crest, 
'Twas  worn  on  many  a  queenly  breast, 

And  decked  their  golden  tresses ; 
And  he  who  to  this  emblem's  true 
Can  ne'er  be  false,  aijru,  to  you, 
Till  the  emerald  fields  wherein  it  grew, 

Are  turned  to  wildernesses ! 

Just  bend  your  regal  head  awhile ! — 
No  wonder,  darlin',  that  you  smile, 
A  soldier  of  the  rank  and  file 

Has  mighty  awkward  fingers 
About  a  head  of  'wildering  curls, 
But  faith  as  true  as  lord's  or  earl's, 
And  heart  as  gentle  as  a  girl's ; 

Don't  blame  him  if  he  lingers 
About  your  wealth  of  sunbright  hair, 
To  set  Old  Ireland's  Shamrock  there, — 
May  blackest  sorrow  be  his  share 

Who  would  the  twain  dissever! 
Now  raise  your  head  to  all  men's  view, 
Columbia,  while  I  drink  to  you, 
"  The  Green,  the  Red,  the  White  and  Blue 

Forever  and  forever! " 


THE   MANCHESTER  MARTYRS. 

Oh,  bless  the  Great  Jehovah,  whose  mighty 
spirit  saves! 

He  will  cleave  the  crimson  ocean,  and  con- 
duct us  thro'  its  waves: 

In  Manchester  our  martyrs  lie,  moldering  in 

their  graves, 
But  their  souls  are  marching  on  1 

Glory,  glory,  unto  ye,  men ! 

Tyrants  trembled  'fore  ye  three  men  ! 

Ye  light  up  the  wilderness  for  freemen, 
As  they  go  marching  on. 


Within  the  Kntrli.-li   prison   they  dug  their 

felon  graves, 
Their    lion    hearts,    'neath    foreign    earth, 

tramped  down  by  feet  of  slaves, 
But  away,  beyond  the  ocean,  by  the  roaring 

Irish  waves, 

Their  souls  are  marching  on. 
Glory,  glory  to  the  people ! 
Ring  out  wild  anthems  from  the  steeple. 
Tremble,  ye  tyrants,  for  the  people 
Are  marching,  marching  on ! 

From  their  red  graves  in  the  dungeon  will 

spring  a  mighty  tree, 
Beneath  whose  spreading  branches,  flushed 

with  fruit  of  liberty. 
We'll  chant  the  choral  anthem  of  the  people's 

jubilee, 

As  we  go  marching  on ! 
Glory,  glory  unto  ye,  men ! 
From  the  graves  where  they  planted  but  three 

men 

Will  spring  up  an  army  of  freemen, 
To  march  for  freedom  on ! 

The  voice  of  retribution  rings  along  the  con- 
scious stones, 
The  blood  of   martyrM    legions  beats  anew 

about  their  bones, 
The  heart  of  hell  is  quaking  for  its  palaces 

and  thrones 
As  we  go  marching  on! 
Glory,  glory  to  the  people ! 
Ring  out  the  news  from  each  steeple, 
"  God  is  the  Priest  of  the  people. 
And  leads  them  safely  on ! " 

The  earth  rolls  on  rejoicing,  for  the  peopl.  - 

move  as  one, 
Their  backs  unto  the  purple  past,  their  facet 

to  the  sun. 
Whose  light  HiiiLrs  hack  the  shadows,  as  the 

1  > regnant  ages  run. 
And  man  goes  man-Inn;:  on! 
Glory,  glory  to  the  few  men. 
Whose  flame  fed  the  spirit  of  the  now  men: 
The  stars  will  rejoieo  when  all  true  men 
Will  march,  together,  on! 


956 


POEMS   OF  MICHAEL   SCANLAN. 


Oh,  God  is  everlasting,  crowns  and  thrones 

are  transient  things; 
The  glitter  of  earth's  palaces,  the  viciousness 

of  Kings, 
Will  pass  like  empty  phantoms  'neath  the 

sweeping  of  His  wings, 
As  He  goes  marching  on ! 
Glory,  glory  alleluiah ! 
Vanish  Kings,  alleluiah! 
Freedom  shall  live,  alleluiah ! 
While  rolls  the  green  earth  on. 


A  PRISON  LOVE   SONG. 

[This  "  Love  Song  "  might  have  been  sung  by  any  of  that 
magnificent  band  of  men  who  made  "  Millbank  "  and  "Pen- 
tonville  "  Red  Letter  names  in  the  annals  of  Ireland  and  Black 
Letter  names  even  in  the  dark  and  bloody  annals  of  British 
prisons]. 

The  shadows  deepen  into  night — 

A  night  sans  sky  or  stars ! — 
Whose  vesper  hymn,  to  weary  hearts, 

Is  grating  bolts  and  bars ! 

0  thou  who  art  my  strength  by  day, 
My  thoughts,  my  dreams  by  night, 

Come,  spirit  of  my  early  love, 
And  make  my  dungeon  bright. 

Come  in  thy  beauty  and  thy  grief, 

And  thy  enduring  faith. 
Lest,  in  my  weakness,  I  rebel 

Against  this  life  in  death; 
For  I  was  born  upon  the  hills, 

And  grow  not  used  to  chains — 
The}'  work  a  madness  in  my  heart, 

A  fever  in  my  veins. 

1  know  not  when  I  loved  thee  first, 
For  on  my  father's  knee 

I  heard  the  story  of  thy  wrongs 

And  those  who  died  for  thee; 
And  as  I  grew,  that  crescive  love 

Consumed  me  like  a  flame — 
And  here  to-night,  in  felon  bonds, 

I  love  thee  still  the  same. 

The  Saxon  lord,  by  force  and  fraud, 

Has  wooed  thee  long  and  vain; 
He  has  his  herds  on  ev'ry  hill, 

His  ships  upon  the  main; 


But  thou  dost  spurn  his  wealth  and  pow'r, 

And  hold  him  far  apart — 
No  wealth  can  buy,  no  pow'r  can  force 

The  fortress  of  thy  heart. 

Couldst  thou  forget  thy  heritage, 

Made  sacred  by  defeat, 
And  wear  his  robes  of  shame  and  sit 

A  handmaid  at  his  feet, 
Then  would  I  curse  the  rueful  hour 

I  took  thy  lover's  vow, 
And  dared  the  felon's  awful  doom 

For  one  as  false  as  thou ! 

Bethink  thee  how  thy  lovers  loved, 

And  how  they  died  for  thee ! 
Their  bones  have  bleach'd  on  ev'ry  strand 

And  whiten'd  ev'ry  sea! 
How  well  they  fought,  how  proud  they  stept 

From  scaffold  to  the  skies ! — 
Now  spreads  their  unavenged  blood 

A  sea  before  mine  eyes! 

Thou  didst  not  quail  when  sore  beset, 

Nor  bend  to  his  desire, 
When  he,  to  break  thee  to  his  lust, 

Robed  thy  fair  limbs  in  fire; 
And  couldst  thou  now,  when  heralds  sing 

The  dawn  of  Freedom's  morn, 
Forswear  thy  heritage  of  hate 

For  heritage  of  scorn  ? 

0  Love,  he  knows  thee  not !     So  sure 

Of  thy  deep  faith  am  I 
As  that  the  old  and  changeless  stars 

Still  deck  the  midnight  sky ; 
Upon  that  faith  I  rest  secure, 

I  suffer  and  grow  strong — 
My  spirit,  from  this  prison  cage, 

Goes  out  to  thee  in  song. 

0  Love,  come  kiss  my  eyelids  down, 

For  I  am  full  of  pain — 
Send  holy  sleep,  for  in  my  dreams 

I'm  young  and  free  again ; 
Alas,  thy  face,  save  in  those  dreams 

I  never  more  may  see ! 
But  neither  time,  nor  change,  nor  death 

Can  shake  my  love  for  thee. 


POEMS    OK    MICHAEL    SCANLAN. 


THE  SPELL  OF  THE  COULUN. 

[AN    IRISH    SETTLER   OK    THK    ILLINOIS.] 

Adown  the  broad  river  and  over  the  prairie 
The  Summer  moon  shines,  like  a  night  from 

lost  years — 
A  dream  of  old  moonlights !  Come  hither,  my 

Mary, 
And  sing  me  the   Coulun,  the  music  of 

tears; 
'Twas  the  caione  of  some  minstrel,  whose 

proud  heart  was  broken 
When  Ireland  lay  crush'd  under  rapine  and 

wrong, 

A  sigh  for  lost  freedom,  ere  Mercy  had  spoken 
The  words  which  enfranchised  his  spirit  of 
song. 

Oh,  brown  were  thy  tresses — they're  gray  now, 

ma  colleen  ! — 
And  blue  were  thine  eyes  as  the  blue  skies 

above, 
When  first,  in  fair  Desmond,  you  sang  me  the 

Coulun, 
And  an  Irish  moon  hallowed  our  pledges 

of  love; 
What  visions  of  freedom,  what  hopes  for  the 

morrow 
Within    our    young     spirits     of     ecstasy 

bloom'd ! 
But  there   flows  'tween   the   moonlights  a 

deep  sea  of  sorrow, 
Within  whose  dark  bosom  those  hopes  lie 
entomb'd. 

Tho'  Time,  love,  hath  stolen  your  locks'  amber 

glory, 
And  waves  his  white  banner  above  your 

fair  brow, 

The  years  of  our  exile  seem  like  an  old  story, 

For  the  Spell  of  the  Coulun  is  over  us  now 

And  we  wander,  young  lovers,  by  ruin  and 

river, 
Where  Legend  lends  Fancy  bright  pinions 

of  flight, 
And  our  spirits  are  singing,  "  Forever  and 

Ever," 

And  an  Irish  moon  hallows  our  love  with 
its  light! 


Oh,  bless  thee,  old  minstrel,  whose  magical 

numbers 
Still  sigh  for  lost  freedom,  still  hymn  the 

grand  faith, 
That  Ireland  will  rise  from  the  tomb  where 

she  slumbers 
Array'd  in  new  beauty,  triumphant   o'er 

death — 
And  bridging  the  moonlights  with  love,  my 

dear  Mary, 
The  prayer  of  our  hearts  is,  "God  send 

that  blest  day;" 
Methinks  when  it  dawns  on  our  grave  on  the 

prairie 

That    shamrocks   will    spring    from    our 
moldering  clay ! 


A   CHRIST M  A  >    «  II  A  NT. 

A  truce  to  all  our  bickerings,  a  short  farewell 

to  hate, 

For  Love,  with  all  his  retinue,  stands  knock- 
ing at  the  gate ; 
Let  antique  Mirth  sweep  from  the  hearth 

the  ashes  of  Despair. 
And  light  old  fires  of  revelry  to  lay  the 

of  Care : 
What    tho'   the    world    of    raM>le<lom    hath 

trailed  us  in  the  stn 
We're  Kings  to-night  and   Fate  shall  crouch 

a  vassal  at  our  feet! 
For  we  will  drink  nepenthe  from  the  flagon 

of  old  times, 
\\liilo  Love,  from  his  high  campanile,  shall 

peal  his  Christmas  chimes. 

What  tho'  the  World  hath  caught  us  in  the 

winter  of  its  tears, 
And  led  our  fine  ambitions  thro'  a  wilderness 

of  yean! 


we  coine  forth. 

Ami  our  unrehukintf  spirits,  o'er  defeat,  pro- 
claim our  worth. 

To-night  we  stand  above  the  storm,  where 
men  and  angels  n 

Old  moonliirlit*  silv'rini:  all  tho  hill*,  life's 
wreck  beneath  our  feet, 


D58 


POEMS   OF   MICHAEL   SCANLAN. 


While  our  thoughts,  like  benedictions,  run 

to  rhythm  and  to  rhyme, 
As  Love,  on  bells  of  Memory,  rings  out  his 

Christmas  chime. 

So  set  the  yule-logs  blazing!     For  to-nighi 

must  Life  assume 
The  cap  and  bells,  and  flying  feet,  and  GrieJ 

forget  her  gloom : 
We'll  have  no  skulking  spectres  'round  to 

mar  our  regal  mirth — 
Ev'ry  face  must  catch  its  glowing  from  the 

firelight  on  the  hearth; 
Ev'ry  heart  must  beat  a  measure  that  shal] 

breathe  of  pray'r  and  praise, 
Like  the  echoes  of  old  pleasures  from  the 

halls  of  other  days — 
'The  bells  of  inspiration  peal  in  fancy's  far- 
off  clime ! 
'Tis  our  lost  selves  of  better  days  that  ring 

this  Christmas  chime. 

Ring  out!  ring  out!  with  silver  shout,  winged 

voices  of  the  bells, 
And  hither  summon  all  who  sleep  in  Mem'ry's 

magic  dells! 
First,  bid  her  come,  now  nameless,  in  the 

robes  she  used  to  wear, 
The  roses  glowing  on  her  cheek,  the  sunlight 

in  her  hair, 
Her  gentle  spirit  breaking  upon  her  lips  in 

smiles, 
Like  a  tranquil  river  flowing  about  its  rosy 

isles — 
That  beauty  whose  enchantment  about  all 

hearts  is  flung 
By  the  poets  sublimated,  by  the  minnesingers 

sung. 

Bid  the  young  all  come  in  laughter,  and  the 
old  in  quiet  grace, 

Every  dimple,  every  wrinkle— old-time  beau- 
ties— on  each  face; 

Let  Woman  come  in  sweetness,  and  Manhood 
clothed  in  power, 

With  Childhood's  rosy  weakness,  and  Girl- 
hood in  its  flower, 

And  Grief  shall  lose  dominion,  and  Love  as- 
sume control, 


And  all  life's  cold  misgivings  shall  be  lifted 

from  the  soul ; 
While,  to  gild  the  gloomy  present,  we'll  ring 

in  the  olden  times, 
Like  a  ship  with  blessings  freighted,  on  the 

rolling  Christmas  chimes. 

So,  a  truce  to  all  our  bickerings,  a  long  fare- 
well to  hate, 
To  Love,  and  all  his  retinue,  fling  open  wide 

the  gate ! 
We've  had  some  dreams  of  death  and  graves, 

and  partings  and  hot  tears, 
And  Sorrow  told  her  litanies  into  our  'wil- 

dered  ears: 
'Twas  all  life's  fever'd  fantasy!     Our  friends 

are  by  our  side — 
The  maiden  and  the  lover,  the  bridegroom 

and  the  bride — 
While  in  each  eye  seems  glowing  the  light  of 

fadeless  climes, 
And  all  the  spheres  seem  rolling  in  a  sea  of 

Christinas  chimes. 


THE   FENIAN  MEN. 

I. 

See  who  come  over  the  red-blossomed  heather, 
Their  green  banners  kissing  the  pure  moun- 
tain air, 
Heads  erect,  eyes  to  front,  stepping  proudly 

together, 
Sure  Freedom  sits  throned  in  each  proud 

spirit  there! 
Down  the  hills  twining, 
Their  blessed  steel  shining, 
Like  rivers  of  beauty  they  flow  from  each 

glen— 

From  mountain  and  valley 
'Tis  Liberty's  rally, 
Out,  and  make  way  for  the  Fenian  Men ! 

II. 

Our  prayers  and  our  tears  have  been  scoffed 

and  derided, 
They've  shut  out  God's  sunlight  from  spirit 

and  mind; 
Our  Foes  were  united,  and  We  were  divided, 


1'oK.MS   OF   MK'HAKI,   S(  .\\I..\.\. 


We  met,  and  they  scattered  UB  all  to  the 
wind : 

But  once  more  returning, 

Within  our  veins  burning 
The  fires  that  illumined  dark  Aherlow  glen, 

We  raise  the  old  cry  anew, 

Slogan  of  Con  and  Hugh — 
Out,  and  make  way  for  the  Fenian  Men ! 

III. 

We  have  men  from  the  Nore,  from  the  Suir 

and  the  Shannon, 
Let  the  tyrants  come  forth,  we'll   bring 

force  against  force ; 
Our  pen  is  the  sword,  and  our  voice  is  the 

cannon, 

Ilifle  for  rifle,  and  horse  against  horse. 
We've  made  the  false  Saxon  yield 
Many  a  red  battle-field, 
God  on  our  side,  we  will  do  so  again, 
Pay  them  back  woe  for  woe, 
Give  them  back  blow  for  blow — 
Out,  and  make  way  for  the  Fenian  Men ! 

IV. 

Side  by  side  for  this  cause  have  our  fore- 
fathers battled, 
When  our  hills  never  echoed  the  tread  of 

a  slave, 
On  many  green  fields,  where  the  leaden  hail 

rattled, 
Thro*  the  red  gap  of  glory,  they  marched 

to  the  grave. 
And  we,  who  inherit 
Their  names  and  their  spirit, 
Will  march  'neath  their  Banners  of  Lib- 
-      erty;  then 
All  who  love  Saxon  law, 
Native  or  Sassenah, 
Out,  and  make  way  for  the  Fenian  Men! 

V. 

Up  for  the  cause,  then,  fling  forth  our  green 

Banners 
From  the  East  to  the  West,  from  the  South 

to  the  North— 

Irish  land,  Irish  men,  Irish  mirth,  Irish  man- 
ners— 

From  the  mansion  and  cot  let  the  slogan 
go  forth. 


Sons  of  Old  Ireland. 

Love  you  our  sireland,  now  '? 
Come  from  the  kirk,  or  the  chapel,  or  glen ; 

Down  with  all  Faction  old. 

Concert,  and  action  bold, 
This  is  the  creed  of  the  Fenian  Men. 


AUTUMN   LEAV1 

We've  seen  the  Spring  in   budding  beauty 

blowing, 

The  dappled  meadow  and  tin-  waving  wood; 
We've  seen  the  regal  Summer  richly  glow- 
ing— 

The  full-blown  bloom  of  gorgeous  woman- 
hood; 

And  visions  pure  and  longings  soft  and  tender 

Beguiled  us  thro'  the  dewy  days  of  Spring; 

We've  glozed,  entranced,  by  Summer's  tropic 

splendor, 

By  crooning  streams  or  ocean's  murmur- 
ing— 
With    sympathetic    hearts,    while     Nature 

grieves, 

Let  us  go  forth  into  the  woods  and  gather 
Autumn  leaves. 

How  fair  is  earth  when  Spring,  with  subtle 

fingers, 

Hath  decked  her  form  in  robes  of  match- 
less green ! 
How    fair   when    brown-browed,  passioned 

Summer  lingers 

Sun-crowned  upon  the  hills, a  tropic  <|uoen! 
But  fairer  yet  when  Autumn's  dying  glory 

Hath  lit  her  funeral  firet*  within  the  woods; 
When    winds,  like  wailing  dirges,  tell    t hi- 
story 

Of  transientness  unto  the  solitudes; 
When  sombre  suns  eiiL'olden   lonesome  • 
And  all  nightlong  the  soul  is  hushed  uith 
lullaby  of  loaves. 

A  gracious  sadness  steep*  the  woods  and 

meadows, 

And   all  the  day*  seem  golden  afternoons 
Alight  with  melancholy  suns;  weird  shadows 

Flit  alon<:  the  hills  like  mystic  runes; 
The  songless  birds  on  silent  wings  are  flying — 


POEMS   OF   MICHAEL   SCANLAN. 


The  mute,  cold  shadows  of  the  summer 
birds; 

And  voices,  better  felt  than  heard,  are  sigh- 
ing— 

Old  songs  that  still  evade  our  warmest 
words ; 

While   Nature,   nun-like,  tearless    sits  and 
weaves, 

In  placid  sorrow,  fringed  with  hope,  a  shroud 
of  Autumn  leaves. 

Behold  these  boughs,  by  rough  winds  rudely 

shaken, 

How  all  their  leaves  in  show'rs  come  rust- 
ling down ! 
How  like  the  heart  by  sorrow  overtaken 

And  all  its  blossoms  to  the  tempest  blown ! 
Beneath  these  spreading  boughs,  in  summer 

gloaming, 
Has  beauty  sat,  enthralled  in  love's  sweet 

wiles, 
While,  odor-laden,  came    the   night  winds 

roaming, 
Like    wanton    dryads,   thro'  these    leafy 

aisles; 

He  tells  his  love,  she  listens  and  believes — 
Here,  for  love's  sake,  we'll  sit  and  sigh  and 
gather  Autumn  leaves. 

Here,  where  his  whispered  vows  were  warmly 

breathed, 
Here,  where  her  unseen  blushes  went  and 

came, 

Here  shall  our  memorial  leaves  be  wreathed; 

Look,  here  is  one  his  very  tongue  of  flame ! 

And  this,  her  glowing    cheek    by  passion 

wasted. 
When  her  fond  heart  was  swooning  with 

delight, 

When  her  long  fasting  spirit  wildly  tasted 
The  bliss  of  plighted  troth!     0,  Love!  0, 

Night! 

Long-linked  affinities!   tho'  death  bereaves, 
You  breathe  your  summer  bloom  once  more 
into  these  Autumn  leaves. 

Thus  when  the  woods  have  shed  their  leafy 

glory, 

And   winter  whistles    thro'    their  sleety 
boughs, 


These  Autumn  leaves  will  still  repeat  the' 

story 

Of  Summer  rapture  and  of  lovers'  vows : 
Still  shall  we  sit  beside  the  sighing  fountain 
Still  shall  we  wander  thro'  the  pathless 

woods, 

Still  shall  we  climb  the  soul-uplifting  moun- 
tain, 

Still  breathe  the  bliss  of  fragrant  solitudes, 
Still,  hand  in  hand,  reel  out  the  golden  eves, 
And  birds  will  sing  and  breezes  sigh  among 
these  Autumn  leaves. 

Each  leaf  shall   be  a  prophet's  tongue  to- 

preach  us 

The  vanity  of  time-consuming  strife; 

Each  leaf  shall  be  a  lover's  tongue  to  teach  us 

That  love  alone  can  light  the  waste  of  life. 

Thus  shall  our  hearts  be  so  divinely  blended, 

So  firmly  pitched  in  one  unchanging  tone, 

That,   softly   touched    or   by   rude    fingers 

rended, 
They'll  breathe  of  love,  redeeming  love, 

alone ! 

So  shall  we  pass  thro'  life's  declining  eves, 
Until  we  wander  thro'  the  woods  that  know 
not  Autumn  leaves. 


OUR  NATIVE   LAND. 

The  day  is  dying, 
The  eve  is  sighing, 
Our  bark  is  flying, 

Before  the  wind; 
The  sunset's  splendor 
Falls  soft  and  tender 
Upon  the  green  hills 

We  leave  behind : 
Our  tears  are  flowing, 
The  while  we're  going, 
For  Love  is  showing 

The  mountains  grand,. 
The  glens  and  meadows, 
In  lights  and  shadows. 
And  the  pleasant  valleys 

Of  our  native  land. 


POEMS   OF  MICHAEL  SCANLAN. 


Oh  skies  grow  brighcr! 
Oh  winds  blow  lighter! 
Let  not  the  night  or 

The  deep  sea  hide 
From  our  fond  vision 
That  dream  elysian 
That  flings  its  beauty 

Across  the  tide ! 
Ah,  poor  hearts  beating, 
There's  no  retreating, 
The  winds  are  cheating 

With  whispers  bland; 
The  hills  are  sinking, 
Our  souls  are  drinking 
The  last  sweet  vision 

Of  our  native  land. 

They  say  the  gold  land 
Is  a  brave  and  bold  land, 
(Alas,  the  old  land 

Is  sad  and  low !) 
And  the  winds  that  fan  her 
Bright  starry  banner 
Are  never  freighted 

With  her  children's  woe ! 
We've  read  her  story, 
Of  light  and  glory, 
'Neath  ruins  hoary, 

Antique  and  grand, 
And  we  will  prove  her 
That  we  can  love  her, 
And  still  be  true  to 

Our  native  land. 

Each  thought  we  knew,  love, 
Was  but  for  you,  love, 
And  so,  old  true-love, 

A  fond  adieu ! 
While  night  is  shading, 
We  see  thee  fading, 
A  sea-nymph  dipping 

'Neath  ocean  blue; 
But  Love  has  painted 
Thy  face,  sweet-sainted, 
In  hues  all  teinted 

By  Heaven's  own  hand, 
And  in  our  spirit 
We'll  proudly  wear  it, 
And  so  be  true  to 

Our  native  land. 


THK   SPIRIT   OF  DRKAMS. 

The  Spirit  of  Dreams  in  her  fantasy  sought 

us — 
What  time  our  young  hearts  unto  Dr< 

html  belong — 
And  all  the  bright  gifts  of  her  empire  .-In- 

brought  us — 
The  mirage  of  Youth  and  the  magic  of 

Song, 

The  vision  of  Hope  and  a  vista,  unbroken, 
Of  Life  flowing  onward,  all  sunshine  and 

flow'rs, 
Thro'  valleys  of  light,  where,  our  wishes  once 

spoken, 

Their  balm  and  their  beauty  and  wealth 
should  be  ours. 


There  temples  to  Truth  should  arise  in  new 

splendor, 
And  Friendship  and  Love  should  preside 

at  each  shrine, 
While  Pity,  with  Pow^r,  as  high  priest,  to 

attend  her, 
Should  rule  the  fair  queen  of  this  empire 

benign; 
There   Man  should  essay  in   the  spirit   of 

duty, 

For  Glory  should  sit  at  Humanity's  f' 
And  Woman,  endow'd  with  new  strength  and 

new  beauty, 

Should  make,  with  her  smiles,  our  Acadie 
complete! 

Oh  vision  of  Hope,  and  oh,  vista  of  glory! 
Oh  gleam  of  white  pinions,  that  flash  and 

that  flee! 
Ye  seem  but  the  dream  of  an  old  Summer 

story, 
The  voice  of  dead  lips  ami  the  sob  of  the 


Where  now  are  the  tow*rs  ami  the  domes  of 

that  City 

That  grandly  arose  in  the  Spirits'  domain;' 
Its  temples  are  dust,  and  Love,  Friendship. 

and 

Are  jests  on  the  lips  of  the  proud  and  pro- 
fane! 


962 


POEMS   OF   MICHAEL  SCANLAN. 


Oh  Spirit  of  Dreams !  come  again  and  restore 

us 
Thine  empire  of  Faith  for  this  empire  of 

Strife; 
Oh,  spread,  as  of  old,  thy  bright  fantasies 

o'er  us, 

And  lead  us  away  to  the  dreamland  of  Life. 
Here  Bedouins  smite  while  the  drifting  sands 

blind  us, 
And  hate  in  the  flash  of  each  scimetar 

gleams ! 
Oh,  when  shall  we  leave  the  red  desert  behind 

us, 

And   wander   again    thro'   our   Eden    of 
Dreams  ? 


THE  TRIBUTE  OF  SONG. 

My  voice  and  the  song  which  I  sing  thee 

May  pass  like  a  sigh  on  the  wind, 
May  pass,  with  the  love  which  I  bring  thee, 

Nor  leave  a  remembrance  behind ; 
But  thou  art  my  spirit's  devotion, 

And  song  is  that  fond  spirit's  pray'r, 
And  were  I  adrift  on  the  ocean, 

Alone,  I  would  sing  to  thee  there. 


Did  I,  like  the  geni  inherit 

The  wealth  of  the  sea  and  the  mine, 
I'd  fly,  on  the  wings  of  the  spirit, 

And  lay  all  that  wealth  on  thy  shrine ; 
Or  had  I  the  pow'r  to  restore  thee 

Lost  freedom,  more  precious  than  gold, 
The  world  should  stand  silent  before  thee, 

Or  sit  at  thy  feet  as  of  old. 

Oh,  thou  hast  brave  hearts  to  recover, 

Thy  rights  and  redress  ev'ry  wrong, 
While  I,  with  the  faith  of  a  lover, 

Can  give  but  the  tribute  of  song ; 
But  'tis  not  with  song  I'd  assail  thee, 

Could  fervor  but  render  thee  free, 
My  life,  would  my  life  but  avail  thee, 

I'd  give  unto  freedom  and  thee. 


LOVE  COMES  BUT  ONCE  UNTO  THE 
HEAET. 

Love  comes  but  once  unto  the  heart 

But  once  and  never  more, 
When  Youth  sits  by  Life's  smiling  tide 

And  softly  woos  him  o'er; 
In  after  years  a  joy  may  come 

As  full  of  peace  and  truth, 
But  never  more  that  first,  wild  love 

Of  the  bounding  days  of  youth. 

The  first  young  flowers  of  early  spring 

Sleep  folded  thro'  the  night, 
But  'neath  the  smiles  of  morning  ope 

Their  red  lips  to  the  light; 
Thus  sleeps  the  heart,  'twixt  bud  and  bloom. 

Thro'  boyhood's  April  hours, 
Till  Love  laughs  in  upon  its  dreams 

Like  morning  to  the  flow'rs. 

There  is  a  vision  haunts  the  breast 

That  never  will  depart, 
It  will  not  die,  it  cannot  fade, 

But  just  as  wears  the  heart. 
How  fond  we  fold  the  curtains  round, 

Lest  other  eyes  may  gaze 
Upon  our  hearts,  while  we  look  on 

This  dream  of  other  days ! 

The  dove,  with  death  within  her  breast, 

Will  rise  on  trembling  wings, 
And  reach  the  woodlands  where  her  mate 

Upon  the  green  bough  sings; 
So  will  the  fond  heart  journey  back 

Across  life's  sea  of  tears, 
With  death  upon  its  wake,  to  find 

Its  love  of  early  years. 


ADIEU. 

[After  the  manner  of  the  old  Irish  and  Highland  laments.] 

He  stood  within  his  fathers'  home, 

His  home  no  more  to  be, 
For  like  a  wail  of  warning  rose 

The  soughing  of  the  sea, 


POKMS   OF  MICHAEL  SCAN  LAN. 


Whereon  his  good  ship  rode  at  bay 
To  bear  him  from  the  shore — 

"Adieu,  forevermoiv,  iK-ar  friends, 
Adieu,  forevermore!" 

As  down  the  orchard  walks  he  went 

The  robins  piped  his  name; 
He  paused  upon  the  trysting  stile, 

The  West  was  all  aflame ; 
And  she,  the  best  belov'd  of  all, 

Wept  at  her  mother's  door — 
"Adieu,  forevermore,  my  love, 

Adieu,  forevermore  1 " 

He  turned  upon  the  shore  and  saw 

The  slanting  sunbeams  fall 
Across  the  meadows  and  the  brook, 

And  'gainst  the  castle  wall ; 
The  milkmaid  sang  her  evening  song, 

The  echoes  sang  it  o'er — 
"Adieu,  forevermore,  dear  home, 

Adieu,  forevermore ! " 

He  stood  upon  the  deck  and  felt 

The  fresh  winds  blowing  free 
Upon  the  swelling  sails,  and  heard 

The  moaning  of  the  sea; 
And  darker  grew  the  twilight  gloam, 

And  fainter  grew  the  shore— 
"Adieu,  forevermore,  dear  land, 

Adieu,  forevermore!" 

"A  long  farewell  to  thee,  dear  land, 

We  sigh  unto  the  sea; 
Our  hopes  lie  toward  the  setting  sun, 

Our  hearts  fly  back  to  thee; 
'Tis  grief  upon  the  heaving  main 

And  death  upon  the  shore — 
Adieu,  forevermore,  dear  land, 

Adieu,  forevermore  1 " 


WHEN  I  was  a  bachelor,  young  and  hearty, 

Sporting,  raking, 

Merry  making, 

In  gay  delights 

I  spent  my  nights, 
The  pride  of  each  frolic  and  party; 


I  had  friends  whom  I  loved  and  who  loved 

me, 
In  their  kindness,  who  never  reproved  m< •; 

I  was  full  of  youth's  fires 

And  wild  desires, 
And  gave  play  to  each  spirit  that  moved  me; 

My  only  care 

Was  dance  and  fair, 
I  was  merriest  of  the  nierfy 

Of  all  the  gay  boys, 

For  frolic  and  noise, 
In  the  beautiful  City  of  Derry. 


But  discontent,  like  a  blight,  came  o'er  me, — 

Song  and  story, 

Gold  and  glory, 

Mixed  in  gleams 

Of  glowing  dreams, 
Were  flowing  forever  before  me ! 
I  resolved  to  cross  o'er  the  ocean, 
To  carve  out  wealth  and  promotion, 

Come  back,  make  amends 

By  enriching  my  friends — 
'Twas  a  wild  but  a  beautiful  notion; 

So  I  bid  good-by 

To  my  friends,  and  I 
Kissed  my  love's  lips  of  cherry, 

And  the  very  next  day 

I  sailed  away 
From  the  beautiful  City  of  Dem. 

I  worked  on  many  a  winding  river, 

Vale  and  mountain, 

Never  counting 

The  years  go  by, 

So  sure  was  I 

In  my  dreams  that  Fortune  would  give  her 
Kifh  stores  of  golden  treasurr. 
Pour  out  her  wealth  without  im-asi 

That  I  spent  my  life 

In  labor  and  strife, 
And  fled  the  gay  smiles  of  pleasu  re ; 

Still  dreaming  of  home 

Ami  bright  days  to  come. 
When  the  boys  should  all  dub  me  Sir  T.-rry. 

And  flowing  with  cash, 

IM  cut  :i  big  dash 
In  the  beautiful  City  of  Derry. 


POEMS   OF  MICHAEL  8CANLAN. 


I  went  to  the  land  where  the  ore  was  growing, 
Where  Fortune's  holding 
Her  purse  at  the  golden 
Gate  that  leads 
To  the  flowery  meads 

Where  the  golden  sands  are  glowing; 

I  wrestled  with  mountain  and  river. 

Within  me  the  hardness  of  fever, 
Tunnelled  and  fought, 
Barter'd  and  bought — 

I'd  have  gold  or  burrow  forever, 
For  at  every  stroke 
An  angel  spoke, 

With  bright  eyes  and  lips  of  cherry, 
"  We  wait  for  you 
O'er  the  waters  blue, 

Come  back  to  your  friends  in  Derry." 

At  last  fair  Fortune  came  up  smiling! 

With  the  witch's 

Smiles  came  riches 

To  bless  me  at  last 

For  the  barren  past, 
And  her  years  of  deceit  and  beguiling; 
And  soon  o'er  the  blue  waters  going, 
With  fair  winds  merrily  blowing, 

The  days  of  my  youth, 

Like  the  breath  from  the  south, 
Warm,  soft  round  my  senses  flowing, 

By  my  side  on  the  green 

Was  Kitty  McQueen, 
And  we  danced  to  the  "  Humors  of  Kerry — " 

The  moonbeams  danced  too, 

As  they  used  to  do 
In  the  beautiful  City  of  Derry. 

An  Irish  summer  night  was  shaking 

Her  dark  locks  over 

Her  ocean  lover; 

With  pale  surprise 

She  ope'd  her  eyes, 
And  beheld  the  morning  breaking; 
'Twas  then  o'er  the  blue  waves  appearing 
We  saw  the  green  hills  of  Erin, 

The  sun  burst  in  light 

Thro'  the  shadows  of  night, 
And  we  hailed  the  bright  omen  with  cheer- 
ing. 

Into  the  bay 

I  sailed  that  day 


And  leapt  into  a  wherry ; 

The  dream  I  prized 

Was  realized — 
I  was  rich  in  the  City  of  Derry ! 

I  looked  around  in  wildest  wonder, 

Paused  and  falter'd, 

Things  looked  alter'd, 

In  all  the  place 

I  knew  no  face, 

The  town  seemed  all  battered  asunder; 
I  asked  for  my  friends  in  the  city, 
I  searched  thro'  the  maidens  for  Kitty, 

But  none  heard  before 

Of  the  name  that  I  bore, 
Till  an  old  man  looked  on  me  with  pity, 

And  said,  with  surprise, 

While  the  tears  filled  his  eyes, 
"Why,  God  bless  me!  your  name  must  be 
Terry, 

Who  sailed  away 

On  that  long  summer  day 
When  we  were  both  boys  in  Derry!  " 

"  Many  a  year  your  Love  sat  sighing, 
Patient  waiting. 
Never  mating, 
Her  heart  beat  true 
Alone  for  you, 

She  named  your  name  when  dying; 

And  oft,  when  the  roses  were  blooming, 

And  the  bees  thro'  the  gardens  went  hum- 
ming, 

The  boys  used  to  meet 
At  the  end  of  the  street 

And  talk  with  delight  of  your  coming; 
But  the  long  years  pass'd  on, 
And  took,  one  by  one, 

The  sad,  the  serene,  and  the  merry- 
Some  gone  o'er  the  waves, 
And  the  rest  in  their  graves 

In  the  beautiful  City  of  Derry." 

I  went  to  the  Green,  saw  the  merry  making, 

Bright  eyes  glancing, 

Light  feet  dancing, 

Dancing,  too, 

As  we  used  to  do;  [ing. 

They  danced  on  my  heart,  for  I  felt  it  break- 
I  saw  the  maids  green  garlands  twining, 


I'nK.Ms   OF  MICIIAKL   OAVANAOtt 


I  thought  of  a  loved  one  long  pining, 
I  looked  for  her  eyes 
To  the  blue  summer  skies, 

And  the  stars  seem'd  in  mockery  shining. 
I  said  to  the  girls, 
With  the  long,  sunny  curls, 

Who  danced  to  the  "  Humors  of  Kerry," 
Oh,  maidens,  go  pray, 
How  can  you  be  gay 

And  so  many  green  graves  in  Derry  ? 

I  wander  away  in  the  shadowy  gloaming, 
Sadly  musing, 
Always  choosing 


Tin-  i>:ith  of  glooms 

Among  tin-  tombs, 

Ami  think — do  they  know  I'm  coming? 
I  sit  on  the  graves  where  they're  sleeping, 
Lone  watch,  in  return,  I'm  keeping; 

And  this  is  the  me.-.) 

Of  worldly  greed, 
Sorrow,  and  woe,  and  weeping. 

I'd  give  all  the  gold 

The  ocean  could  hold 
To  kiss  my  Love's  lips  of  cherry. 

Be  young  once  more 

With  friends  galore, 
In  the  beautiful  City  of  Deny. 


POEMS  OF  MICHAEL  CAYAMGH, 


MYSTERIES. 

AIR — "  Sliabh-na-mhari." 

How  strange  the  subtle,  mysterious  power 
That   sways   his   spirit  who's  doomed  to 

roam, 

When  contemplating  some  simple  flower, 
Which  decked  the  fields  of  his  boyhood's 

home! 

Who  that  has  loved  sees  those  azure  blos- 
soms, 

But  treads,  in  fancy,  the  hallowed  spot — 
Where    throbbed   responsive    two    trusting 

bosoms 

And   fond   lips    murmured   "Forget-Me- 
Not!" 

The  Primrose  fair,  that  perfumed  the  hedges, 

By  which,  in  childhood,  I  loved  to  play 
With  one   whose    true    heart    required    no 
pledges, 

With  moistened  eyes  I  behold  to-d:iy  : 
It  bloomed  in  beauty  where  last  I  kissed  her, 

Ere  I  departed  to  cross  the  wave : 
The  flower  so  loved  1>\  my  gentle  sister, 

Now  shuds  its  fragrance  above  her  grave. 


Those  sweet  home-charmers  I  seldom  greet 
here 

(They  rarely  bloom  in  a  stranger  clim 
But  there's  a  wizard  I  daily  meet  here, 

Whose  spell  annihilates  space  and  time. 
"Green    Erin's  Emblem!" — with   blossom- 
golden, 

That  links  my  heart  with  its  triple  band— 
Of  Nature's  twining,  to  memories  olden— 

Of  Love,  and  Friendship,  and  Native  Land. 


LEATH    SLICJHK'WK     Knell.  Mi 
CKAl'-TI  (  liriNN.* 

From  all  the  rivers  which  son  or  daughter 

Of  Adam  prizes,  the  world  within. 
The  •'  Branch  ,..f  Beauty  !  "  you  bear-"  I  • 


From  Youghal  Harbor  to  Cappoquin  : 
For.  nowhere  else  do  the  dancing  billows, 

In  slanting  .-un  beams  so  softly  >li. 
As  where  they  stream  through  thy  fringing 

willows  — 

Lentil      Mii/he'il  ir      Ewhni" 
Okuinnt 


•  Half  w •>»  'twill Tougha! and  Cappoquin. 


966 


POEMS   OF   MICHAEL   CAVANAGH. 


'Twas  there,  in  old  times,  a  jilted  lover 

Met  a  blooming  lass  on  a  summers  day; 
She,  blushing,  owned  that  "  a  tickle  rover 

With  her  young  affections  had  fled  away;" 
To  soothe  her  sorrows  and  end  Ms  straying, 
Their  severed  heart-strings  they  jointly 

twine; 
And  ten  thousand  pipers  have  since  been 

playing— 

"  Leatli     Sliglie'dir     Eocliail's     Ceap-ui- 
Chuinnf " 

Where  the  limpid   flood    to  the   South  is 

sweeping, 
For  a  backward  glance  at  loved  Knock- 

meldown, 

Lies,  crowned  with  oak-wreaths,  like  wood- 
nymph  sleeping, 

In  mirrored  beauty,  my  native  town: 
God  guard  the  hearts  that  those  gray  roofs 

cover, 

Whose  fervid  pulses  respond  to  mine, 
When  in  raptured  visions  I  fondly  hover 
"Leatli     Sliglie'dir     Eocli  ail's     Ceap-ui- 
Ohuinn." 

Then  fairy  music  seems  floating  o'er  us, 

As  larks  pour  down  their  melodious  floods; 
While,    all    around,    springs    the    thrilling 

chorus 

Of  Irish  songsters,  in  Irish  woods : 
The  vesper-bell,  in  the  "Abbey  "  ringing, 

Sounds  faintly  sweet  at  the  day's  decline; 
And,  in  the  moonlight,  the  boatman's  sing- 
ing- 

"Leatli     Sliglie'dir     Eochail's     Ceap-ui- 
Chuinn" 

I  sadly  wake  from  those  dreams  Elysian 

To  find  the  vision  dissolved  in  air, 
And  God's  bequest  to  the  "  Clan-Milesian !  " 

Usurped  by  robbers  hell-planted  there: 
That  Erin's  children— the  loving-hearted, 
Should   seek   new   homes   o'er  the  ocean 

brine, — 
To  sigh  through  life  for  the  friends  they 

parted — 

"Leatli     Sliglie'dir     Eochail's     Ceap-ui- 
Chuinn.'' 


A    CAOINE 

FOR 

ANDKEW   O'MAHONY    CAVANAGH, 

DIED   APEIL   27,    1879. 
DEDICATED   TO   HIS    MOTHER. 

Though  bright  the  May-day  sun  illumes  the 

west, 

My  soul  gives  no  response  to  Nature's  joy; 
For  in  the  green  oak's  shade  I've  laid  to  rest 
Our. "Baby  Boy!" 

This  tearful  Spring  Death's  flood  has  burst 

its  banks, 

O'er  our  hearts'  garden  desolation  spread, 
But  for  the  flowers  yet  spared  we  give  Him 
thanks, 

Who'll  raise  the  dead. 

With  loving  friends  the  pangs  of  grief  I've 

shared, — 
Who  now  will  share  a  parent's  grief  with 

me? 

Would  that  from  this  those  stricken  hearts 
were  spared 

Beyond  the  sea ! 

They  shared  my  joy  when  our  beloved  was 

born, 

The  hopes  forerunning  all  his  future  years; 
They'll  mourn  him  (now  that  I  am  left  for- 
lorn), 

With  kindred  tears. 

The  hopes  that  seem  but  visioned  memories 

now, 
The  love  that  centred  round  "  His  Mother's 

Son!" 

God  only  knows — to  His  decree  we  bow — 
"  His  Will  be  done." 

An  "  Irish  shamrock  "  on  his  breast  he  bore — 
A  "  true-love  token  "  to  the  faithful  band — 
Who  still  the  glorious  "  Three-in-One  "  im- 
plore 

To  bless  our  land. 

I  loved  to  teach  our  boy  to  love  the  "  Green," 
To    lisp    his   childish  prayers   in   Erin's 

tongue; 

To  chant  for  him  the  lays  sublime  Oisin 
Melodious  sung. 


POEMS    OF    MH'IIAKI.    <  AY  \V\UI. 


To  croon,  while  he  clung  nestling  to   my 

brea.-t. 
Old   rhymes    of    Erin's  glories    and  her 

wrongs; 

The  lullabies  to  which  he  sank  to  rest 
Were  Irish  songs. 

I  hoped  to  rear  him  in  the  ancient  creed, 
Teach  him  to  think  of  his  old  race  with 

pride, 

To  live  like  them — true  men  in  word  and 
deed — 

Die  as  they  died. 

That,  gifted  with  the  might  which  knowledge 

brings, 
And  trained  to  wield  a  soldier's  weapon 

good, 

He,  in  the  People's  struggle  with  the  Kings, 
Would  show  his  blood. 

That  haply  when  I'd  run  my  destined  race, 
(Pray  God  to  find  a  grave  by  Amhan-Mor's 

banks), 

My   free-born  boy  would  take  his  father's 
place 

In  Erin's  ranks. 

That  in  the  cause  of  Fatherland  and  Right 
He'd  prove  a  credit  to  the  name  he  bore, 
And  see  the  Isle  illumined  with  Freedom's 
light 

From  shore  to  shore. 

Those   glowing  hopes   have   sank   into   his 

grave — 

Earth's  emanations — all  have  now  grown 
dim;  [save, 

The  Beacon  Light,  which  shone  Mankind  to 
Encircles  him. 

Christ  said, "  Let  little  children  come  to  Me, 
Of    such   the   Kingdom   is  composed   of 

Heaven." 

For  those  consoling  words  our  thanks  to  Thee, 
Good  Lord,  are  given. 

Thanks  for  Thy  precious  gift  of  Christian 

Faith,  [*J*t 

That  teaches  us  to  lift  our  t oar-dimmed 

And  see,  beyond  the  misty  "Vale  of  Death." 

Life  in  the  skies. 


I  know  that  through  those  boundless  starry 

spheres 

Our  little  cherub  floats  on  radiant  wings; 
That  with  his  l.h-st  angelical  compeers, 
Thy  praise  he  sings. 

I  know  he's  happy  in  Thy  Home  above; 
I  strive  to  be  resigned,  but  yet  I  miss 
(Forgive,  dear  Lord,  this  yearning  human 
love) 

Our  "  Birdie's  kiss." 

Yet  Nature's  love  must  spring  from  source 

divine, 

A  pure  ethereal  essence  like  tin  ^oul: 
Man's  heart  is  but  its  temporary  shrine. 
Thy  home  its  goal. 

When  his  pure  spirit  sought  Thy  mansion 

blest, 

It  bore  away  a  portion  of  my  heart. 
To  light,  with  Love's  electric  flame,  the 
Ere  I  depart. 

I  pray  Thee,  Lord,  to  guide  our  steps  alway. 
Whate'er  the  means  Thy  wisdom  doth  em- 
ploy; 

Till,  in  the  light  of  Thy  eternal  day, 
We  meet  our  boy. 


MY    iiMsn    BLACKTHORN. 


(A 


* 


(The  Banl  inritrth  /••  *  t»  ""mi 

True  sons  of  the  old  land. 

Of  Brian  and  Eoglmn; 
Fill  up,  with  a  bold  hand. 

This  pure  lnni-: 
For  in  liquor  tli 

This  blest  night  we'd  scorn 
To  wet  our  truiskten.  <>r 

To  toast  my  blackthorn. 


(///•  npHtrnjthitfth  tlif  nhl  *'"/.) 
To  the  "  KiH-k  of  Dromaiiii!* 
(The  place  where  it  grew  in). 

v  .|iiutT  (if  ye  can)  a 
Full  «|iiart  of  this  lirrwin': 


A  POEM   BY  KATHARINE   MURPHY. 


For  there,  in  full  sight  of 
Where  we,  boys,  were  born, 

The  blossom  shone  bright  of 
My  Irish  blackthorn. 

(He  recalletli  youthful  days.} 
There,  in  March,  the  young  thrushes 

We  sought — ye  remember; 
And  from  brown  hazel  bushes 

Plucked  nuts  in  September; 
And  druichteens,  with  the  girls, 

We  picked  on  May-morn — 
When  the  dew  gemmed  with  pearls 

The  blooming  blackthorn. 

(And  the  brave  days  of  old.} 
In  old  blood-letting  days, 

On  that  Rock,  high  and  hoary, 
Fiery  bards  hymned  their  lays 

To  the  Geraldine's  glory; 
And,  ten  ages  before, 

There  Oisin  wound  his  horn, 
While  the  Fiann  chased  the  boar 

Through  the  copse  of  blackthorn. 

{He  caressingly  addresseth  the  "blackthorn."} 
Prized  gift  from  my  sire-land, 

I  feel,  when  I  grasp  you, 
A  hand-shake  from  Ireland  ! 

Then  tighter  I  clasp  you. 
When  I'm  waked,  let  no  wreath 

My  plain  coffin  adorn; 
But,  beside  me  in  death, 

Let  them  lay  my  blackthorn. 


(He  exhibiteth  "  the  ruling  passion  strong  in 

death.") 
Then,  when  over  the  Styx 

I  shall  find  myself  landed, 
'Mong  our  old  fighting  "bricks" 

I'll  seek  "  Looee-Long-Handed ! "  * 
So  when  Gabriel's  trump 

All  the  nations  shall  warn, 
O'er  the  Sassanach's  rump 

He  can  swing  the  blackthorn. 

(He  toasteth  "  The  boy  who  cut  his  stick"} 

"An  Ceangal  (The  winding  up) 
"  Sho  do  slantha!     O'Hogan ! " 

Who  brought  my  stick  over; 
All  through  life  may  your  brogan 

Tread  lightly  "  in  clover; " 
May  you  ne'er  want  a  "  snifter  " 

Of  "malt  "or  "old  corn," 
When  a  rifle  you'd  lift,  or 

An  Irish  blackthorn! 


*  "  Long-Handed-Looee  "  I  was  a  King 
Whose  fame  old  poets  loved  to  sing. 
'Tis  he  that  sword  or  axe  could  swing 

In  glorious  battle  fray. 
They  say  his  equal  ne'er  has  been 
Encountered  on  an  Irish  green, 
Save  Oscar — Champion  of  the  Fiann ! 

In  Erin's  later  day: 
For  forty  years  King  Looee  reigned, 
And  victories,  in  scores,  he  gained, 
His  "  right  to  rule  "  his  hand  maintained, 

Until  liis  head  was  white: 
Then,  circled  by  the  braves  he  led— 
(A  chief  of  chiefs  alive  and  dead), 
He  filled  a  hero's  crimsoned  bed 

On  Usnagh's  olden  height. 


A  POEI  BY  KATHARINE  MURPHY, 


SENTENCED   TO   DEATH. 

With  the  Sign  of  the  Cross  on  my  forehead, 

as  I  kneel  on  this  cold  dungeon  floor, 
As  I  kneel  at  your  feet,  reverend  father,  with 

no  one  but  God  to  the  fore; 
With  my  heart  opened  out  for  your  readin' 

an'  no  hope  or  thought  of  relase 
From  the  death  that  at  daybreak  to-morrow 

is  starin'  me  straight  in  the  face, 


I  have  tould  you  the  faults  of  my  boyhood 
—the  follies  an'  sins  of  my  youth — 

An'  now  of  this  crime  of  my  manhood  111 
spake  with  the  same  open  truth. 

You  see,  sir,  the  land  was  our  people's  for 
ninety  good  years,  an'  their  toil 

What  first  was  a  bare  bit  of  mountain  brought 
into  good  wheat-bearin'  soil; 


A  POEM  BY  KATHAKIM:  MIIMMIV. 


'Twas  their  hands  raised  the  walls  of  the 

cabin,  where  our  child  her  were  born 

an'  bred, 
Where  our   weddin's  an'    christenin's   wor 

merry,  where  we  waked  and  keened 

over  our  dead; 
We  wor  honest  an'  fair  to  the  landlord — we 

paid  him  the  rent  to  the  day — 
An'  it  wasnt  our  fault  if  our  hard  sweat  he 

squandered  an'  wasted  away 
In  the  cards,  an'  the  dice,  an'  the  race-course, 

an*  often  in  deeper  disgrace, 
That  no  tongue  could  relate  without  bringin' 

a  blush  to  an  honest  man's  face. 
But  the  day  come  at  last  that  they  worked 

for,  when  the  castles,  the  mansions, 

the  lands, 
They  should  hould  but  in  thrust  for  the 

people,  to  their  shame  passed  away 

from  their  hands, 
An'  our  place,  sir,  too,  wint  to  auction — by 

many  the  acres  were  sought, 
An'  what  cared  the  sthranger  that  purchased, 

who   made    'em    the  good    sale    he 

bought  ? 

The  ould  folks  wor  gone — thank  God  for  it 

— where  trouble  or  care  can't  purshue, 
But  the  wife  and  the  childher — 0  Father  in 

Heaven — what  was  I  to  do  ? 
Still  I  thought,  I'll  go  spake  to  the  new  man 

—I'll  tell  him  of  me  an'  of  mine; 
The  thrifle  that  I've  put  together  I'll  place 

in  his  hands  as  a  fine; 
The  estate  is  worth  six  times  his  money,  and 

maybe  his  heart  isn't  cowld : 
But  the  scoundhrel  that  bought  "  the  thief's 

pen'orth  "  was  worse  than  the  pauper 

that  sowld. 

I  chased  him  to  house  an'  to  office,  wherever 

I  thought  he'd  be  met, 
I  offered  him  all  he'd  put  on  it — but  no, 

'twas  the  land  he  should  get; 
I  prayed  as  men  only  to  God  pray — my  prayer 

was  spurned  and  denied, 
An,  what  mattered  how  just  my  poor  right 

was,  when  he  had  the  law  at  his  side  ? 
I  was  young,  an*  but  few  years  was  married 

to  one  with  a  voice  like  a  bird — 


When  she  sang  the  ould  songs  of  our  country, 

every  feeling  within  me  was  stirred. 
Oh!  I  see  her  this  minnit  before  me,  with  a 

foot  wouldn't  bend  a  croneen, 
Her  laughin'  eyes  lifted  to  kiss  me-— my  dar- 

lin',  my  bright-eyed  Eileen! 
'Twas  often  with  pride  that  I  watched  her, 

her  soft  arms  fouldin'  our  boy, 
Until  he  chased  the  smile  from  her  red  lip, 

an'  silenced  the  song  of  her  joy. 

Whisht,  father,  have  patience  a  minnit,  let 

me  wipe  the  big  drops  from  my  brow — 
Whisht,  father,  I'll  thry  not  to  curse  him; 

but  I  tell  you,  don't  prachetome  now. 
Excitin'  myself?    Yes,  I  know  it;  but  the 

story  is  now  nearly  done; 
An',  father,  your  own  breast  is  heavin' —  I 

the  tears  down  from  you  run. 
Well,  he  threatened — he  coaxed — he  ejected: 

for  we  tried  to  cling  to  the  place 
That  was  mine — yes,  far  more  than  'twas  hi.-, 

sir;  I  tould  him  so  up  to  his  face; 
But  the  little  I   had   melted   from   me   in 

makin'  the  fight  for  my  own. 
An*  a  beggar,  with  three  helpless  childher, 

out  on  the  world  wide  I  was  thrown. 
An'  Eileen  would  soon  have  another — an- 
other that  never  drew  breath — 
The  neighbors  wor  good  to  us  always — but 

what  could  they  do  agin'  death  ? 
For  my  wife  an'  her  infant    In-fore   me   lay 

dead,  and  by  him  they  wor  kilt. 
As  sure  as  I'm  kneeling  before  you,  to  own 

to  in  if  share  of  the  guilt. 

I  laughed  all  eonsolin*  to  scorn.  I  didn't  mind 
much  what  I  said. 

With  Kileen  a  corpse  in  the  barn,  on  a  bun- 
dle of  straw  for  a  bed; 

But  the  blood  in  my  veins  boiled  to  madness 
—do  they  think  that  a  man  is  a  log? 

I  thracked  him  once  more — 'twas  the  last 
time — and  shot  him  that  niirht  like  a 
dog. 

Yes,  7  did  it;  /  shot  him— but,  father,  let 
thim  who  make  laws  for  the  land 

Look  to  it,  when  they  come  to  judgment.  f..r 
the  blood  that  lies  red  on  inv  hand. 


970 


A  POEM   BY   THOMAS  J.   M'GEOGHEGAN. 


If  I  dhrew  the  piece,  'twas  they  primed  it, 
that  left  him  sthretched  cowld  on  the 
sod: 

An'  from  their  bar,  where  I'm  sintinced,  I 
appeal  to  the  bar  of  my  God 

For  the  justice  I  never  got  from  them,  for 
the  right  in  their  hands  that's  un- 
known. 

Still  at  last,  sir— I'll  say  it— I'm  sorry  I  took 
the  law  into  my  own; 

That  I  stole  out  that  night  in  the  darkness, 
while  mad  with  my  grief  and  despair, 


And  dhrew  the  black  sowl  from  his  body, 
without  givin'  him  time  for  a  prayer. 


Well,  'tis  tould,  sir;  you  have  the  whole  story; 

God  forgive  him  an'  me  for  our  sins; 

My  life  now  is  indin' — but,  father,  the  young 

ones,  for  them  life  begins; 
You'll  look  to  poor  Eileen's  young  orphans  ? 
God  bless  you.     And  now  I'm  at  paice, 
And  resigned  to  the  death  that  to-morrow  is 

starin'  me  sthraight  in  the  face. 


A  POEM  BY  THOMAS  J,  M'GEOGHEGAN. 


THE    HERO   OF    THE    HOUR. 

The  prison  doors  are  closed  on  you,  yet  still 

your  hopes  are  bright, 
They  fling  you  in  a  dungeon  when  you  dare 

defend  the  right. 
They  think  to  crush  your  spirit,  but  'twill 

take  a  bolder  flight 
Up,  up,  towards  Freedmen's  meteor  as  it 

flashes  through  the  night ! 

And  thus,  O'Brien,  they  tell  us  they  have 

branded  us  at  last, 
A  "  felon "  in  a  convict's  cell,  with  lawless 

ruffians  classed, 
Yet  still  we  see  asthore  machree,  you  never 

can  lose  caste 
Among  the   Gael  while  still  you  nail  your 

color  to  the  mast ! 

That  color  is  the  Irish  Green,  the  same  which 

fluttered  o'er 
Your  sire's  *  legions  when  they  chased  the 

Danes  from  Erin's  shore — 
0,  for  an  hour  of  Brian's  power  to  lift  that 

Green  once  more 
And  give  our  foe  back  blow  for  blow  amidst 

the  battle's  roar! 

The  will  remains  to  break  the  chains  that 

bind  our  native  land. 
His  sons  are  true  to  Brian  Boru,  and,  noblest 

of  the  band, 


*Brian  Boru. 


And  thou,  O'Brien,  whose  one  design  is  but 

to  do  and  dare, 
That  Freedom's  eagle  yet  may  soar  through 

Ireland's  mountain  air! 

The  vile,  malignant  Tories,  may  bolt  your 

prison  doors, 
And  bind  you  there,  still  through  the  air 

your  chainless  spirit  soars ! 
They  cannot  chain  that  spirit  down ;  it  bursts 

and  breaks  away, 
Like  phantom  bright  that  sweeps  by  night 

o'er  ocean's  voicef ul  spray ! 

Your  spirit  moves  the  Irish  heart,  and  thrills 

it  through  and  through; 
It  throbbed  before,  but  now  still  more,  since 

you  prove  real  and  true : — 
Nay,  from  the  precincts  of  your  cell  your 

spirit  now  can  wield 
More  power  to  kindle  Freedom's  flame  than 

armies  in  the  field ! 

Let  Tories  call  thee  traitor;  let  Tory  knaves 
deride, 

We  know  thee  as  our  hero,  for  thou  art  Ire- 
land's pride, 

And  Tories  feel  that  Irish  steel  could  scarce 
prove  such  a  power 

As  you  prove  now  with  knitted  brow — THE 

HEEO    OF   THE    HOUK! 


POEMS  OF  JOHN  WALSH, 


THE  FEAST   OF  GILLA   MORE. 

A   BALLAD   OF    THE   BLACKWATER. 
I. 

There  was  feasting  in  the  castle, 

And  they  danced  within  the  hall, 
'Till  the  rusted  armor  rattled, 

That  was  pinned  upon  the  wall; 
For  when  Gilla  More  held  wassail, 

There  was  plenty  at  his  door, 
And  a  welcome  for  the  stranger 
To  a  place  upon  his  floor! 
But  macrachf  and  macrarh! 

There  was  one  sad  heart  and  sore, 
That  was  forced  to  join  the  revel 
Of  the  chieftain  Gilla  More. 

II. 

Right  royally  the  chieftain, 

Sat  his  board  like  any  king, 
And  his  bearded  captains  round  him, 

Made  the  clinking  glasses  ring; 
And  a  stranger  sat  beside  him, 
In  the  Saxon's  silken  guise, 
With  a  fawning  smile  upon  his  face 
And  cunning  in  his  eyes. 

While  macracli!  and  macrachf 

'Twere  the  captains'  hearts  were  sore, 
For  he  wooed  the  only  daughter 
Of  the  chieftain  Gilla  More. 

III. 

"Arise,  our  guest  and  comrade!  " 

Said  the  chieftain  Gilla  More, 
"And  lead  our  daughter  in  the  dance 

Upon  the  sanded  floor!" 
Then  up  stood  he — the  Saxon, — 
\\  itli  a  haughty  air  and  high, 
While  the  sun-browed  eaptains  bit  their  lips, 
And  swore  as  he  passed  by. 
For,  macrachf  ami  tinicrach! 

'Twas  a  trying  hour  ami  sniv 

For  the  sunny-hearted  daughter. 

Of  the  chieftain  Gilla  More. 


IV. 

"  'Twere  better  far,"  they  whispered, 
"  She  were  spear-deep  in  the  clay, 
Than  be  that  cunning  Saxon's  bride 

For  one  short  winter's  day." 
"  Ho!  strike  the  swelling  music  loud 

And  clear  the  dancing  floor 
For  my  heiress  and  her  lover !  " 
Said  the  chieftain  Gilla  More! 
Then  macrachf  and  macrnrh! 

With  a  heavy  heart  and  sore, 
Did  the  maiden  leave  her  oaken  seat 
And  stand  upon  the  floor. 


V. 

When  up  the  lofty  hall  there  strode 

A  swarth  Milesian  knight, 
With  cap  in  hand  and  pointed  shoon, 

And  golden  spurs  so  bright : 
His  waving  cuilfion  floated  down 

Upon  his  purple  vest, 
And  five  bright  colors  jauntily 
Were  striped  across  his  breast. 
Then  macrachf  how  she  blushed 

1  the  sunshine  floated  o'er 
The  fond  face  of  the  heiress 
Of  the  chieftain  Gilla  More. 


VI. 

He  stood  before  the  chieftain. 

And  he  smiled  into  his  face: 
"  I  am  come  to  j<>iu  your  re\el. 
And  to  claim  a  knightly  pi... 
••Then  I  tell  you  by  this  g<><.d  right  hand, 

That  often  grasped  the  sword. 
That  I  give  \oii  Iri>h/ui7///'' 
To  my  ball  and  to  my  board!  " 
Then  inncriK  h  f  and  mnrrm-li  ! 

I>id  the  clansmen  laugh  aloiul. 
While  upon  the  gazing  Si 
Many  scornful  eyes  were  bowed. 


972 


POEMS    OF   JOHN   WALSH. 


VII. 

The  stranger  seized  a  mother, 
And  he  held  it  to  the  light. 
"  Oh,  Gilla  More,  here's  to  your  weal, 

I  drink  your  health  to-night — 
Here's  strength  to  us,  and  black  dismay 

To  all  who  hate  the  Gael!" 
With  wild  "Farrahs  !  "  they  drank  with  him, 
"  Success  attend  the  Gael !  " 
But  macrach  !  and  macracli ! 

'Twas  the  Saxon  stared  awide, 
And  held  his  hand  as  stark  as  tho' 
'Twere  pinioned  to  his  side. 

VIII. 

Then  he,  the  gallant  Irish  Knight, 

Took  Mourna's  snow-white  hand — 
Did  ever  pair  so  young  and  fair 

To  dance  a  measure  stand  ? 
Then  quoth  the  Knight,  "  Mac-Gilla  More 

I  came  to  claim  my  bride — 
Long  since  I  won  her  heart  and  hand 
Beside  the  Finisk's  tide ! " 

Then  macrach  !  and  macracli ! 

Did  the  clansmen's  eye-balls  glow, 
While   with   mailed    fists    they   madly 

struck 
The  table  many  a  blow. 

IX. 

There  reigned  an  iron  silence, 

When  the  Gilla  More  stood  up — 
With  one  hand  on  his  graven  skein 

While  th'  other  held  the  cup — 
"  'Tis  right,  and  you  have  won  her ! 
And  I  pledge  you  troth  to-night, 
For  the  Saxon  is  a  laggard," 
"And  a  coward  !  "  said  the  knight. 
Then  macracli !  and  macracli ! 

With  what  joy  and  wild  uproar 
Did  the  stranger  kiss  the  daughter 
Of  the  chieftain  Gilla  More. 

X. 

"Aye!  a  coward,  and  a  recreant, 

And  a  traitor  double-dyed, 
For  I've  known  his  Saxon  features 

And  his  hateful  scowl  of  pride; 
When  we  trailed  the  Butlers'  banners 

Thro'  the  Glen  of  Aherlow, 


He  was  with  us  in  the  morning — 
In  the  evening  with  the  foe !  " 
Then  upon  the  trembling  Saxon 

Did  they  rush  with  fierce  "Farrah!" 
Like  an  eagle  on  his  quarry, 
Or  a  wolf  upon  his  prey. 

XI. 

"And  he  sought  my  life  in  combat, 

And  by  every  fiendish  guile 
Did  he  try  to  win  my  blooming  bride — 

My  Mourna's  sunny  smile; 
Ten  times  he  sprawled  upon  the  earth 

Before  this  hand  of  mine — 
For  I  am  John  Fitzgerald, 
Of  the  House  of  Geraldine! " 
Then  macrach  !  and  macrach  ! 

Like  the  mad  waves  of  the  sea, 
When  they  lash  the  shore  in  winter, 
Was  the  clansmen's  shout  of  glee. 

XII. 

"  By  the  grey  head  of  my  father !  " 

Said  the  chieftain  Gilla  More, 
"  I  would  be  first  if  he  should  lie 

A  corpse  upon  my  floor; 
But  he  feasted  at  my  table, 

And  he  ate  my  salt  and  bread, 
And  that  I  broke  ajailthe 
It  shall  never  yet  be  said ! 

Then  open  wide  the  draw-bridge, 
Let  him  hasten  from  my  door, 
For  my  Irish  blood  is  boiling !  " 
Said  the  chieftain  Gilla  More. 

XIII. 

There  was  feasting  in  the  castle 
'Till  the  revels  shook  the  wall, 
And  brave  knights  in  purple  vesture, 

Without  number,  thronged  the  hall; 
They  spoke  in  silver  phrases 

To  the  ladies  blooming  fair, 
And  they  led  them  in  the  flowing  dance, 
The  daughters  of  green  Eire. 
And  macrach  !  and  macrach  ! 
Not  a  weary  heart  nor  sore 
Saw  the  wedding  of  the  heiress. 
Of  the  chieftain  Gilla  More. 


POEMS   OF  JOHN  WALSH. 


THE    BRIDE-SIDE. 

The  stream  pours  down  through  the  dancing 

reeds, 

And  the  long  grass  waves  by  the  tide-side, 
And  the  wild  birds  dive  'mid  the  flaunting 

weeds 

That  fringe  the  banks  of  the  .Bride-side; 
The  herdsmen  whoop  to  the  drowsy  kine 
That  wind  to  the  mountain's  wide  side, 
And  peace  and  plenty  they  breathe  around 
The  pleasant  banks  of  the  Bride-side. 
The  fresh,  the  fair,  the  green  old  fields 
Still  stretch  by  the  babbling  tide-side; 
But  alas !  for  the  fresher  and  fond  young 

hearts 

That  bloomed  by  the  banks  of  the 
Bride-side. 

Ah,  me !  but  the  years  they  have  tarried  long, 

And  many  have  rolled  above  me, 
Since  my  boyhood  flowed  like  an  Irish  song 
From  the  lips  of  the  maid  that  loved  me; 
When  the  pebbly  stream  stole  away  the  hours, 

As  I  fished  by  the  gliding  tide-side 
And  my  life  seemed  wreathed  with  summer 

flowers 

When  I  played  by  the  happy  Bride-side. 
The  pebbly  strand  and  the  bending  banks 
Still  stretch  by  the  bubbling  tide-side; 
But  the  time  is  gone  when  my  heart  was 

young 

By  the  pleasant  banks  of  the  Bride- 
side. 

But  I  hold  my  own  against  death  and  thrall, 

And  ne'er  do  I  mean  to  give  in, 
Though  the  foreigner's  frown,  like  a  jet-black 

pall, 

Still  shadows  the  laud  we  live  in, 
I  will  till  my  fields  in  the  fresh  spring's  prime, 

Still  trusting  in  God  that's  o'er  me; 
I  will  brace  my  heart  for  the  coming  time 
That  I  now  see  clear  before  me ; 

For  to  work  and  hope  is  the  right  of  man, 

And  labor  has  many  a  bright  side ; 
So  I'll  cling  to  the  soil  where  I  gladly  toil, 
By  the  pleasant  banks  of  the  Bride- 
side. 
62 


WESTWARD,   HO! 

Westward,   Ho  !      Westward,   Ho  !    to   the 

land  of  the  rolling  prairie; 
Westward  still,  and  for  evermore ;  so  there's 

food  in  the  land,  what  care  ye? 
Hope,  and  health,  and  strength  and  wealth ; 

they  are  smiling  there  before  ye. 
Death  and  doom,  and  a  pauper's  grave,  hold 

sway  in  the  homes  that  bore  ye. 

Westward,  Ho! — and  westward  still,  for  the 

scourge  is  behind  that  drives  ye 
From  the  green  old  hills  and  the  pleasant 

vales;  sure  the  wrongs  must  be  deep 

that  drive  ye 
From  the  mountain  sides  where  the  Fenian 

chiefs — as  we  read  in  the  olden  story — 
With  their  deer-hounds  dun,  chased  the  ant- 

lered  elk  thro'  the  twilight  dim  and 

hoary. 

There's   many  a  green  wood  and   pleasant 

glen,  there  is  many  a  home  in  Erin, 
Where  the  pillared  towers  of  the  Priests  of 

Baal  to  the  clouds  their  heads  are  r 

ing, 
Where  the  full  moon  shining  as  white  as 

snow  on  the  holy  well-springs  glances, 
And  the  bounteous   streams  of  the  island 

flow  while  the  light  on  their  bosom 

dances. 

Westward,  Ho! — for  it  seems  that  a  curse 

on  the  head  of  your  tribe  is  falling; 
A  heavy,  woeful,  and  blighting  curse,  your 

hearts  and  your  souls  appalling. 
Eating  into  the  core  are  the  rusted  chains, 

with  the  famine-shriek  howling  round 

you, 
While  the  pleasant  fields  that  your  fathers 

tilled  with  a  motherly  love  surround 

you. 
Westward  still,  hardy  souls  and  true,  there 

is  gold  in  the  land  of  tin-  stranger, 
Wealth  and  riches  are  waiting  there,  to  be 

won  but  with  toil  and  danger; 
But  the  manly  heart  and  the  iron  hand,  they 

will  cherish  the  roof  above  you, 
And  honor  and  plenty  will  laugh  in  your  face, 

with  the  innocent  ones  that  love  you. 


974 


A   POEM  BY   MARCELLA   A.   FITZGEEALD. 


Westward,  Ho! — for  a  long  time  yet — who 

would  live  as  a  slave  in  Erin  ? 
With  the  cowardly  brand  of  the  Helot's  lot, 

on  his  blushless  forehead  bearing, 
To  crouch  like  hounds  from  each  tyrant's 

frown,  to  tremble  and  cringe  beneath 

him, 
When  a  gleaming  brand  in  his  strong  right 

hand  were  the  way  that  a  MAN  would 

meet  him. 

Westward,  Ho! — for  many  a  chief  in  that 

land  of  the  brave  and  bold  are, 
Who  will  stir  your  blood  with  their  tongues 

of  fire,  or  will  teach  you  the  trade  of 

a  soldier, 
When  you  grasp  the  steel,  and  your  strong 

hearts  feel  that  the  green  is  above 

you  flying, 
The  flag  of  the  home  that  you  left  in  woe, 

when  your  eyes  were  dim  with  crying. 

Ah !  there  are  our  bravest  and  noblest  ones, 
the  flower  of  our  race  and  nation — 

The  truest  children  that  Erin  nursed,  since 
the  Geraldines'  generation. 


They  are  filling  their  ranks,  and  taking  their 
place — for  God  knows  but  how  much 
we  need  them, 

And  he  of  the  "  urbs  intacta  "  *  is  there — 
like  a  Moses  prepared  to  lead  them. 

Then,  Eastward,  Ho ! — to  the  rising  sun,  ye 

come  ploughing  the  breast  of  the  ocean 
Fair  blow  the  breezes  that  fill  your  sails  with 

a  pleasant  and  gentle  motion, 
Till  you  cheer  the  captive  that  wept  so  long; 

till  you  burst  her  chains  asunder, 
When  you  wake  the  hills  with  the  welcome 

news — till  it  peals  through  the  glens 

like  thunder. 

THE  SUMMING  UP. 

I  have  seen  the  shadow  of  Brian  Boru,  with 
the  Dane  beneath  him  lying, 

And  the  gauntleted  arm  of  Owen  Roe — with 
the  Saxon  before  it  flying, 

And  I  know  what  will  roll  from  a  cycle  of 
years,  for  they  say  I'm  a  seer  and  a 
prophet, 

But  I  tell  you  the  truth  as  it  seems  to  my- 
self, without  hope  of  reward  or  of 
profit. 


*  Thomas  Francis  Meagher. 


A  POEM  BY  MARCELLA  A.  FITZGERALD. 


A  CHRISTMAS   THOUGHT. 

'Tis  once  more  the  joyous  Christmas,  and 

while  bells  are  gaily  pealing, 
Calling  to  the  mountain  echoes,  laughing 

o'er  the  smiling  plain, 
Whence  the  sprites  of  darkness  hasten  driven 

backward  by  the  music, 
Which  the  blessed  bells  are  scattering  o'er 
the  earth  in  silvery  rain. 

While  the  hymn   by  Angels  chanted  over 

Bethlehem's  lowly  grotto 
Thrills  the  gray  dawn   of  the  morning, 
soaring  upward  to  the  sky, 


Calling  faithful  souls  to  hasten  with  their 

loyal  love  and  homage, 
With  their  humble  adoration  to  the  Lord 
and  God  Most  High. 


Friends  beloved,  before  the  Altar  where  the 

Infant  King  reposes, 
While  the  glad  "Venite"  pulses  on  the 

music-laden  air, 
Lo!    the  shining  hand  of  Memory  strews 

o'er  us  her  fragrant  roses, 
And  the  names  of  all  our  dearest  breathes 
in  each  heart-spoken  prayer. 


OF  MRS.   A.   ]-..   KM;I>. 


There  we  clasp  the  links  long  severed  by  the  There,  where  heaven  SIM-IMS  near. -r  to  us,  and 
power  of  change  or  absence,  the  gifts  the  Infant  Saviour 

Brings  to  all  this  glorious  morning,  burn 
with  pure  celestial  glow, 


Links  of  love,  of  kindred,  friendship,  that 
on  Christmas  days  of  yore 


To  our  hearts  the  loving  greetings  of  the 

holy  season  wafted, 

To  our  lives  the  cheering  sunshine  of  a 
happy  Christmas  bore. 


Do  we  pray  that  countless  blessings  fall  «>n 

you  in  fullest  measure. 
And  your   lives,  dear  friends,  forever   in 
joy's  peaceful  currents  flou. 


POEMS  OF  MRS.  A.  E.  FORD. 


A   HUNDRED    YEARS   FROM   NOW. 

The  surging  sea  of  human  life  forever  onward 

rolls, 
And   bears   to   the   eternal  shore   its   daily 

freight  of  souls, 
Though  bravely  sails  our  bark  to-day,  pale 

death  sits  at  the  prow, 
.And  few  shall  know  we  ever  lived  a  hundred 

years  from  now. 

O  mighty  human  brotherhood !  why  fiercely 

war  and  strive, 
While  God's  great  world  has  ample  space  for 

everything  alive  ? 
Broad  fields,  uncultured  and  unclaimed,  are 

waiting  for  the  plow 
Of  progress  that  shall  make  them  bloom  a 

hundred  years  from  now. 

Why  should  we  try  so  earnestly  in  life's  short, 
narrow  span, 

On  golden  stairs  to  climb  so  high  above  our 
brother  man  ? 

Why  blindly  at  an  earthly  shrine  in  slavish 
homage  bow  ? 

Our  gold  will  rust,  ourselves  be  dust,  a  hun- 
dred years  from  now! 

Why  prize  so  much  the  world's  applause? 

Why  dread  so  much  its  blame  ? 
A  fleeting  echo  is  its  voice  of  censure  or  of 

fame; 


The  praise  that  thrills  the  heart,  the  scorn 
that  dyes  with  shame  the  brow, 

Will  be  as  long-forgotten  dreams  a  hundred 
years  from  now. 

0  patient  hearts,  that  meekly  bear  your 
weary  load  of  wrong! 

0  earnest  hearts,  that  bravely  dare,  and,  striv- 
ing, grow  more  strong, 

Press  on  till  perfect  peace  is  won;  you'll 
never  dream  of  how 

You  struggled  o'er  life's  thorny  road  a  hun- 
dred years  from  now. 

Grand,  lofty  souls,  who  live  and  toil  that 
freedom,  right  and  truth 

Alone  may  rule  the  universe,  for  you  is  end- 
less youth: 

When  'mid  the  blest,  with  God  you  rest,  the 
grateful  lands  shall  bow 

Above  your  clay  in  rev'rent  lovcuhm. 
years  from  now. 

Karth's  empires  rise  and    fall.  O   Time!  like 

breakers  on  thy  shore; 
They  rush  upon  thy  rocks  of  doom,  go  down, 

and  are  no  n, 
The  starry  wilderness  of  worlds  that 

night's  radiant  brow 
Will  light  the  skies  for  other  eyes  a  hundred 

years  from  now. 


976 


POEMS   OF   MRS.  A.   E.   FORD. 


Our  Father,  to  whose  sleepless  eyes  the  past 
and  future  stand 

An  open  page,  like  babes  we  cling  to  Thy 
protecting  hand ; 

Change,  sorrow,  death  are  naught  to  us  if  we 
may  safely  bow 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  Thy  throne  a  hun- 
dred years  from  now. 


THE  CAPTIVE. 

[Edward  O'Meara  Condon,  who  was  arrested  and  tried 
with  the  "  Manchester  Martyrs,"  is  still  a  captive  in  a  British 
prison.] 

'Tis  night,  the  dull  day's  drudgery  is  done, 
And  in  his  cell  the  captive  sits  alone — 
The  grated  vault  his  jealous  keepers  give 
Him  barely  space  to  breathe  in,  not  to  live. 
All's  dark,  all  silent,  neither  sight  nor  sound 
Breaks  through  the  gloom,  the  solitude  pro- 
found, 
Save   where,   "drip,    drip,"   slow   from   the 

tomb-like  walls 

In  heavy  tears  the  gathered  dampness  falls, 
As  if  more  soft  than  rulers'  hearts,  each  stone 
Wept  o'er  the  woes  of  him  compelled  alone 
In  dreary  desolation,  rayless  night, 
To  pass  the  days  Jehovah  made  so  bright. 

Resplendent  sunset,  calm  and  blessed  eve, 

That  come  the  weary  spirit  to  relieve, 

You    can    not    gather  friends  around  the 

hearth, 
To  cheer  the  hearts  that  languish  'neath  the 

earth. 

The  dungeon-fettered  bears  his  doom  alone, 
And  sighs  to  those  who  can  not  hear  his 

moan: 

"  0  friends,  my  friends,  away  beyond  the  sea, 
AVhose  days  are  dark  with  sorrowing  for  me, 
In  spite  of  rocky  wall  and  iron  door, 
My  heart,  my  thoughts  are  with  you  ever- 
more. 

My  child,  my  child,  my  careless,  happy  boy, 

Why  must  my  darkness  cloud  your  days  of 

joy? 


And  oh,  my  faithful  wife,  whose  youthful 

head 

Is  bowed  to  weep  the  buried,  not  the  dead, 
Alas !  how  dreary  have  I  made  your  life — 
A  lonely  widow,  yet  a  captive's  wife. 
My  mother's  cheek  is  channelled  with  the 

tears 
Shed    for  her   prisoned    son;    my   father's 

years 
Are  dark  with  grief,  with  hopes  that  failed, 

and  I, 

The  cause  of  all,  can  neither  live  nor  die ! 
Oh,  for  the  thunder's  crash,  the  earthquake's 

shock, 
To  rend  these  cursed  doors,  these  walls  of 

rock, 
And  strike  with  awe  the  earthly  powers  that 

dare 
Deny   God's   creatures  his    free    light  and 

air — 

That  pile  the  earth  above  the  living  head 
And  yet  forbid  the  slumber  of  the  dead ! 

"  Land  of  my  deathless  love,  fair  storied  isle, 
When,  when  shall  Freedom  on  thy  valleys 

smile  ? 
Thy  day  must   come.     Can  despots   dream 

they  bind 
The    soaring    soul,   the   strong,   unfettered 

mind  ? 
These  chains  that  keep  my  limbs  from  being 

free 
But  link   my  heart   more   strongly  yet    to 

thee ; 
This  loathsome  cell  that's  never  blessed  with 

day, 

The  silent  witness  of  my  life's  decay, 
My  spirit  spurns,  and  eagle-like  can  soar 
Away,  away  to  thee,  my  native  shore. 
When  thy  oppressors  in  the  clay  shall  rot, 
All,  all  except  their  cruelty  forgot, 
Green  as  the  laurel  shall  their  memory  be 
Who  bore  captivity  or  death  for  thee, 
Old  trampled  land.     Through  centuries  of 

wrong 

Thy  mighty  soul  unbowed  has  swept  along 
Fierce  torrents  of  oppression ;  but  thy  night 
Of   woe   must   end   in    Freedom's   glorious 

light." 


I'OKMS    OK    Mi;s.   A.    K. 


GOD   PITY  THE   PO<H.'. 
The  wild,  rushing  wings  of  the  Tempest  are 


The    frost-fettered  laud   like  a  spirit  of 

wrath ; 
His  fierce,  icy  breath  with  keen  arrows  is 

piercing 
The  breast  of  the  wand'rers  who  stand  in 

his  path; 

The  earth  in  a  trance  lies  enshrouded  in  si- 
lence, 
The  storm  king  knocks  loudly  at  window 

and  door; 

The  prayer  of  the  pitiful  fervently  rises — 
God   shelter  the  homeless  and  pity   the 
poor ! 

God  pity  the  poor  who  are  wearily  sitting 
By  desolate  hearth-stones,  cold,  cheerless 

and  bare, 
From  which  the  last  ember's  pale  flicker  has 

faded, 

Like  hope  dying  out  in  the  midst  of  de- 
spair ; 
Who  look  on  the  wide  world  and  see  it  a 

desert 
Where  ripple  no  waters,  no  green  branches 

wave, 

WTho  see  in  a  future  as  dark  as  the  present 
No  rest  but  the  death-bed,  no  home  but  the 
grave. 

God  pity  the  poor  when  the  eddying  snow- 
drifts 
Are  whirled  by  the  wrath  of  the  winter 

wind  by, 

Like  showers  of  leaves  from  the  pallid  star- 
lilies 
That  float  in  the  depths  of  the  blue  lake 

on  high; 
For  though  they  are  draping  the  broad  earth 

in  beauty, 
And  veiling  some  flaw  in  each  gossamer 

fold, 
That  beauty  is  naught  to  the  mother  whose 

children 

Are  crouching  around  her  in  hunger  and 
cold. 


God  pity  tin-  poor,  for  the  wealthy  are  often 

As  hard  as  tin-  winter,  and  cold  as  its  snow; 

\\hilofortune  makes  sunshine  and  summer 


around  them, 


[woe; 


They  care  not  for  others  nor  think  of  their 
Or  if  from  their  plenty  ;i  trifle  be  given, 

So  doubtingly,  grudgingly,  of  ten  'tis  doled. 
That  to  the  receiver  their  "  charity  "  .-eemeth 

More  painful  than  hunger,  more  bitter 
than  cold. 

God  pity  the  poor!  for  though  all  men  are 

brothers, 
Though  all  say  "  Our   Father,"  not   mine, 

when  they  pray, 
The  proud  ones  of  earth  turn  aside  from 

the  lowly, 

As  if  they  were  fashioned  of  different  clay; 
They  see  not  in  those  who  in  meekness 

and  patience 

Toil,  poverty,  pain,  without  murmur  endure. 

The  image  of  Him  whose  first  couch  was  a 

manger,  [poor. 

Who  chose  for  our  sakes  to  be  homeless  and 

God  pity  the  poor!  give  them  courage  and 

patience  [brave, 

Their  trials,  temptations  and  troubles  to 

And  pity  the  wealthy  whose  idol  is  Fortune, 

For  gold  can  not  gladden  the  gloom  of  the 

grave: 
And  as  this  brief  life,  whether  painful  or 

pleasant, 

To  one  that  is  endless  but  opens  the  door, 
The  heart  sighs  while  thinking  on  palace 

and  hovel, 
God  pity  the  wealthy  as  well  as  the  poor. 


THK   CKKKN    AND 


Who  quails  at  the  frown  of  power,  who  talks 

of  a  hopeless  land  ? 
The  re's  hope  for  the  daring  ever,  and  strength 

for  the  willing  hand  : 
There's  light  in  our  grand  old  banner,  and 

glory  in  every  fold  : 
Then  down  with  tlieinight  of  tyrants  and  tip 

with  the  green  and  -old! 


D78 


POEMS    OF   MRS.  FELICIA   HEMANS. 


The  scorn  of  the  stronger  nations — you've 

long  in  the  dust  been  trod ; 
You've  bent  to  the  lash  with  patience,  and 

looked  through  your  tears  to  God; 
You  whine  to  the  Lord  of  Armies,  who  smiles 

on  the  brave  and  bold, 
But  strike,  and  His  strength  will  aid  you  to 

raise  up  the  green  and  gold ! 

Work,  work,  for  the  days  are  fleeting,  e'en 

now  may  your  chance  be  nigh ; 
And  oh,  if  your  hands  are  folded,  how  swiftly 

the  time  will  fly! 
The  wreath  of  the  victor  never  was  seized  by 

the  dull  or  cold, 
'Tis  ceaseless  and  strong  endeavor  must  raise 

up  the  green  and  gold. 

Up,  up,  for  our  grand  old  Island !     On,  on, 

with  the  world  advance ! 
.Dash  into  the  sea  her  fetters :  she'll  leap  from 

her  death-like  trance. 


Bright  light  to  the  homes  long  dreary,  and 
hope  to  the  hearts  now  cold; 

Then  down  with  the  might  of  tyrants,  and  up 
with  the  green  and  gold ! 

You  sleep  while  the  lands  are  waking,  and 

stand  while  they're  marching  on: 
You  dream  while  they  forge  their  armor,  and 

stoop  while  their  rights  are  won; 
Success  is  the  meed  of  labor,  and  grasped  by 

the  true  and  bold ; 
Then  toil  for  the  fall  of  tyrants,  the  rise  of 

the  green  and  gold. 

0  men !  if  your  hearts  are  earnest  and  true 

as  your  hands  are  strong, 
Ring  out  to  the  world  around  you  the  knell  of 

the  reign  of  wrong. 
Brave  bells  are  the  flame-tongued  cannons, 

on  them  let  that  knell  be  tolled, 
Down,  down  with  the  might  of  tyrants,  and 

up  with  the  green  and  gold ! 


POEMS  OF  MRS,  FELICIA  HEM  AM 


THE  RHINE. 

It  is  the  Rhine !  our  mountain  vineyards  lav- 
ing. 

I  see  the  bright  flood  shine ! 
"Sing  on  the  march  with  every  banner  wav- 
ing— 
Sing,  brothers!  'tis  the  Rhine! 

'The   Rhine!  the  Rhine!   our  own  imperial 
river ! 

Be  glory  on  thy  track ! 
We  left  thy  shores,  to  die  or  to  deliver — 

We  bear  thee  freedom  back ! 

Hail !  hail !  my  childhood  knew  thy  rush  of 

water 

Even  as  my  mother's  song; 
That  sound  went  past  me  on  the  field  of 

slaughter, 
And  heart  and  arm  grew  strong ! 


Roll  proudly  on ! — brave  blood  is  with  thee 

sweeping, 

Poured  out  by  sons  of  thine, 
Where  sword  and  spirit  forth  in  joy  were 

leaping, 
Like  thee,  victorious  Rhine! 

Home !  home !     Thy  glad  wave  hath  a  tone 

of  greeting, 

Thy  path  is  by  my  home, 
Even  now  my  children  count  the  hours  till 

meeting; 
0  ransomed  ones!  I  come. 

Go  tell  the  seas,  that  chain  shall  bind  thee 

never ! 

Sound  on  by  hearth  and  shrine ! 
Sing  through  the  hills  that  thou  art  free  for- 
ever— 
Lift  up  thy  voice,  0  Rhine! 


1'uKMS   (>K 


HKMANS, 


WASHINGTON'S    STA'IT  K. 

Yes!  rear  thy  guardian  hero's  form 
On  thy  proud  soil,  thou  Western  World, 
A  watcher  through  each  sign  of  storm, 
O'er  freedom's  flag  unfurled. 

There,  as  before  a  shrine,  to  bow, 
Hid  thy  true  sons  their  children  lead; 
The  language  of  that  noble  brow 
For  all  things  good  shall  plead. 

The  spirit  reared  in  patriot  fight, 
The  virtue  born  of  home  and  hearth, 
There  calmly  throned,  a  holy  light 
Shall  pour  o'er  chainless  earth. 

And  let  that  work  of  England's  hand, 
Sent  through  the  blast  and  surges'  roar, 
So  girt  with  tranquil  glory  stand 
For  ages  on  thy  shore! 

Such,  through  all  time,  the  greetings  be, 
That  with  Atlantic  billow  sweep! 
Telling  the  mighty  and  the  free 
Of  brothers  o'er  the  deep ! 


THE   BETTER  LAND. 
"  I  hear  thee  speak  of  the  better  land, 
Thou  call'st  its  children  a  happy  band; 
Mother!  0,  where  is  that  radiant  shore? 
Shall  we  not  seek  it,  and  weep  no  more  ? 
Is  it  where  flower  of  the  orange  blows, 
And  the  fire-flies  glance  through  the  myrtle 

boughs  ?  " 
"  Not  there,  not  there,  my  child ! " 

"  Is  it  where  the  feathery  palm-trees  rise 
And  the  date  grows  ripe  under  sunny  skies? 
Or  'midst  the  green  islands  of  glittering  seas, 
Where  fragrant  forests  perfume  the  breeze, 
And  strange,  bright   birds   on  their  starry 

wings, 

Bear  the  rich  hues  of  all  glorious  things?" 
"Not  there,  not  there,  my  i-hild !  " 

"  Is  it  far  away,  in  some  region  old, 
Where  the  rivers  wander  o'er  sands  of  gold  ? 
Where  the  burning  rays  of  the  ruby  shine: 
And  the  diamond  lights  up  the  secret  mine, 


And  the  pearl   gleams  forth  from  the  coral 

strand  ? — 

Is  it  there,  sweet  mother!  that  better  land  I"  " 
••  Not  there,  not  there,  my  child! " 

"Eye  hath  not  seen  it,  my  gentle  boy! 
Ear  hath  not  heard  its  deep  songs  of  joy; 
Dreams  cannot  picture  a  world  so  fair — 
Sorrow  and  death  may  not  enter  there: 
Time  doth  not  breathe  on  its  fadeless  bloom, 
For    beyond    the   clouds,  and   beyond   the 

tomb, — 
It  is  there,  it  is  there,  my  child !  " 


A  PARTI.M;  sn\'G. 

When  will  ye  think  of  me,  my  friends? 

When  will  ye  think  of  me  ? — 
When  the  last  red  light,  the  farewell  day, 
From  the  rock  and  the  river  is  passing  away— 
When  the  air  a  deepening  hush  is  fraught. 
And  the  heart  grows  burdened  witli   tender 
thought, 

Then  let  it  be! 

When  will  ye  think  of  me,  kind  friends? 

When  will  ye  think  of  me? — 
When  the  rose  of  the  rich  midsummer  time 
Is  filled  with  the  hues  of  its  glorious  prime — 
When  ye  gather  its  bloom,  as  in  bright  hoars 

fled, 

From  the  walks  where  my  footsteps  no  more 
may  tread — 

Then  let  it  be! 

When  will  ye  think  of  me,  sweet  friends? 

When  will  ye  think  of  mo? — 
When  the  sudden  tears  o'erflow  your  eye 
At  the  sound  of  some  olden  melody — 
When  ye  hear  the  voice  of  a  mountain  stream, 
When  ye  feel  the  charm  of  a  poet's  dream — 
Then  let  it  be! 

Thus  let  my  memory  be  with  you,  friends  I 

Thus  ever  think  of  me 
Kindly  and  gently,  but  as  one 
For  whom  'tis  well  to  l.e  lied  and  gone — 
As  of  a  bird  from  a  chain  unbound. 
As  of  a  wanderer  whose  home  is  found — 
So  let  it  be! 


POEIS  OF  DANIEL  CRILLY,  M.  P. 


"THE   END  0'   THE   ROADS." 

There  are  scenes  in  our  land  and  their  praises 

have  long 
Wrought  a  charm  as  they've  echoed   from 

story  and  song; 
In  Leinster  those  scenes  sparkle  bright  by 

the  score, 
And  Ulster,  and  Munster,  and  Connaught 

have  more; 

There  are  lakes  and  broad  rivers  and  moun- 
tains and  glen, 
Where  the  bird  builds  her  nest,  and  the  fox 

makes  his  den; 
But  of  all  the  bright  spots  hymned  in  sonnets 

or  odes, 
There  is  none  loved  by  me  like  "  the  end  o' 

the  roads." 

In  the  sweet  distant  time  when  my  life  was 

still  young, 
And  the  hours  flashed  as  sunbeams  on  heart 

yet  unwrung — 

When  the  world  seemed  to  me  free  from  sor- 
rows and  sins, 
And    nought    knew    I    of    care    save   when 

"  poundin'  the  whins," 
Or  when  "  gatherin'  heads  "  or  when  "  hurdin' 

the  cows," 
While  the  laughter  of  comrades  rang  high 

through  the  boughs — 

Then  all  boyish  burdens,  all  wearisome  loads, 
Were  made  light  by  the  spell  of  "  the  end  o' 

the  roads." 

Tor  'twas  there  after  Mass-time  on  Sundays 
we'd  seek  [a  week, 

All  the  boys  and  the  girls  we'd  not  seen  for 
Nor  long  at  that  trysting-place  had  we  to  wait 
For  Terence  or  Jemmy,  for  Mary  or  Kate ; 
There,  too,  with  eyes  dancing,  we'd  fashion 

the  fun, 
To  bring  joy  in  its  train  ere  the  set  of  the  sun, 


And   countless  as  sands  on  the  shore  were 

the  modes 
In  which  mischief  was  planned  at  "  the  end 

o'  the  roads." 

'Twas  from  there  on  St.  John's  Eve  we'd 

speed  up  the  braes 

To  kindle  for  miles  all  the  whins  in  a  blaze, 
Or  set  out  with  minds  seldom  shadowed  or 

sore, 
To  cross  o'er  the  top  of  Slieve-Ban  to  Clough- 

more. 
Was  there  crow's  nest  to  rob?     Was  there 

hare  to  be  chased  ? 
Were  the  lish  to  be  netted  in  silence  and 

haste  ? 
Were  the  birds  to  be  snared  in  their  wooded 

abodes  ? 
You  might  hear  'neath  the  hedge  at  "  the 

end  o'  the  roads." 

For  there  oft  in  summer  we've  raced  to  the 

shore, 
And  have  launched  our  light  craft  and  then 

bent  to  an  oar. 
Or  with  sail  boldly  swelling  have  sped  on 

our  way 
Through  the  blue  sunlit  waters  of  Carling- 

ford  Bay, 
While  our  laugh  and  our  song  stirred  the 

waters  beneath, 
As  we  swept  past  Greencastle,  Greenore,  and 

Omeath — 

Oh,  never  the  wealth  from  the  mines'  choic- 
est lodes 
Could  make  hearts  light  as  ours  round  "  the 

end  o'  the  roads." 

Ah !  where  are  they  now,  who  thus  gathered 

of  old  ? 
Some  have  mingled  their  dust  with  Kilbro- 

ney's  dark  mould; 


POEMS  OF  DANIEL  CHILLY,  M.    I*. 


981 


Some,  found  homes  in  strange  lands  wa.-died 

by  cold  alien  seas, 
Where  their  graves  are  now  swept  by  the 

harsh  foreign  breeze. 
And  with  those  who  remain  rests  the  hope 

evermore 
That  when  earth's  rugged  pathways  are  all 

trodden  o'er, 
When    they  journey  no  longer  'neath  life's 

pressing  loads, 
They'll  unite  as  when  young  at  "  the  end  o' 

the  roads." 


THE   HILLS  OF  MOURNE. 

The  grey  mists  steal  from  out  the  sky  with 

silent  sombre  tread, 
They  veil  the  lowlands  from  the  sight,  they 

hide  each  mountain's  head, 
The  noise  of  busy  marts  is  stilled,  the  streets 

are  filled  with  gloom, 
And  in  them   forms  appear  and  fade  like 

shadows  from  the  tomb, 
But  if  the  darkness  felt  around  were  black 

as  raven's  wing, 
I'd  see — as  if  the  sun  shone  high  at  noonday 

in  the  spring, 
And  I  were  to  Slieve  Donard's  peak  by  some 

magician  borne — 
The  heather,  grass,  and  crags  that  crown  the 

proud  old  hills  of  Mourne. 

I  know  them  all  as  when  in  youth  I  knew 

my  mother's  face, 
In  childhood's  hours  I  gambol  led  five  and 

grew  up  at  their  base, 
I  climbed  their  sides  through  brackens  high, 

when  boyhood's  years  were  mine, 
I've  rested  on  their  topmost  heights  to  watch 

the  sun's  decline, 
And    ev'ry   nook,   or   knoll,   or   crag    from 

Cloughmore  to  Croc  Slice, 
Across  Slieve-Ban  and  Keady,  are  familiar 

still  to  me; 


Anil  ever  while  the  strength  God  gives  re- 
mains with  me  unworn. 

I'll  bless  them  and  I'll  love  them  well— those 
sweet  old  hills  of  Mourne. 

No  fairer  hills  are  mirror'd  where  the  Rhine's 

blue  waters  play 
Than  those  that  break  the  moon's  pale  beams 

in  Carlingford's  broad  bay; 
No  prouder  hills,  to  me  at  least,  point  up- 
ward to  the  skies 
In  any  land  than  those  on  which  I  first  cast 

youthful  eyes; 
And  should  Dame  Fortune  only  deign  to 

smile  upon  my  days, 
I'll  haste  me  home  and  by  those  hills  I'll  walk 

my  quiet  ways 
Until  death  comes;  and  when  my  bones  by 

friends  to  earth  are  borne, 
I'll  rest  at  peace  because  I  lie  beside-the  hills 

of  Mourne. 


THOMAS  DAVIS. 

Great  minds,  endowed  with  power  to  fashion 

men 

For  giant  purposes,  for  noble  ends 
That  can  knit  foes  in  bonds  fresh  as  friends. 

Are  God's  chief  artificers.     Be  the  pen 

Or  sword   the   instrument  they  use,  what 

then  ? 

Our  nature  moulded  by  this  touch  ascends 
To  higher  plains,  and  lifted  then-  it  Mends 

With  all  we  count  as  good  within  our  ken. 

Such  potent   mind   was  his  who  taught    his 

IMCC 

To  look   from   thraldom  sunward,  and   who 


To  Ireland's  life  new  sweetness  und   new 

light  : 

Who  scourged  with  iron  force  the  habits  baae 
That  fostered  but  the  instinct*  of  the  -la\e. 
And  held  our  land  from  Freedom,  Union, 
Right. 


POEMS  OF  JOHN  J.  McGINNIS, 


MY   FIRST    LOVE. 

In  childhood's  days  my  heart's  delight, 

To  eyes  with  love  enraptured, 
With  Irish  scenes  first  met  my  sight 

And  all  affection  captured;  • 
Her  artless  smile  in  lone  exile 

Is  beaming  always  near  me — 
Her  winsome  grace  in  every  place 

I  wander  e'er  doth  cheer  me. 

Her  features  formed  in  perfect  mould 

Admired  by  all  are  dearly, 
And  every  line  of  worth's  true  gold 

To  my  fond  gaze  shows  clearly 
The  beauties  fair  and  virtues  rare 

That  e'er  are  with  her  dwelling, 
Tho',  o'er  them  all,  a  darkening  pall 

Her  mournful  state  is  telling. 

Tho'  rolling  seas  of  seething  foam 

Between  us  wildly  thunder, 
She  still  appears  with  that  old  home 

Which  memory  ne'er  will  sunder; 
And  as  the  sun,  when  day  has  run, 

Behind  leaves  shadows  dreary, 
Whene'er  my  thought  from  her  is  brought 

My  heart  is  sadly  weary. 

The  light  of  honor's  diadems, 

Which  crown  her  person  charming, 
Still  scintillates  the  burning  gems 

That  are  love's  feelings  warming; 
Oh !  many  a  heart  for  her  did  part 

With  all  that  manhood  cherished, 
And  nobly  strove  to  win  her  love, 

Till  hope,  with  life,  had  perished. 

With  pangs  of  sore  unhappiness 

For  conquests  more  she's  sighing, 
Yet,  dream  not  that  'neath  loveliness 

Coquettishness  is  lying; 
Oh,  no !  A  trace  of  such  disgrace 

Can  ne'er  her  charms  appear  in ; 
She's  pure  and  true,  and  loved  by  you 

Is  my  first  love — Green  Erin. 


THE  VOICE   OF  SONG. 

Where  are  the  bards  whose  mighty  song 

Rushed  as  a  lava  tide, 
Bearing  the  burden  of  right  and  wrong, 
Scathing  the  tyrant,  smiting  the  strong 
Nerving  the  timid,  thrilling  the  throng- 
Say  is  the  song-spring  dried— 
Where  are  the  bards  ? 

—Dublin  Nation. 

Where  are  the  bards  ?    They  are  living  still, 

Their  strains  are  sweet  as  ever, 
And  strong  and  deathless  as  the  will 

That  bows  to  desjpots  never; 
Their  lyrics  charm  the  Celtic  soul 

That  breathes  this  side  the  ocean, 
And  stirring  bars  of  their  music  roll 

To  the  land  of  their  hearts'  devotion. 


The  Irish  bards  may  in  exile  live — 

But  their  song-spring  dried  ?   No,  never — 
Their  lays  are  as  nerving  yet  and  give 

New  strength  to  use  the  lever 
Which  works  its  way  underneath  the  wrongs 

That  threaten  Ireland's  morrow — 
The  hopes  that  live  in  their  martial  songs 

Are  stars  in  her  night  of  sorrow. 

The  shells  that  stir  on  each  Irish  beach 

At  the  wavelet's  every  motion, 
If  you  lift  them  up  to  your  hearing's  reach, 

Will  whisper  the  emotion 
That  steals  across  the  waters  blue 

In  breakers  of  song-voiced  passion, 
To  fill  those  shells  and  the  caverns,  too, 

In  no  changeless  mood  or  fashion. 

The  white-capped  waves  on  Atlantic's  breast 

Are  the  storm-signs  of  their  feelings, 
That  sail  along  with  never  a  rest 

Till  they  merge  in  vengeful  pealings; 
The  rushing  hate  of  the  Irish  race 

Is  voiced  in  that  ocean  thunder, 
While  tides  beat  in  at  a  surging  pace 

The  towering  sea-banks  under. 


POEMS  OF  JOHN  J. 


Nor  has  the  muse  from  Ireland  flown 

There  is  "T.  D.  S.,"  the  charming. 
Whose  metrical  words  and  fiery  tone 

The  Castle  deems  alarming; 
There  is  Katharine  Tynan,  sweet  and  strong 

And  "  Droilin  "  ever  tender, 
And  a  dozen  more  whose  welcome  song 

Brings  forth  the  cause's  splendor. 

But  if  these  were  dead ;  if  our  singers  all 

Had  rest  within  that  region 
From  which  to  earth  inspirations  fall 

To  bless  our  poet  legion; 
The  spirit  of  'Forty-eight  would  fire 

That  poor  downtrodden  nation 
Which  scorns  its  care  when  touched  the  lyre 

That  breathes  of  jubilation. 


EXILED    REFLECTIONS. 

'Tis  summer  in  Ireland !    The  streamlets  are 

leaping 
Adown  the  brown  mountains  to  kiss  the 

green  sea, 
The  mists  are  unrolling  and  shamrocks  are 

creeping 

Through    grasses    that    cover   the   wide- 
spreading  lea; 
The  lambkins  are  bleating,  and  every  green 

valley 
Is  blessed  with  the  music  that  charmingly 

flows 
In  ripples  that  glide  'neath  the  thorn  and 

the  salley 

By  banks  where  with  violets  true  Irish  love 
grows. 

The  thrush  leaves  the  thorn,  and  her  notes 

are  now  ringing 

In  madrigals  gentle  to  swell  the  glad  praise 
That  skylark — in  mid-air  so  lovingly  wing- 
ing— 

Is  singing  in  outbursts  of  merriest  lays; 
New  life's  in  the  land  where  the  farmer's  eyes 

rest  on 

The  promise  of  produce  the  landlord  shall 
claim, 


While  peace  steals  from  high  just  to  place 

its  own  crest  <>n 

The  scenes  that  to  me  are  all  seasons  the 
same. 

Tis  summer  in   Ireland!    And  now— three 

and  twenty— 
The  memories  of  childhood  me  backward 

allure 
From  loneliness  here  to  where  friends  are 

in  plenty — 
Where  nature  is  wealthy  and  human  kind 

poor; 
Where   the  grasp  of  the   hand  speaks  the 

strength  of  the  feeling 
That  lives  in  the  hearts — never  cha: 

but  true — 

That  never  yet  felt  low  hypocrisy  stealing 
Their   pure-blooded  veins  or  their  warm 
tendrils  through. 

Dreaming  once  more  of  the  haunts  of  young 

pleasure — 

Oh!  what  a  joy  to  forget  our  exile. 
And  stroll  back  again  in  each  hour  of  our 

leisure 
To  spots  that  we  knew  in  our  own  lovely 

isle; 
To  fancy  again  that  we  live  where  are  glun.  - 

ing 
The  hues  that  are  stolen  from  Heave 

own  dome, 

[s  a  magical  art  with  illusions  most  trancing 
Whose  beauties  grow  dearer  wlu-n  longer 
from  home. 


ANSWKi;iv,    I"';    !.•>', 

iVhy  does  he  love  thev ':   \\ .  r.  the  wondrous 

glory 

His  fancy  sees  within  the  future  fair 
tut    painted   for  thee.  thou    would'st   know 

the  story 
That's  whispered  to  him  now  and  • 

where: 

[*wo  eyes  that  twinkle  with  expressive  humor. 
A  tongue  that  speaks  as  prompted  l>y  the 
heart — 


D84 


POEMS   OF   RICHARD   W.   COLLENDER. 


That  heart  that  only  knows  deceit  through 

rumor, 
And,  true  to  nature,  never  flirts  with  art. 

Nor  are  these  all !     A  deeper  sense  of  feeling 
Pictures  the  beauties  that  the  soul  alone — 

Through  mystic  haunts  with  searching  vision 

stealing — 
Can  realize,  for  are  they  not  its  own  ? 

Jewels     these    are — and    from    no    earthly 
places—  [above- 

Charms   willed  thy  person  by  the   One 

Angelic  attributes  whose  virtue  graces 
Thy  very  being  and  inspires  his  love. 

The  stream  can  tell  not  why  it   seeks  the 

ocean, 

Nor  shamrocks  whisper  why  they  love  the 
dew; 


Nor  songbirds  say  why  chorus-voiced  devo- 
tion 

Is  due  the  summer — this  they  never  knew; 
Nor  can  the  blossoms  in  the  zephyrs  swaying 

Divine  the  secret  of  each  'customed  hue; 
They  feel,  but  know  not  what  is  o'er  them 

playing— 
It  is  their  nature;  this  his  nature,  too. 

But  yet  one  cannot  say  his  love  like  these  is, 

To  change  with  seasons,  or  to  ebb  and  flow 
As  tides,  or  rise  and  fall  as  do  the  breezes, 

Or  with  the  blossoms  just  to  come  and  go, 
No,  love  with  him  is  not -an  idle  fashion, 

Put  on  and  off  as  fancy's  whims  may  force; 
But  is  his  life — at  least  it  adds  a  passion 

That  is  as  changeless  as  the  sun's  own 
course. 


POEMS  OF  RICHARD  W,  COLLENDER, 


A   SONG. 
.A  health  to  poor  old  Ireland, 

And  her  flashing  Flag  of  Green, 
To  her  sunny  bosom  rising 

From  the  ocean's  glossy  sheen. 
Like  a  queen  in  beauty  beaming, 

While  the  big  waves  dance  and  play 
At  her  feet,  like  suppliants  bending — 
With  a  seeming  fond  delay. 
Bright  hearts  glowing,  bumpers  flowing, 

In  her  unbaptized  potheen; 
Oh,  comrades,  drink  to  Ireland 
And  her  flashing  Flag  of  Green. 

A  health  to  poor  old  Ireland, 

And  her  glinting  Flag  of  Green, 
To  her  saints  in  glory  gleaming 
To  her  chiefs  of  mighty  mien; 
Her  heroes,  bards,  and  sages, 

The  dreams  around  them  cast, 
The  giant  men  of  story, 
The  pillars  of  the  past. 

Oh !  we  boast  them,  we  toast  them, 

In  unbaptized  potheen; 
Oh,  comrades,  drink  to  Ireland, 
And  her  flashing  Flag  of  Green. 


A  health  to  poor  old  Ireland, 

And  her  flashing  Flag  of  Green, 
To  the  days  its  bright  folds  streaming 
O'er  each  conquered  field  was  seen, 
To  the  hardy  deeds  of  daring, 
Old  Limerick  and  Benburb, 
To  the  time,  the  men,  the  valor, 
That  did  oft  our  proud  foe  curb. 

Oh,  we  cling  to  them,  we  drink  to  them, 

In  unbaptized  potheen; 
Oh,  comrades,  here's  to  Ireland, 
And  her  flashing  Flag  of  Green. 

A  health  to  poor  old  Ireland, 

And  her  drooping  Flag  of  Green, 
While  the  clouds  of  darkness  lower 

And  the  ray  is  scarcely  seen, 
While  the  death-grasp  thickens  tighter, 

And  her  life-blood  ebbs  away, 
While  her  health  and  hope  are  flying 
From  her  breast  in  pale  dismay. 
Still  endearing,  still  unfearing, 

In  unbaptized  potheen ; 
Oh,  comrades,  drink  to  Ireland, 
And  her  flashing  Flag  of  Green. 


POEMS   OF    RICHARD    W.    Cnl,LKM>Ki;. 


A  healtli  to  jtoor  old  Ireland, 
And  her  flushing  Flag  of  Green, 

To  the  better  days  before  us, 

Robed  in  glowing  Summer  sheen, 

To  the  morning  when  her  soldier  sons 
In  ordered  lines  are  seen, 

To  the  hand  that  plants  above  the  Red 
The  Harp  of  Gold  and  Green. 

Bright  hearts  glowing,  bumpers  flowing, 

In  our  unbaptized  potheen  : 
Oh,  comrades,  drink  to  Ireland, 
And  her  flashing  Flag  of  Green. 


TO   H.   W.   COLLENDER, 


WITH  A  BROTHER'S  LOVE.* 


THOUGH  wide  is  the  ocean  between  us  that 

rolls ; 
Though  fierce  raving  storms   disturb  its 

dark  sea; 
Dear  HUGH,  they  can  never  unlink  from  our 

souls, 

The  chains  of  affection  which  bind  us  to 
thee. 

And  ever  a  thought  from  this  heart  will  be 

winging, 
Its  flight  o'er  the  waves  and  the  ocean  to 

thee; 
And  back  in  my  dreaming  it  comes  to  me 

bringing, 
Thy  form  of  old  'neath  a  smiling  roof  tree. 

Ah !   gloomy  and  sad  was  the  dawn  of  the 

morn, 
Which  told  of  thy  quitting  that  Old  Home 

and  me; 

An  outcast, an  outlaw— poor, lonely  and  lorn: 
Thy  high  hopes  defeated— no  Country  for 
thee. 

Yes  dark  was  thy  fate  then.  'mid  pi-ril  and 

danger; 

Asahelmless  bark  on  a  treacherous  main. 
Exposed    to    the    tempest— a    fate-stricken 

ranger; 

With  no  hope  thy  lost  home  and  thy  rights 
to  regain. 


*  Hugh  \V.  oll.Mi.ler  was  one  of  tlu- t-xilwof  IM* 


But  tin-  Searcher  of  la-arts  looked   <.n   thine 

witb  a  .smile, 
Its  throbbings  He  knew  were  for  .It; 

and  Truth ; 

In  the  cause  of  thy  injured  and  .-utTcrin- 
\\  ••!•«•  the  thoughts  and  aspirings  of  thy 
ardent  youth. 

And  He  succoured  thee  on  thro'  tlmt  dark 

time  of  can-. 

He  gave  thee  a  home  of  affection  and  ; 
And  peopled  with  bright  hearts  fond,  1" 

and  fair; 

And  brightened  with  Liberty's  light  from 
above. 

The  hearts  in  that  home  these  eyes  ne'er  have 

beheld, 
And  Fate  has  ordained  that  wt-  dwell  still 

apart — 

By  some  mystic  tide  of  affection  impelled, 
\Ve    mingle— and  never  in   thought    they 
depart. 

And  a  hope — a  fond  hope,  do  I  nurse  thro' 

the  day, 
And  dream  thro'  the  long  silent  hours  of 

the  night; 
Of  a  honu — tilled   with    faces  now  far,  f.»r 

away — 
In  Green  Erin  illumined  by  Liberty  bright. 

Could  I  once  see  that  day,  could  I  once  see 

that  home. 
All  this  heart's  earthly  longings  were  fully 

allayed — 
For  one  hour  of  such  joy — beneath  H«;; 

blue  dome. 
It  were  happy  within  the  still  grave  to  be 

laid. 

Though  vast  is  the  Ocean  between  us  that 

rolls — 
Though  wild  raving  storms  disturb  its 

Set; 

Dear  Iln.n.  they  r  unlink  from  our 

nig, 

The  chain?.  «>f  atTcction  which  hinds   ; 
thee. 

ix,  August,  1860. 


986 


POEMS   OF  RICHARD   W.   COLLENDER. 


AN  ELEGY. 
ADAPTED  FROM  THE   MEXICAN. 

FADING,  fading,  fleetly  fading, 
All  earth's  splendours  pass  away. 
Those  that  seem  to  mock  decay, 

Like  lilies  by  the  cool  stream  shading 
The  tide  of  time,  soon  shall  bear  away. 

Purple,  gorgeous  type  of  power, 
And  the  rose,  fair  beauty's  hue; 
One  fate  and  brief  day  have  the  two — 

Like  flowers  that  drink  the  sightless  shower, 
Twin  buds  that  glint  in  dawning's  dew. 

Glistening  in  its  crystals  gleaming, 
Dight  in  its  pearlets  glad  and  gay 
(Like  angels'  tears  o'er  their  decay), 

Soon  the  day-god's  bright  eye  beaming 
Their  tinsel  blossom  in  blight  shall  lay. 

All  is  fleeting,  fading,  changing — 
All  subjected  to  one  sad  doom — 
Flowers  their  gorgeous  morning  bloom 

For  scentless  blight  ere  night  exchanging, 
Mortals,  life  for  the  charnel  gloom ; 

Aye,  in  the  noon  of  their  pride  and  splendour, 
The  weak,  the  mighty,  the  fair  and  brave, 
In  cot  and  palace,  on  land  and  wave, 

To  the  one  great  Rule  their  allegiance  ren- 
der— 
The  wide,  big  earth  is  a  narrow  grave; 

All  sprung  from  earth,  and  unto  it  clinging, 
Allegiance  pay  to  the  grim  King,  Death ! 
To  his  rule  despotic  and  sudden  scathe, 

Save    where,    like    sun-flowers,    fair    souls, 

springing, 
Live  in  the  glowing,  bright  sun  of  faith. 

Aye,  as  the  fountain,  the  stream  and  river 
Flow  downward  ever  and  ever  on, 
From  meadows  glancing  or  mountain  dun, 

To  their  deep  grave,  the  wide  ocean  ever, 
Deepening  their  path  as  they  downward 
run. 


Where  are  the  great  of  the  olden  glory, 
Who  sate  in  canopied  golden  thrones, 
Who    ne'er    knew    poverty's    pains    and 
moans  ? — 

Deep  in  the  vault  is  their  transient  story 
Writ  in  the  dust  of  their  crumbled  bones. 

Theirs  were  power  and  pomp  and  treasure; 
Law  with  hosts  was  their  simple  word : 
Flattery's  fulsome  breath  they  heard ; 

Short  was  their  day  ere  its  noontide  measure : 
Low  they're  laid  by  the  smiting  sword. 

Fading,  fading,  fleetly  fading, 

Gone  like  vapour  before  the  wind, 

Like  the  fabled  fruits  of  the  tempting  rind, 

Their  fallen  thrones,  so  short-lived,  aiding 
To  stamp  the  lesson  they  left  behind. 

Ours  is  to-day — whose  is  to-morrow  ? — 
Amid  earth's  bustle  and  rolling  hum 
This  voice  will  speak  to  the  dull  and  dumb ; 

Yours  is  the  present,  from  it  to  borrow 
Life  and  light  for  the  time  to  come. 

Up,  0,  my  friends,  lift  your  hopeful  voices. 
Your   hearts   and  tongues  lift  in  tuneful 

praise 
To  where  the   Sun-God's  true  splendours 

blaze — 

Where  all  is  glory,  where  all  rejoices, 
Beaming  with  beauty  that  ne'er  decays. 
CAPPOQUIN,  July,  1868. 


THE  KNIGHT  OF  THE  BLUE  PLUME. 

A   LEGEND   OF  THE   BLACKWATER. 

[In  the  time  of  John  Earl  of  Desmond  the  English  garrison 
at  Youghal  were  attacked  and  routed  by  the  Irish  forces,  and 
obliged  to  fly  from  the  town  in  their  boats.  Though  it  was  but 
a  temporary  riddance,  and  they,  alas!  but  too  soon  returned, 
yet  a  fair  day's  work  and  the  sturdy  workers  deserve  some 
commemoration.] 

THE  waves  of  Blackwater  laugh  lightly  be- 
tween 

Tall  wild  waving  woodlands  all  glossy  and 
green. 

Where  silence  resides,  'neath  their  dark  dewy 
crest, 

Our  giant  forefathers  found  shelter  and  rest; 


POEMS  OF  i;i<  MAKD  \v.  COIJJ-NDKK. 


087 


And  revelled  and  courted,  and   hunted   the 

deer, 
And  feasted  and  drunk  of  the  red  wine  and 

beer, 
And  marshalled  in  glory  to  meet  the  stout 

foe — 
So  rhyme  we  a  wreath  of  their  famed  Long 

Ago. 

Gay  banners  are  floating  on  Strancally  wall, 

Proud  soldiers  are  thronging  round  Stran- 
cally hall, 

The  eaxlach  *  has  blazoned  the  war  summons 
stern, 

To  galloglass  tall  and  to  light-footed  kern. 

Like  mountain  streams  rushing  all  speedily 
down, 

They  haste  over  hill,  glade,  and  wild  moor 
and  brown, 

And  sweetly,  Blackwater  their  fair  weapon's 
sheen 

Flings  backward  in  light  to  its  woods  glowing 
green. 

Like  bees  in  the  summer  they  swarm,  they 
come; 

Like  winds  on  the  hill-side,  their  deep  ilin 
and  hum ; 

Like  rocks  mid  the  waters,  each  stout  heaving 
breast 

Flings  off  every  terror;  and  lightly  they  jest, 

And  long  rings  their  laughter,  and  feasting, 
and  cheer, 

While  circle  broad  mdherx  of  brown  ale  and 
beer, 

And  bright  beats  each  gallant  heart,  glad- 
some and  light, 

While  gayly  they  bustle  and  trim  for  the  fight. 

A  voice  speaks  aloud  from  the  dark  oaken 
hall- 

-  Ho!  Dmial  Dim.  (juick,  my  black  steed 
from  the  stall." 

'Tis  the  Dark  Knight,  and  donning  his  hel- 
met and  plum. , 

And  grasping  his  long  lance,  he  strode  from 
the  room. 

*  A  mounted  courier. 


At  the  door  neighs  his  charger,  with  bowed 

neck  of  pride, 

The  fosterer,  Donal  Dhu,  stands  by  his 
He  springs  to  the  saddle,  each  wild  voi 

still, 
Each  man   in   his  place,  and   the  word   is 

"E08CHOILL."t 

The  waves  of  Blackwater  laugh  lighth 

tween 
Their  tall  waving  woodlands,  all  glossy  and 

green,  [ti 

And  many  a  bright  band  and  gallant  saw 
But  never  a  brighter  than  that  sunny  day. 
Their    steel    armour    glistens,  their    proud 

chargers  prance, 
Their  bannerets  wave  from  each   tapering 

lance — 
A  Blue  Plume  is  kissing  the  light  sunniuT 

shine,  [HJU.. 

The  Dark  Knight  of  Strancally  heading  tlu-ir 
***** 

In  the  old  town  of  Youghal  that  stands  by 

the  sea, 
The  Red  Flag  is  floating,  all  glorious  and 

free; 
Mijrh,  high  o'er  the  Clock  Gate,  and   hi.irh 

o'er  the  town. 

In  speaking  defiance  it  proudly  looks  down. 
The  red  Saxon  soldier  is  seen  on  the  walls. 
His  home  o'er  the  waters  his  rude  heart  n  - 

calls, 
As  the  broad  sun  is  sinking,  and   twilight 

steals  down 
O'er  moorland  and   mountain,  with   many  u 

frown. 

The  nijrlitwatrh  is  set,  and  a  vigilant  guard 
O'er  the  slumbering  town  holds  a  close  wjitrh 

and  ward, 
The  sentinel,  treading  his  lone  chilly  round. 

I k>  into  ttie  dim  gliding  shadows  around. 

••  Mo!  'tis  l.ut  the  trees  or  the  wind  thr. 

their  leaves, 
Methought   of   the  ghosts,  the  rude   IV 

believes; 
wot!   I  am  sick  of  these  wild-  I  d.-.-larr. 

.  merrie  Knirland.  I  wish  I  W:i 


•  >    •.,>,; 


988 


POEMS   OF  EICHAED   W.   COLLENDER. 


But,  lo!   the  dusk  shadow  at  morning  ap- 
pears, 

'A   rampart   that  bristles  with    lances  and 
spears, 

Where,  grinning  through  earthwork  and  piles 
stoutly  strewn, 

Are    cannon,   and    matchlock,    and    bright 
musquetoon, 

Where  helmets  are  gleaming  and  wild  sol- 
diers throng, 

And  quick  comes  the  lightening  shower,  red, 
loud,  and  long; 

The  Irishrie   batter  the  town  through  the 
day, 

At  even,  before  them  a  breach  gaping  lay. 


Farrali  to  the  onset!  with  wild  shouts  of 

glee. 

The  Saxons  are  ready.    Like  sea  meeting  sea, 
They  mix  and  they  struggle,  they  sink  and 

they  rise, 
Their  war-cries   like  thunder-peals  ring  to 

the  skies, 
Like  tempest-tost  waters,  they  sway  to  and 

fro; 
Broadsword    to    battle-axe,  stout  blow  for 

blow; 
.    They  thicken,  the  strife  gathers  round  them 

and  o'er 
Till  the  breach  like  a  hell  gaping  wide  seems 

to  roar. 


The  fair  Irish  pause.     Blood  of  Brian !  they 

quail; 
A  moment,  a  moment  their  hearts  seem  to 

fail. 
See!   the  Dark  Knight  is  waving  his  bright 

plume  of  blue, 

"  St.  Patrick  for  Strancally,  Sliannet  Aboo  !  "  * 
Like  lions,  their  blood  seems  within  them  to 

burn, 
Like  hawks  on  the  quarry,  they  rage  and  they 

turn, 

Like  a  tempest  that  sweeps  o'er  the  loud- 
lashing  sea, 
They  charge  till  the  stout  Saxons  turn  them 

and  flee. 

*  A  war  cry  of  the  Geraldines. 


The   Saxons   are  flying — they  rush   to   the 

shore, 
And  hot  at  their  heels  do  the  proud  Irish 

pour. 
The   Dark    Knight    is   dealing  destruction 

around, 
Till  a  giant  behind   lays  him  flat  on  the 

ground, 
Saying,    "Ha!    have   I    trimmed    thy    gay 

feathers  so  blue." 
"Dliar  Dliia!  then  here  is  a  keepsake   for 

you  1 " 
The  bright  spear  of  Donal  Dhu  flashed  as  he 

spoke, 
And  straight  through  the  skull  of  the  grim 

giant  broke. 

The  Dark  Knight  is  down,  in  a  death-seem- 
ing sleep, 
And  gory  his  wounds  are,  and  varied  and 

deep. 
When  life  pulsed  anew  in  his  pain-troubled 

breast 

A  fair  Irish  maiden  sat  watching  his  rest. 
What  boots  it  to  sing  how  she  tended  him 

then — 
How  love  sprang  between  them,  and  strength 

came  again; 
How  back  to  his  home  when  a  few  months 

were  o'er, 
The  Knight  of  the  Blue  Plume  a  noble  bride 

bore. 


The  waves  of  Blackwater  laugh  lightly  be- 
tween 
Tall  wild  waving  woodlands,  all  glossy  and 

green. 
There  is  sheen  on  the  wavelet  and  balm  on 

the  air, 
And  music  and  health  in  their  beauty  they 

bear. 
All,  all  to  the  brave  men  of  yore  that  they 

gave, 

Is  wasted  in  nursing  the  cold  crouching  slave. 
Shall  Fame  reach  them  never,  sa^e  story  or 

song  ? — 
How  long  shall  they  slumber — "How  long, 

Lord,  how  long  ?  " 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILKT. 


M.  FKKTKKS'     ForUTJI. 

IT  is  needless  to  say  'twas  a  glorious  day, 
And  to  boast  of  it  all  in  that  spread-eagle 

way 
That  our  forefathers  had  since  the  hour  of 

the  birth 

Of  this  most  patriotic  Republic  on  earth! 
But  'twas  justice,  of  course,  to  admit  that 

the  sight 
Of  the  old  Stars  and  Stripes  was  a  thing  of 

delight 

In  the  eyes  of  a  fellow,  however  he  tried 
To  look  on  the  day  with  a  dignified  pride 
That  meant  not  to  brook  any  turbulent  glee 
Or  riotous  flourish  of  loud  jubilee ! 

So  argued  McFeeters,  all  grim  and  severe, 
Who  the  long  night  before,  with  a  feeling  of 

fear, 
Hail   slumbered    but   fitfully,   hearing    the 

swish 

Of  the  sky-rocket  over  his  roof,  with  a  wish 
That  the  urchin  who  fired  it  were  fast  to  the 

end 

Of  the  stick  to  forever  and  ever  ascend  : 
Or  to  hopelessly  ask  why  the  boy  with  the 

horn 

And  its  horrible  havoc  had  ever  been  born : 
Or    to    wish,   in    his    wakefulncss,   glaring 

aghast. 
That  this  Fourth  of  July  were  as  dead  as  the 

last! 

So,  yesterday  morning,  McFeeters  arose, 
With  a  tire  in  his  eye  and  a  cold  in  his  nose, 

And  a  guttural  vnii-r  in  appropriate  Key. 
With  a  temperas  grutT  as  a   temper  could 

be. 
lie  growled  at  the  servant  he  met  on  the 

stair 


Meeause  he  was  whistling  a  national  air. 
And  he  growled  at  the  maid  on  the  balcony, 

who 
Stood    enrapt    with    the   tune  of  "The    lied. 

White  and  Blue." 
That  a  band  was  discoursing  like  mad  in  the 

street, 
With    drumsticks   that   banged,  and    with 

cymbals  that  beat. 

And  he  growled  at  his  wife,  as  she  buttoned 

his  vest, 
And  applausively  pinned  a  rosette  on  his 

breast 
Of  the  National  colors,  and  lured  fnm 

purse 
Some  change  for  the  boys — for  fin 

— and  worse; 
Ami  she  pointed  with  pride  to  a  soldier  in 

blue, 
In  a  frame  on  the  wall,  and  the  colors  : 

too; 
And  he  felt,  as  he  looked  on  the  features,  the 

glow  [ago. 

The  painter  found  there  twenty  long  years 
Ami  a  passionate  thrill   in  his  heart,  as  he 

felt 
Instinctively  round  for  the  sword  in  his  belt. 

What  was  it  that   hung  like  H  mist   o'er  the 

room  ?- 
The  tumult   without — and   the    music  — the 

boom  [fife? — 

Of  the  cannon — the  blare  of  the  bugle  and 
NI>  matter! — McF« « -t.-rs was  kiwing  his  wife. 
And  laughing  and  <  ryingand  wa\  ing  his  hat 
Like  a  genuine  soldier — and  crazy  at  ti 
Hut  it's  needless  to  say  'twas  a  glorious 
And  to  boast  of  it  all  in  that  spread-eagle  way 
That  our  forefathers  have  H  nee  the  hour  of 

the  birth 
Of  this  most  patriotic  Republic  on  earth! 


990 


POEMS   OF  JAMES   WHITCOMB   KILEY. 


AN   OLD  SWEETHEART   OF   MINE. 

As  one  who  cons  at  evening  o'er  an  album 
all  alone 

And  muses  on  the  faces  of  the  friends  that 
he  has  known, 

So  I  turn  the  leaves  of  fancy  till  in  shadowy 
design 

I  find  the  smiling  features  of  an  old  sweet- 
heart of  mine. 

The   lamplight   seems    to   glimmer   with   a 

flicker  of  surprise, 
As  I  turn  it  low  to  rest  me  of  the  dazzle  in 

my  eyes; 
And  I  light  my  pipe  in  silence,  save  a  sigh 

that  seems  to  yoke 
Its  fate  with  my  tobacco,  and  to  vanish  in 

the  smoke. 

'Tis  a  fragrant  retrospection — for  the  loving 
thoughts  that  start 

Into  being  are  like  perfumes  from  the  blos- 
soms of  the  heart; 

And  to  dream  the  old  dreams  over  is  a  lux- 
ury divine, 

When  my  truant  fancy  wanders  with  that 
old  sweetheart  of  mine. 

Though  I  hear,  beneath  my  study,  like  a  flut- 
tering of  wings, 

The  voices  of  my  children,  and  the  mother 
as  she  sings, 

I  feel  no  twinge  of  conscience  to  deny  me 
any  theme 

When  care  has  cast  her  anchor  in  the  harbor 
of  a  dream. 

In  fact,  to  speak  in  earnest,  I  believe  it  adds 
a  charm 

To  spice  the  good  a  trifle  with  a  little  dust 
of  harm — 

For  I  find  an  extra  flavor  in  memory's  mel- 
low vine 

That  makes  me  drink  the  deeper  to  that  old 
sweetheart  of  mine. 

A  face  of  lily  beauty  and  a  form  of  airy 

grace, 
Floats  out  of  my  tobacco  as  the  genie  from 

the  vase; 


And  I  thrill  beneath  the  glances  of  a  pair  of 

azure  eyes, 
As  glowing  as  the  summer  and  as  tender  as 

the  skies. 

I  can  see  the  pink  sunbonnet  and  the  little 
checkered  dress 

She  wore  when  first  I  kissed  her  and  she  an- 
swered the  caress 

With  the  written  declaration  that  "  as  surely 
as  the  vine 

Grew  'round  the  stump,  she  loved  me  " — that 
old  sweetheart  of  mine. 

And  again  I  feel  the  pressure  of  her  slender 

little  hand 
As  we  used  to  talk  together  of  the  future  we 

had  planned — 
When  I  should  be  a  poet,  and  with  nothing 

else  to  do 
But  write  the  tender  verses  that  she  set  the 

music  to. 

When  we  should  live  together  in  a  cosy  little 

cot 
Hid   in  a  nest  of  roses,  with  a  fairy  garden 

spot, 
Where  the  vines  were  ever  fruitful  and  the 

weather  ever  fine 
And  the  birds  were  ever  singing  for  that  old 

sweetheart  of  mine. 

When  I  should  be  her  lover  forever  and  a 
day, 

And  she  my  faithful  sweetheart  till  the  gold- 
en hair  was  gray; 

And  we  should  be  as  happy  that  when  cither's 
lips  were  dumb 

They  would  not  smile  in  Heaven  till  the 

other's  kiss  had  come. 
******* 

But,  ah !  my  dream  is  broken  by  a  step  upon , 
the  stair, 

And  the  door  is  softly  opened,  and — my 
wife  is  standing  there ! 

Yet  with  eagerness  and  rapture  all  my  vis- 
ions I  resign 

To  greet  the  living  presence  of  that  old 
sweetheart  of  mine. 


T1LK 

OH,  the  drum ! 
There  is  some 

Intonation  in  thy  grum 
Monotony  of  utterance  that  strikes  the  spirit 

dumb, 
As  we  hear 

Through  the  clear 

And  unclouded  atmosphere, 
The  rumbling  palpitations  roll  in  upon  the 

ear! 

There's  a  part 
Of  the  art 

Of  thy  music-throbbing  heart, 
That  thrills  a  something  in  us  that  awakens 

with,  a  start. 
And  in  rhyme 

With  the  chime 

And  exactitude  of  time 
Goes  marching  on  to  glory  to  thy  melody 

sublime. 

And  the  guest 
Of  the  breast 

That  thy  rolling  robs  of  rest 
Is  a  patriotic  spirit  as  a  Continental  dressed ; 
And  he  looms 

From  the  glooms 

Of  a  century  of  tombs, 
And  the  blood  he  spilled  at  Lexington  in 
living  beauty  blooms. 

And  his  eyes 

Wear  the  guise 

Of  a  nature  pure  and  wise; 
And  the  love  of  them  is  lifted  to  a  something 

in  the  skies 
That  is  bright, 

Red  and  white, 

With  a  blur  of  starry  light. 
As  it  laughs  in  silken  ripples  to  the  bi  • 

day  and  night. 

There  are  deep 
Hushes  creep 

O'er  the  pulses  as  they  leap. 
And  the   murmur,  fainter  growing,  on   tin- 
silence  falls  asleep: 
08 


While  the  prayer 
Rising  thriv 
Wills  the  sea  and  earth  and  air 

As  a  heritage  to  Freedom's  sons  and  daugh- 
ters e  \i-ry\vl, 

Then  with  sound 
As  profound 

As  the  thunderings  resound, 
Come  the  wild  reverberations  in  a  throe  that 

shakes  the  ground, 
And  a  cry 

Flung  on  high 

Like  the  flag  it  flutters  by, 
Wings  rapturously  upwards  till  it  nestles  in 

the  sky. 


BABYHOOD. 

HEIGH-HO,  Babyhood !     Tell  me  where  you 

linger; 
Let's  toddle  home  again,  for  we  have  gone 

astray — 
Take  this  eager  hand  of  mine  and  lead  me 

by  the  tinircr 
Back  to  the  lotus  lands  of  the  Far-away! 

Turn  liaek  the  leaves  of  life — don't  read  the 
story — 

Let's  find  the  pii-tures  and   fancy  all   the 

reel : 
W«-  ran  fill  the  written  pa-res  with  a  brighter 

glory 
Than  old  Time,  the  story-teller. at  hi.- 

bertl 

Turn   to  the   brook  where  the  honeysuckle. 

tipping 
OVr  its  vase  of   perfume,  spills  it    on  the 

bra 

Ami  the  Itees  ami  humming  birds  in  ecatafy 

ripping, 

in   the  f.iirv   flagons  of  the  bloon 
locust  trees. 


992 


POEMS  OF  ELEANOR  C.  DONNELLY. 


Turn  to  the  lane  where  we  used  to  "  teeter- 
totter," 
Printing  little  foot-palms  in  the  mellow 

mould — 
Laughing  at  the  lazy  cattle  wading  in  the 

water 

Where  the  ripples  dimple  round  the  but- 
tercups of  gold. 

Where  the  dusky  turtle  lies  basking  on  the 

gravel 
Of  the  sunny  sand  bar  in  the  middle  tide. 


And  the  ghostly  dragon  fly  pauses  in  his 

travel 

To  rest  like  a  blossom  where  the  water-lily 
died. 

Heigh-ho,  Babyhood!     Tell  me  where  you 

linger; 
Let's  toddle  home  again,  for  we  have  gone 

astray — 
Take  this  eager  hand  of  mine  and  lead  me 

by  the  finger 
Back  to  the  lotus  lands  of  the  Far-away. 


THE   MAID   OF  ERIN. 

METHOUGHT  I  saw  her,  beauteous,  stand 

Where  day-beams  darkened  down  the  west ; 
A  golden  harp  was  in  her  hand, 

The  sunburst  sparkled  on  her  breast ; 
And  round  about  her  shining  hair 
Was  twined  a  wreath  of  shamrocks  fair. 

Serenely  framed,  in  robes  of  snow, 
Betwixt  the  glowing  sky  and  sea, 
A  rosy  splendor  seemed  to  flow 

From  out  her  wind-blown  drapery; 
And  lissom  form  and  lovely  face 
Were  full  of  rare  majestic  grace. 

"  0,  peerless  Beauty!     Maiden  sweet! " 

I,  kneeling,  cried,  with  outstretch'd  arms; 
"  The  sea  lies  docile  at  thy  feet ; 
The  world  is  captive  to  thy  charms; 
The  lights  of  heav'n  around  thee  shine, 
The  glory  of  the  earth  is  thine  I" 

But  lo !  a  voice  in  far-off  tones, 

That  pierced  the  distance  clear  and  low : 
"  0,  child  of  Erin's  martyred  sons 
Why  dost  thou  mock  me  in  my  woe  ? 
Draw  nearer  still,  and,  closer,  see 
The  glory  earth  hath  given  to  me ! " 


Ah!  then  with  strangely  throbbing  heart, 

And  forehead  damp  with  falling  dew, 
I  tore  the  veil  of  mist  apart 

That  shut  the  Maiden  from  my  view, 
And  saw  her  as  she  truly  stood, 
Her  feet  and  ankles  bathed  in  blood ! 

Around  her  temples,  pure  and  grand, 

A  crown  of  thorns  was  tightly  press'd; 
A  cross  was  in  her  bleeding  hand, 
A  lance  embedded  in  her  breast; 

And  thro'  her  white  robe  flowed  a  tide 
Of  blood  drops  from  her  virgin  side. 

I  could  but  kneel  ana  kiss  her  feet — 
All  mangled,  like  a  broken  flower. 
Surpassing  fair,  surpassing  sweet, 
She  seemed  to  me  that  solemn  hour; 
For,  in  her  stigmas,  faith  descried 
The  red  wounds  of  the  Crucified. 

"  0,  more  than  martyr !     Joy  or  fame — 
What  boots  it  all,"  I  cried,  "  to  thee  ? 
More  blest  art  thou  in  grief  and  shame, 
Than  in  earth's  false  felicity. 

Heiress  of  wounds  and  woes  divine, 
The  glory  of  the  Lord  is  thine !" 


POEMS   OF  JOIIX   LOCKE. 


THE   DEATH   OF   THE   LILY. 

TIIK  lily  died  last  night: 

I  heard  a  whisper  tremble  from  the  mere, 
I  marked  the  crescent  of  the  rou  ml  in-:  year, 
Pale  from  the  mellow  lustre  of  its  light. 

I  saw  the  lily  dead  : 

Her  floating  bier  of  reeds  and  woven  grass; 
Her  shroud  a  moonbeam,  and  her  requiem 

mass 
The  hollow  music  from  the  wiPows  shed. 

AVliile  all  the  rushy  things 

That  grow  and  green  beside  a  summer 
mere, 

Wailed  thro'  the  glamour  of  the  atmos- 
phere 


An  anthem,  as  on  airy  cither-strings 

The  lily  slowly  rocked 
In  the  dim  light  upon  the  grassy  pool, 
Fragile  and  pure,  funereal  and  cool, 
Her  waxen  lids  in  deadly  slumber  lock'd. 

Oh,  grieving  heart  of  mine! 
(I   said,  with  tears),  Oh,  friends!    that 

mourn  with  me, 

The  legend  of  the  soul's  lost  purity 
Is  written  in  the  lily's  swift  decline. 

Take  ye  the  idle  pen, 
And  let  me  weep  until  the  purple  dawn; 
A  something  pure  from  out  my  life  has 

gone, 
And  it  can  never,  never  come  again! 


POEMS  OF  JOHN  LOCKE. 


MORNING  ON  THE  IRISH   COAST. 

[  The  incident  which  prompted  the  writing  of  the  following; 
lines  was  related  to  the  author  l>y  a  friend  on  his  return  to 
America  from  a  visit  to  Ireland.  On  the  voyage  over  the 
American  gentleman  made  the  acquaintance  of  an  old  Irish- 
man, who,  in  his  frank  and  candid  way,  told  him  that  he  had 
been  thirty  years  in  the  States,  and  that  he  was  then  going 
home  to  spend  the  evening  of  his  life  amid  the  scenes  of 
his  boyhood.  The  old  man's  deep  anxiety  to  see  Ireland 
once  more  made  the  author's  friend  take  a  special  inter- 
est in  him.  The  night  before  the  boat  reached  tin-  IrKli 
shore  they  both  remained  on  deck,  and  as  thodawning  broke 
they  were  rewarded  for  their  weary  vigil  by  beholding  the 
dim  outlines  of  the  Irish  coast.  The  sight  awakened  the 
old  man's  slumbering  enthusiasm,  and  his  first  impassioned 
*  \<  Lunation  was :  "The  top  <•'  the  niornin'  to  you,  Ireland, 
alanua !  "  ] 

THAN-A-MO-DHIA!  but  there  it  is! 

The  dawn  on  the  hills  of  Ireland- 
God's  angels  lifting  the  night's  black  veil 

From  the  fair,  sweet  face  of  my  sireland ; 
0  Ireland!  isn't  it  grand  you  look, 

Like  a  bride  in  her  rich  adornin'. 
And  with  all  the  pent-up  l»\e  of  my  heart 

I  bid  you  the  top  «>'  the  niornin'. 

This  one  brief  hour  pays  lavishly  back 

For  many  a  year  of  mourning; 
I'd  almost  venture  another  flight 

There's  so  much  joy  in  returning— 


Watching  out  for  the  hallowed  shore, 

All  other  attractions  scorniif : 
0  Ireland!  don't  you  hear  me  shout 

I  bid  you  the  top  o'  the  niornin'! 

Ho,  ho!  upon  Cleana's  shelving  strand 

The  surges  are  grandly  beating; 
And  Kerry  is  pushing  her  headlands  out 

To  give  us  the  kindly  greeting. 
In  to  the  shore  the  sea-birds  fly 

On  pinions  that  know  no  drooping, 
And  out  from  the  cliffs  with  welcome  charged, 

A  million  of  waves  come  trooping. 

0  kindly,  generous  Irish  land, 

So  leal  and  fair  and  loving, 
No  wonder  the  wandering  Celt  should  think 

And  dream  of  you  in  hid  roving! 
The  alien  home  may  have  p-ms  and  gold, 

Shadows  may  never  have  gloomed  it. 
Hut  the  heart  will  sigh  for  the  absent  land 

Where  the  love-lights  first  ilium Vd  it. 

And  doesn't  old  Cove  look  charming  there, 
Watching  the  wild  waves'  motion. 

Leaning  her  hack  up  iiirainrt  the  hills. 
And  the  tips  <>f  her  toe*  in  thu  ocean? 


994 


POEMS   OF    JOHN   LOCKE. 


I  wonder  I  don't  hear  Shandon's  bells— 
Oh,  maybe  their  chiming's  over, 

For  it's  many  a  year  since  I  began 
The  life  of  a  AVestern  rover ! 

For  thirty  summers,  astliore  macliree, 

Those  hills  I  now  feast  my  eyes  on 
Ne'er  met  my  vision,  save  when  they  rose 

Over  memory's  dim  horizon. 
E'en  so,  'twas  grand  and  fair  they  seemed 

In  the  landscape  spread  before  me; 
But  dreams  are  dreams,  and  my  eyes  would 
ope 

To  see  Texas'  sky  still  o'er  me. 

Oh,  oft  upon  the  Texan  plains, 

When  the  day  and  the  chase  were  over, 
My  thoughts  would  fly  o'er  the  weary  wave 

And  around  this  coast  line  hover! 
And  the  prayer  would  rise  that  some  future 
day 

All  danger  and  doubting  scornin', 
I  might  help  to  win  for  my  native  land 

The  light  of  young  Liberty's  mornin'. 

Now  fuller  and  truer  the  shore-line  shows — 

Was  ever  a  scene  so  splendid  ? 
I  feel  the  breath  of  the  Munster  breeze 

Thank  God  that  my  exile's  ended ! 
•Old  scenes,  old  songs,  old  friends  again, 

The  vale  and  the  cot  I  was  born  in! 
<0  Ireland !  up  from  my  heart  of  hearts 

I  bid  you  the  top  o'  the  mornin'. 


THE  WIDOW'S  FAREWELL  TO   HER 

SON. 

WELL,  Shamus,  may  God  be  with  you, 

And  give  me  your  parting  kiss — 
Through  all  the  troubles  and  changes 

I  thought  'twould  ne'er  come  to  this ! 
But  you'll  think  of  me  sometimes,  Shamus, 

When  over  the  stormy  sea — 
When  the  waves  of  the  windy  ocean 

Are  rolling  'twixt  you  and  me. 


Yes!  you'll  think  of  me,  Shamus  darling, 

When  far  from  the  lonely  glen, 
Though  I  never  may  hear  your  footsteps 

Or  look  in  your  face  again. 
For  I  know  they'll  bury  me,  Shamus, 

Down  deep  in  the  churchyard  clay, 
When  the  wintry  winds  are  sweeping, 

And  ma  bouclial's  far  away! 

I  thought  you'd  be  near  me,  Shamus, 

When  the  long,  long  weary  years 
Should  bow  my  head  with  their  burdens 

Of  sorrows  and  anxious  fears. 
But  you're  going  away  mavourneen, 

And  I  never  shall  see  you  more; 
When  I'm  dying  sure  you'll  be  roaming 

Far  off  on  the  stranger's  shore. 

Away  in  some  crowded  city, 

Or  down  by  the  silent  sea, 
Longing,  alas!  but  vainly, 

For  message  or  word  from  me; 
But  some  of  the  kind  old  neighbors 

Will  write  to  you  o'er  the  sea, 
To  tell  you  my  heart  and  pulses 

Are  stilled  astor  macliree. 


Then,  if  ever  you  come  back,  Shamus, 

Come  back  o'er  the  ocean  wave, 
Won't  you  steal  in  the  hush  of  the  twilight, 

To  visit  my  lonely  grave  ? 
You  know  the  spot  in  the  churchyard 

Where  they'll  lay  me  down  to  rest, — 
Just  under  the  slender  hazel, 

With  my  feet  to  the  starry  west. 

Now,  Shamus,  may  God  be  with  you, 

When  over  the  stormy  sea, 
And  remember  ould  Ireland  always — 

Wherever  your  home  may  be. 
And  you  won't  forget  me,  darling, 

When  far  on  the  stranger's  shore, 
Ma  boj;chal,  my  heart  is  breaking, 

And  I  never  shall  see  you  more. 


POEMS  OF  JOHN    I.oi  K  K. 


A  THOUSAND  LEAGUES  FROM  CAR 
LOW  TOWN. 

[Scene:  Castle  Garden.   N,-\\   York.] 

ALONG  the  cold,  dark  city's  streets 

The  wind  of  wild  November  blew, 
And  cloud  and  vapor  thick  and  gray, 

Hid  all  the  sky's  o'erurching  blue, 
When  thus  I  heard  a  maiden  fair, 

In  sad  and  tender  accents  say : 
"Ah,  me!  they  little  think  at  home 

How  lonely  I  am  here  to-day." 

Methought  I  heard  her  voice  before, 

Her  face  was  like  a  face  I  knew; 
So  from  the  heartless  crowd  I  turned — 

For  I,  oft  touched  by  sorrow,  too, 
Knew  how  to  feel  for  others'  woes, 

For  hearts  that  joy  but  seldom  bless'd — 
And  oft  had  found  a  sweet  relief 

In  soothing  souls  by  anguish  press'd. 

And  thus  I  said :  "  Hast  thou,  sweet  maid, 

Along  the  path  of  sorrow  trod — 
Sad  wandered  o'er  the  desert  ways, 

Thy  pilgrim  staff,  strong  hope  in  God  ?  " 
Her  white  hand  trembled  as  she  spoke, 

And  meekly  bow'd  her  Grecian  head, 
And  o'er  her  cheek  the  first  faint  flush 

Of  early  April  roses  spread : 

"  No  sorrow  dimmed  my  girlhood's  days; 

The  desert  ways  were  strange  to  me, 
Till  from  my  own  f;iir  country  home 

I  turned  and  came  across  the  sea. 
A  fond,  fond  mother  cared  me  then, 

But  she  no  more  shall  kiss  my  brow, 
For  when  I  left  her  poor  heart  broke— 

She  sleepeth  in  God's  acre  now ! 

"  I  lived  a  league  from  Carlow  town, 

Just  near  the  Barrow's  winding  tide; 
And  often  in  the  summer  eves 

I  roamed  along  its  woody  side. 
The  throstle  through  the  twilight  hours 

Sang  softly  from  the  hazel  tr 
And  every  wind  that  stirred  the  flow'rs 

Flung  fragrance  'round  my  love  and  me. 


"As  on  the  Lora's  deek  I  stood, 

Tin-  sadness  came  that  brought  unrest; 
And  then  the  winds  that  filled  her  sails 

Quenched  joy's  last  flame  within  my  breast 
And  now  unknown,  un cared  for  In 

I  weary  wander  up  ami  down— 
The  grief  and  hunger  at  my  heart, 

A  thousand  leagues  from  Carlow  town," 

I  told  her  tristful  tale  to  one, 

\\  hose    heart    had    ne'er    heard   sorrows 

moan, 
But  down  her  cheek  the  round  tear  rolled, 

As  if  the  sorrow  were  her  own. 
Then  from  the  cold  November  wind, 

In  from  the  darkness  and  the  rain, 
We  bore  the  lonely,  wandering  one, 

And  strove  to  make  her  blithe  again. 

But  woe  is  me!  the  sickness  came, 

H«T  trembling  voice  grew  faint  and  weak; 
The  lilies  faded  on  her  breast, 

The  roses  paled  upon  her  cheek. 
She  drooped  and  languished  day  by  day, 

The  grief  and  fever  kept  her  down: 
And  with  th'  old  memories  next  her  heart 

She  died  far,  far  from  Carlow  town. 


MILKINfi-TIMF. 

GKEEN*  were  the  meadows  and  blue  was  th«« 

sky, 
Soft  o'er  the  harebells  the  Juno  wind  was 

blowing; 

A  wave-sounding  songlet.  the  river  n.ll,-, 
And  close  to  us  Brindle  and  Dhrimin 
lowing. 

They  knew  it  wan  milkinir-tinie—  so  did  we 

both: 
But  as  well  mipht  we  strive  t<*  prevent  the 

stream  flowinir. 
As  try  to  shake  off  Love's  Arcadian  ninth. 
Though  all  the  oM  e..ws  in  the  kingdom 
were  lowing. 


996 


POEMS  OF  JOHN  LOCKE. 


out, 
The  corncrake's  cry  sounded  shrill  from 

the  hollow; 
And  Brindle  and  Dhrimin — grown  weary  no 

doubt — 
Moved   lazily   homeward   ere  we   rose  to 

follow. 


O  darling,  my  heart  in  the  love-lighted  rays 
Of  that  eve — if  it  could — would  for  cen- 
turies dally; 

I'd  surrender  a  year  of  these  soul-dulling  days 
For  another  such  hour  in  that  Ossory  Val- 
ley. 


But  a  wearisome  way  lies  between  me  to- 
night 
And  the  scene  of  that  evening's  celestial 

enjoyment; 

I  can  only  write  of  it — ah !  if  I  could  write 
All  I  feel,  this  dull  pen  had  meet  bardic 
employment. 

We,  too,  are  apart — there's  a  bridgeless  ravine 
'Twixt  the  pathways  we  tread;   yet  your 

heart  will  not  wonder 

Why  mine  is  close  linked  to  that  long-van- 
ished e'en, 

By  a  tie  that  no  time  or  mutation  can  sun- 
der. 


SONG  OF  THE  IKISH  MOUNTAINEER. 

HUKRAH,  men,  hurrah,  for  the  wild  Irish 

hills, 
Where  the  brown  heath  and  green  fern 

grow, 
Where  the  iron  cliffs  frown  o'er  the  long, 

level  plains, 
And  the  bright  bounding  rills  ever  flow, 


Where  the  peasants  leap  bravely  along  the 

gray  rocks, 
While  the  tempest-shout  rings  loud  and 

clear, 
And  the  eagle  soars  proudly  the  tall  crags 

above — 
Hurrah,  I'm  a  wild  mountaineer. 


I'm  a  wild  mountaineer,  and  the  hills  are  my 

home, 

And  the  deep  hollow  cavern  my  bed, 
Where    the    dark-frowning    limestone    and 

brown  granite  arch 
The  crystalline  dome  overhead. 
I  care  for  no  master,  no  landlord  I  own, 

In  battle  no  foeman  I  fear; 
Hurrah,   then    hurrah,   for    the   mountains 

again, 
And  the  life  of  the  wild  mountaineer. 


When  our   fathers,  o'erwhelmed   in  patriot 

strife, 

Saw  their  standard  go  down  on  the  plain, 
'Twas  here  to  the  mountains  they  came  to 

recruit 

Their  ranks  and  their  vigor  again. 
And  when  Freedom's  glad  clarion  shall  sum- 
mon once  more 

Our  kindred  to  shoulder  their  spears, 
The  first  to  respond  and  the  last  to  retreat 
Will,  I  ween,  be  our  brave  mountaineers. 


Then  hurrah,  men,  hurrah,  for  the  wild  Irish 

hills, 
Where  the  brown   heath  and  green  fern 

grow, 
Where  the  iron  cliffs  frown  o'er  the  long, 

level  plains, 

And  the  bright,  bounding  rills  ever  flow. 
Where    the   tall   lithe-limbed    peasants  are 

hardy  and  strong, 

And  cherish  through  each  changing  year, 
The  fame  of  the  fathers  who  died  long  ago — 
Hurrah,  I'm  a  wild  mountaineer. 


POEMS  OF  MRS,  JOHN  LOCKE, 


(MARY    COOKEY.) 


ECHOES  THAT  CHRISTMAS  BKIV,>. 

THERE  was  never  a  day  in  the  stretch  of 

years, 
That  has  dawned  and  died  since  I  left  thy 

shore, 

My  land  of  the  manifold  trials  and  tears, 
That  some  thought  of  thee  was  not  wafted 

o'er 

Old  Ocean's  tide,  to  my  throbbing  heart, 
From  the  rural  haunts  where  the  hawthorns 

bloom, 

Where  lovers  loiter,  so  loth  to  part, 
In  the  lingering  twilight's  favoring  gloom. 

To-night,  from  Memory's  silent  deeps 

Scenes  from  my  youth's  old  home  arise — 
Fair  pictures  from  Fancy's  highest  steeps 
Are   thronging    before    my   tear-dimmed 

eyes; 

While  I  sit  and  muse,  in  my  dreamy  way, 
Of  that  dear  Green  Isle,  and  her  matchless 

charms, 
I  curse  the  hand  and  the  despot  sway 

That  have  forced  me  out  of  her  fondling 
arms. 

For,  of  all  the  lands  on  this  fair,  wide  earth, 
With  their  countless  beauties  of  sea  and 

sky, 

The  one  that  cradled  and  gave  us  birth 
Should  be  ours  to  live  in,  and  there  to  die, 

But,  alas!  for  that  long-afflicted  land. 

Whose  rich-loamed    fields  such   treasures 
hold, 

She's  still  the  prey  of  an  alien  band. 
Who  turn  the  fruit  of  her  womb  to  gold. 

No  spiritless  hours  filled  my  girlhood's  days: 
O'er  steepest  mountain,  through  deepest 

glen, 

Rang  echoes  of  stirring,  rebellious  lays, 
When  the  land   was  alive   with  stalwart 
men — 


Men  with  the  quick,  hot  pulse  of  youth. 

Bound  by  the  ties  of  brotherhoods  vows — 
With  souls  of  honor,  and  hearts  of  truth. 

Dauntless  bosoms,  and  Godlike  browg. 

Not  theirs  the  blame  if  the  effort  failed : 

They  fought  against  desperate  odds  and 

fate. 
The  right  went  under  and  might  prevail.-.;; 

But  they  kind  led  the  fires  of  a  stubborn  hate. 
They  woke  the  land  from  her  languid  tram -e, 

And  quickened  the  pulse  they  found  so  low; 
And  taught  her  to  gaze,  with  a  sharpened 
glance, 

Square  in  the  face  of  her  planning  foe. 

Now,  cast  with  the  rest  of  her  scattered  race, 
Found  far  and  wide  'neath  the  blue  of 
heaven. 

Still  eager  as  ever  the  foe  to  face 

Is  that  veteran  remnant  of  Sixty-seven: 

And  some  in  death's  eold,  dreamless  sleep 
Are  laid  in  this  friendly  soil  to  re 

And  some  were  borne  back  over  tin- 
To  their  long  last  home  on  Ireland's  breast. 


0  wonderful  land,  by  the  wind-swept 

My  first  true  love  in  the  long  ago, 
Made  dear  by  many  sweet  bonds  to  me 

Are  thy  lied<:e-rinnned  haunts  where  wild 

rcses  blow! 
Thou  haM  -triv«-rs.  now,ofthe  purest  mould — 

Though   lacking  the   lire  of  that    Fenian 

time — 
And  under  their  ^uide.  untiring  and  bold. 

May  Liberty's  belU  ring  their  cheeriest 

eliinie. 

Tis    Christmas    night,  while    I    build    my 

dreams 
Of  a  future  bright  for  our  beauteous  i-1- . 

And  paint  her  li.-lds  and  her  (lowing  streams 
Illumed  by  the  li/ht  of  Freedom's  smile. 


9!)  8 


POEMS  OF  MRS.  JOHN  LOCKE  (MART  COONEY). 


That  the  Yule  log's  glow,  with  the  conflict's 

cease, 

May  find  on  her  features  no  trace  of  tears; 
And  her  Christmas  times,  with  good  cheer 

and  peace, 

Be  blithe  as  they  were  in  her  happiest 
years ! 


CHRISTMAS  MEMORIES. 

I  PICTURE  the  old  folks  to-night,  not  cheerful, 
But  silently  sad  by  a  lonesome  hearth, 

Gloomily  musing  with  grave  eyes  tearful 
On  the  sorrows  and  losses  of  earth. 

What  a  picture  of  life  before  them  passes ! 

What  a  host  of  memories  must  arise ! 
Forms  all  damp  from  the  graveyard  grasses, 

To  sadden  their  sombre  eyes. 

They'll  think  of  the  absent  ones  they  scolded, 
In  the  hope  of  bending  the  strong  self-will ; 

And  then  of  the  dead,  with  fair  hands  folded, 
Lying  so  white  and  still. 

They'll  remember  them  all,  whate'er  their 

number, 
They'll  pass  and  repass  as  the  fire-light 

glows — 

The  exiled  waifs  and  those  that  slumber 
In  peace  where  the  shamrock  grows. 

Ah !  Christmas-time  is  a  time  for  thinking 

When  snows  are  deep  and  the  frost  winds 
keen — 

When  the  last  red  beam  of  the  sun  is  sinking 
'Xeath  the  sea  with  a  stormful  sheen. 

The  fire's  red  hollows  fill  up  with  faces, 
All  young  and  fresh  as  the  dawn  of  May; 

But  out  from  the  glowing  mystic  spaces, 
There  soundeth  no  laughter  gay. 

Oh !  if  the  wings  of  love  would  bear  me 
Home  to-night  o'er  the  bounding  main, 

I  would  steal  so  soft  that  they  would  not  hear 

me, 
And  peer  through  the  window  pane. 


But  my  soul  would  be  sorely  smitten 

If  the  place  were  dark  and  the  hearthstone 

drear, 
There  may  be  a  change,  for  they  have  not 

written 
A  word  in  more  than  a  year. 

Ah!  when  the  cares  of  life  come  crushing 
In  our  own  lives  from  every  side, 

With  wave  after  wave  of  trouble  rushing 
O'er  the  soul  like  a  foaming  tide — 

Folk  cannot  write  with  a  doleful  story 

Of  their  long,  hard  struggles  they  send  no- 
word, 
But  Christmas  comes  with  its  snow  flakes 

hoary, 
And  memory's  pulse  is  stirred. 

The  heart  goes  back  with  an  old-time  longing 
To  the  home  that  sheltered  it  long  ago; 

And  a  thousand   tremulous  thoughts  come 

thronging 
Each  with  an  odor  of  mistletoe. 

And   it    matters   not   how   our    spirits    are 
maimed — 

How  our  lives  with  troubles  be  fraught— 
A  father  or  mother's  face  comes  framed, 

In  the  heart  of  a  tender  thought. 


CIS-ATLANTIC   MUSING. 

ONLY  three  years;  yet  it  seems  an  age 

Of  yearning  heart-love  and  care 
Since  I've  heard  in  my  own  land  the  New 
Year's  chimes 

Peal  out  on  the  midnight  air — 
Out  o'er  the  frost-crisped  hills  and  fields, 

Away  to  the  farthest  bounds 
Of  echo's  reach,  from  the  beautiful  bells 

Rolled  a  volume  of  glorious  sounds. 

Only  three  years  since  I  stepped  from  the 
shore, 

When  new  day,  with  bright  hopes  reborn, 
Burst  in  golden  shafts  'tween  the  sapphire  bars- 

Of  the  eastern  gates  of  morn;    . 


POEMS   OF   MRS.  JOHN   LOCKK   (MAK'V    COONEY). 


I  sailed  away  o'er  the  blue,  cold  sea, 
Yet  no  fear  in  my  breast  would  rise. 

For  what  or  for  whom  had  I  periled  my  life 
And  sundered  its  sweet  home  ties  ? 

I  was  happy  at  home  till  my  soul  was  stirred 

And  my  thoughts  took  a  wider  range, 
And  my  dreams  went  out  o'er  the  unseen 
waves 

To  a  new  world,  vast  and  strange. 
'Twas  like  as  my  life  grew  twofold,  and  one 

Was  struggling  with  tortured  breast, 
While  the  other  one  roamed  in  restless  search 

Far  out  in  the  crimsoned  West. 

What  cared  I  that  life  from  one's  land  and 
kin 

Was  bitter  or  hard  to  bear — 
Comprising  many  a  heart-pang  sore 

And  many  a  sad,  salt  tear  ? 
My  life  was  lost  in  a  love  unknown, 

That  in  welcoming  gladness  smiled, 
Waiting  my  advent.     I  seemed  to  be 

Obeying  an  impulse  wild. 

I  leaned  on  the  rails  of  the  steamer's  deck, 

Looking  back  o'er  the  stretch  of  sea 
That  was  distancing  far  my  native  land 

And  all  that  was  dear  to  me. 
Had  I  cheated  myself  into  the  belief 

That  no  sorrow  my  soul  oppressed— 
That  there  must  be  another  love  somewhere 

More  potent  than  all  the  rest  ? 

Now  my  life  is  linked  with  that  new-found 

life— 

Whether  for  weal  or  woe 
For   him,  for  me,  as   Time's  wheel   whirls 

round, 

The  gathering  years  must  show. 
We  must  have  our  trials  and  our  struggles, 

too, 

But  the  future  fair  days  may  hold. 
He's  wise  and  sometimes  wild,  hut.  <>h! 
At  heart  he's  as  good  as  gold. 

And  there's  never  a  cloud  on  his  cheerful  face, 

Nor  gloom  in  his  hopeful  eyes, 
So  clear  and  keen  that  their  depths  of  blue 

Seem  borrowed  from  May-day  sk. 


Ami  the  laugh  leaps  up  from  his  genial  1. 

So  careless  and  void  of  guile, 
As  he  mirthfully  tells  me  for  richer  times 

I  must  wait  for  a  little  while. 

Well,  we  have  wealth  in  each  other's  love, 
and  so 

Let  the  years  their  shadows  fling 
Upon  our  brows,  with  their  winter  snows; 

In  our  hearts  can  be  always  spring; 
And  out  on  the  starry  midnight  air, 

O'er  the  old  land's  vales  and  dells, 
We'll  hear  again,  in  glad,  glorious  tones, 

The  peal  of  the  New  Year's  bells. 


ELLIE. 

I  WAS  1 1  ream  ing  so  strangely  of  Ellie — dream- 
ing of  Ellie  all  night; 

She  comes  to  me  always  in  trouble,  looking 
so  tearful  and  white. 

Ellie  was  handsome  and  haughty,  seeming  so 
stately  and  cold; 

But  Ellie  was  truthful  and  tender — her  heart 
was  a  treasure  of  gold. 

Ellie  and  I  were  children — only  two  years 

between; 
Children  and  girls  together.     Ah!  Ellie  was 

proud  as  a  queen ; 
I  was  studious  and  thoughtful — more  like  a 

woman  than  child, 
Wistful    and    wise  as    a    fairy  —  Ellie    was 

thoughtless  and  wild. 

Ellie  was  fair,  with  a  fairness  of  face  so  pecu- 
liarly sweet 

That,  in  all  my  sad,  wearisome  wandering, 
one  like  her  I  never  could  in. 

But,  prone  like  a  blight-stricken  lily,  slowly 
bent  the  proud,  beautiful  head. 

And  the  pure  sjiirit  soared  from  earth's  j<: 
— Ellie,  our  sister,  was  dead. 

Twas  the  first  time  death  came  to  our  house- 
hold: and,  oh!  in  her  freshness  and 
bloom. 

In  the  llower  o;  developing  fairness,  young 
M  u'gie  was  marked  for  the  tomb. 


1000 


POEMS   OF   MRS.  JOHN  LOCKE   (MARY   COONEY). 


Ere  the  fourth  moon  had  rounded  to  fulness 
and  the  tears  at  our  loss  were  scarce 
dried, 

'Neath  the  green,  swampy  sward  of  old  Mot- 
hill  the  sisters  were  laid  side  by  side. 

Ellie  sleeps  under  the  shamrocks,  fondly 
clasped  to  old  Motherland's  breast; 

But  she  comes  to  me  over  the  ocean  when- 
ever my  soul  is  oppress'd; 

For  Ellie  had  love  that  was  stronger  than 
death,  when  those  loved  were  in  strife; 

Ellie  's  well  cared  for  in  heaven,  and  I — I'm 
a  world-anxious  wife. 

In  the  home  of  my  heart  and  my  youthhood, 

the  land  of  my  sorrow  and  pride, 
With  a  mother's  love  lighting  me  onward,  it 

was  not  my  luck  to  have  died; 
There  was  exile  and  troubles  before  me,  and 

work  I  was  given  to  do; 
Ellie  and  Maggie  are  cared  for,  but  I  have 

my  trials  to  go  through. 


A  PATRICK'S    DAY   GIFT. 

Written,  while  Residing  in  the  Old  Country,  to 
a  Very  Dear  Friend  then  in  America. 

As  a  token  of  the  friendship, 

Ever  fresh,  that  fills  my  heart, 
To  mine  eyes  that  oft,  while  toiling, 

Cause  the  trembling  tears  to  start; 
I  have  culled  for  thee  a  bouquet, 

Bright  of  heaven's  own  radiant  sheen; 
'Tis  a  tiny  bunch  of  shamrocks, 

Blooming  beautiful  and  green. 

Other  hands  for  thee  may  gather 

Flowers  of  fondness,  rosebuds  fair, 
Blue  forget-me-nots,  sweet  violets, 

Carnations  red,  geraniums  rare, 
Such  as  tell  of  love  tales  tender; 

Still  from  me,  with  smile  serene, 
Take  this  little  gift  of  shamrocks, 

Blooming  beautiful  and  green. 

From  the  hillside  where,  in  youthhood, 
Thou  hadst  loved  always  to  roam, 

I  have  gleaned  them  while  the  dewdrop 
Laved,  like  tears,  the  sparkling  loam, 


To  bring  back  to  thee  of  old  times 

Every  fond,  familiar  scene; 
Take  my  little  gift  of  shamrocks, 

Blooming  beautiful  and  green. 

Kiss  them  once  before  they  wither, 

Press  them  closely  to  thy  heart; 
Breathe  one  blessing  on  the  giver, 

Faithful  still,  though  far  apart; 
And  for  sake  of  Erin  mother, 

Crownless     crushed,    though     beauteous 

queen, 
Wear  rny  tiny  bunch  of  shamrocks, 

Blooming  beautiful  and  green. 

I  might  cull  for  thee  of  field  flowers, 

Purple  harebell,  primrose  mild, 
And  the  golden-bosomed  daisy, 

Yellow  cowslip,  leaflets  wild; 
But  of  hope,  of  truth,  of  fondness, 

Sweeter  souvenir,  I  ween, 
Is  my  little  gift  of  shamrocks, 

Blooming  beautiful  and  green. 

Reaching  thee  from  fair  Kilkenny, 

Will  they  not  thy  fond  soul  charm? 
Oh,  to  hear  the  words  of  greeting, 

Gushing  from  thy  brave  heart  warm. 
From  one  loved  haunt  where  thou  hast  wan- 
dered 

Oft  at  sunset's  glorious  e'en 
Gathered  I  this  gift  of  shamrocks, 

Blooming  beautiful  and  green. 

'Tis  a  trifling  boon  to  send  thee, 

But  as  emblems  of  esteem, 
Of  a  friendship  ever  verdant, 

Not  the  memory  of  a  dream; 
As  a  pledge  of  truth  untarnished, 

With  no  shadow  on  its  sheen, 
Take  my  tiny  bunch  of  shamrocks, 

Blooming  beautiful  and  green. 

From  the  dear  old  place  of  trysting, 

With  great  love,  tear-laden  eyes, 
Thou  wilt  hail  them  fondly,  proudly, 

And  look  on  them  as  a  prize; 
With  my  own  heart's  holiest  yearning, . 

Love,  as  in  life's  spring-time,  keen, 
Take  my  trifling  gift  of  shamrocks, 

Blooming  beautiful  and  green. 


I'OKMS  OF   I;ICIIAI;I>   MX.  HALE 


1001 


Once,  in  girlish  mirth,  I  gave  thee, 

Gathered  from  a  wayside  hedge, 
Shrinkingly  some  pale  primroses, 

Of  youth's  early  griefs  a  pledge; 
And  to-day,  as  emblems  tender. 

Of  the  love  no  cloud  could  screen, 
Take  my  tiny  bunch  of  shamrocks, 

Blooming  beautiful  and  green. 

Sorrow  came  in  silent  anguish, 

Swift  and  burning  flowed  my  tears, 
And  the  bright  young  brow  grew  clouded, 

Shadowed  as  it  still  appears: 
But  as  types  of  truth,  unchanging, 

That  will  be — hath  always  been, 
Take  my  little  gift  of  shamrocks, 

Blooming  beautiful  and  green. 


Life  was  sweet  while  thou  wcrt  near  me, 

Oh,  what  deep-felt  joy  was  mine: 
Though  I  t  rein  1 -led,  scarcely  « 

Lifting  my  drooped  eyes  to  thine: 
Of  those  days  as  dear  mementoes. 

I,  heart  bounding,  stooped  to  -l.-an, 
Fresh  for  thee  this  gift  of  shamrocks 

Blooming  beautiful  and  green. 

Reverently  they  now  remind  me 

How,  unfearing  tyrant  laws, 
Thou,  with  patriot  soul  unflinching, 

Toiled  unwearying  in  the  cause; 
Then,  for  love  of  Erin  mother, 

Chained  and  bowed  'neath  sufferings  keen, 
Wear  to-day  my  gift  of  shamrocks, 

Blooming  beautiful  and  green. 


POEMS  OF  RICHARD  MacHALE. 


A  LOST   FRIEND.. 

A  TIME-PIECE  was  the  gift  a  cherished  friend 

Once  gave  me,  saying,  when  I  ceased  to 

care 
For  it,  'twould  show  my  love  had  run  its  end. 

And  I  received  the  present  and  did  swear 
That,  while  its  hands  my  own  had  power  to 
move, 

The  gift  would  be  to  me  most  fondly  dear, 
That  e'en  in  this  I  would  my  friendship  prove. 

I  gave  the  pledge  and  felt  no  tinge  of  fear. 

The  time-piece  for  a  while  it  was  my  pride 

To  keep  as  I  had  vowed  it  would  In-  kept, 
And,  like  my  tongue,  thus  far  it  never  lied, 

And,  like  my  love,  it  never,  neu-r  slept. 
But  richer  friends  soon  stole  my  heart  away, 

And  the  vile  treachery  it  seemed  to  know, 
For  in  its  cold,  neglected  pl.i.-e  one  day 

It  gave  a  mournful  tick  and  censed  to  go. 

And  there  corroded  by  long  gathering  r\\>\. 

The  once-prized  token  of  affection  st 
Till  I  had  power  the  new  friends  all  to  tru.-t. 

And  find  that  every  one  the  trust  1-et  rayed  : 


Too  late  then  all  my  zealous  care  returi 
For  though  a  deep  remorse  had  tilled   my 
heart. 

The  little  clock  my  fond  advances  spurned. 
It  stopped  just  after  I  had  made  it  start. 

Ami  when,  affection  beaming  from  his  . 

It  pleased  God  that  my  olden  friend  should 

come 
And  see  the  gift  that  I  had  sworn  to  pr 

So  voiceful  of  my  vow  and  yet  so  dumb. 
He  turned  from  me  as  he  would  turn  from 
crime, 

And  slowly  said:  "  1  may  not  trust  apiin. 
For  though  my  u'ift  cannot  record  the  time. 

It  can  the  treachery  of  faithless  men." 

I  pleaded  hard  that  my  neglect  WM  brief, 

And  to  forgive  me  begged  him  o'er  and 
I  thought  his  love  would  come  to  my  relief. 

And  make  us  friends  as  we  had  bet-- 
But though  it  seemed  so  for  a  little  while. 

Alas!  it  was  not  as  my  heart  desir. 
I  MM  rust  e'er  minted  with  his  sunniest  smile. 

The  love  chords  of  his  heart  seemed  worn 
and  tired. 


1002 


POEMS   OF   RICHARD   MAcHALE. 


And  thus  we  drifted  on  apart,  till  now 

Of  all  our  love  there  lives  no  single  ray, 
And  when  we  meet  a  civil  word  or  bow 

Tells  of  a  friendship  lightly  thrown  away 
And  it  will  ever,  ever  be  the  same, 

For  friendship  is,  as  all  mankind  doth 

prove, 
A  fragile  mechanism  in  a  fragile  frame, 

That  stops  if  not  kept  active  by  the  oil  oJ 
love. 


TO   A  SHAMROCK. 
Taken  from  the  Martyrs'  Tomb  in  Grlasnevin. 

THOU  art  withered,  little  shamrock,  and  there 

is  no  brightness  in  thee ; 
Thou  seemst  desolate  and  stricken  as  the 

land  that  gave  thee  birth, 
But  I  know  how  loving  exiles'  hearts  would 

throb  with  joy  to  win  thee, 
And  I  view  thee,  little  shamrock,  as  a  gift 

of  priceless  worth. 
Thy   tender   leaves   were    gathered   in   that 

graveyard  o'er  the  ocean 
Where  the  dust  of  Ireland's  martyrs  has 

been  laid  away  at  rest ; 
And  cold,  indeed,  would  be  my  heart  and 

wanting  in  devotion 

If  I  failed  to  love  and  cherish  such  a  sweet 
and  holy  guest. 

Thou  art  withered,  little  shamrock;  so  are 

tongues  that  loved  to  praise  thee 
In  the  sweet  and   soulful   music  of  our 

bleeding  mother  land. 
Thou  art  crumbling,  little  shamrock;  so  are 

hands  that  sought  to  raise  thee 
To  be  emblem  of  the  freest  race  'neath 

God's  all-ruling  hand. 
Yes!    thou'rt    crumbling,    little    shamrock, 

and  ere  many  days  pass  o'er  thee 
None  can  tell  that  thou   wert  gathered 

from  dear  Erin's  sacred  sod ; 
So  it  is  with  noble  hearts  and  true  that  loved 

the  land  that  bore  thee 
With  a  love  as  pure  and  holy  as  the  love 
they  gave  to  God. 


But  those  tongues  and  hands  and  true  hearts, 

though  within  the  cold  grave  sleeping, 

Have  not  lost  the  pow'r  they  wielded  in  a 

holy  cause  on  earth, 
For  as  their  glorious  memory  down  time's 

dark  flood  goes  sweeping, 
Once  barren  soil  is  watered  and  new  pa- 
triots have  birth, 
So  with  the  little  shamrock  that  an   Irish 

exile  reaches : 
It  brings  him  back,  in  thought,  to  kith  and 

kin  beyond  the  foam ; 
Tis  a  messenger,  a  missioner  that  ever,  ever 

preaches 

The  doctrine  that  the  faithful  heart  will 
ever  stay  at  home. 


THE   FALLEN. 

BE  bravely  just  and  praise  all  good  work  done ! 

Be  chary  not  of  honor  and  applause 
To  those  whose  bold  persistency  has  won 

A  Titan  eloquence  unto  our  cause. 
But  oh !  remember,  too,  the  men  who  thought 

That  Liberty  was  worth  its  fullest  cost ; 
AVho  through  their  chains  and  death  a  revo- 
lution wrought — 

The  men  who  fought  and  lost. 

Remember  what  nobility  was  theirs, 

In  failure  calm,  unflinching  to  the  last, 
Charming  the  world,  and  leaving  to  their 

heirs 

A  record  that  will  never  be  surpassed. 
What   though  they  fell  'mid  coward   curse 

and  jeer, 
What  though  in  pauper  graves  their  bones 

were  tossed, 
Do  not  the  humble  mortals  like  to  gods  appear 
Who  battled  thus  and  lost  ? 

God  bless  the  humble  graves  where  such  men 

rest, 
For  their  deeds  wakened  up  the  world  to 

know 

That  you  were  of  the  sad  ones  and  oppressed, 
Their  tragic  fate  brought  comfort  to  your 
woe. 


POEMS  OF   1,'KV.   WM.  -I.   McCLURE. 


And  as  you  crown  your  victor  chief  with  hays 
When  you   unto  the  promised  land   have 

crossed, 

Oh!  spare  some  flowery  garlands  and  some 
praise 

For  those  who  fought  and  lost. 


I   LONG  TO   SERVE   MY   LAND. 


I  CARE  not  to  be  high  or 

In  martial  deeds  of  fame. 
Nor  yet  where  statesmen  congregate 

To  win  a  deathless  name. 
'Twas  never  my  desire  to  be 

By  fortune's  fair  winds  fanned 
Enough  this  simple  wish  for  me: 

I  long  to  serve  my  land. 

It  matters  not  the  how  or  where, 

In  exile  or  at  home, 
Within  my  native  village  fair 

Or  far  beyond  the  foam, 
If  but  the  friends,  some  future  day, 

Who  round  my  tomb  may  stand 
Can  read  that,  in  his  humble  way, 

He  loved  and  served  his  land. 


THE    MANLY    M \ 

His  words,  a  reflex  of  his  la-art. 

Are  bold;  and  he  will  not  he  swa; 
He  scorns  all  diplomatic  art 

And  cannot  quibble  or  evade. 
A  holy  love  his  guiding  light. 

This  is  his  platform  and  his  plan : 
Speak  always  truth,  do  ever  ri^ht — 

Say,  is  he  not  a  manly  man  ? 

Angered  by  even  word  or  look 

That  might  retard  a  hoped-for  end, 
Yet  mildly  yielding  to  rebuke. 

If,  haply,  he  himself  offend. 
In  age  as  earnest  as  in  youth. 

For  freedom  ever  in  the  van, 
But  never  sacrificing  truth — 

This  seems  to  me  a  manly  man. 

These  men,  in  love  and  hatred  strong, 

Add  glory  to  our  glorious  cause, 
Although  they  train  not  with  the  throng 

And  hear  not  often  "  loud  applause." 
They  dare  abuse  as  they  would  <la:v 

The  scaffold  or  the  prison  pen. 
Ah!  brothers,  always  speak  with  care 

Of  these  unselfish,  manly  men. 


POEMS  OF  KEY.  WM.  J.  McCLURE, 


THE  CRUSHED   ROSE. 

A  ROSE  lay  crushed  upon  the  sod, 

I'.v  some  unknown  anil  heedless  heel 
That  o'er  it  ruthlessly  had  trod. 

But  could  not  all  its  beauty  steal. 
'Twas  withering  on  the  dew-damp  ground. 

Snatched  from  its  life-providing  stem: 
Its  sweet  companions  blushed  around  : 

Though  crushed  and  dead,  'twas  one  of 
them! 

A  kindly  hand  preserved  the  rose, 

And  placed  it  in  a  casket  fair: 
A  soft  voice  said:  "  Howe'er  life  flows, 

'Twill  prove  a  moral  mentor  t  i 


Unconscious  was  the  reckless  heel 
That  crushed  the  rose  upon  the  sod; 

It  could  not  all  the  fragrance  .-: 
That  drew  another  soul  to  (J> 


THK    SUMMKK    KAIN. 

A  ni.KssiNu  from  <;<>d  i>  the  Mimmer  r 

-lung  the  world,  whose  dryness  is  i 
The  earth  woos  the  clouds  when  tired  of  tin 

sun. 

Whose  love's  too  ardent  ere  summer  is  done. 
And  pleads  for  affection  tempered  by  tears, 
For  shadow  mingled  with  shimmer  of  years. 


1004 


POEMS   OF  REV.   WM.   J.   McCLURE. 


0  merciful  rain!  the  verdure  is  drenched, 
And  the  thirst  of  panting  nature  is  quenched. 
Man  looks  o'er  his  fields  of  tillage  revived, 
The    landscape    shines   forth  like   a  sinner 

shrived; 

The  brooks  are  aflow  and  the  full  streams  run 
Through  scenes  lit  again  by  earth's  glory — 

the  sun. 


MOORE'S   CENTENARY. 
May  28th,  1879. 

A  HUNDRED  years  ago  a  bard  was  born  on 

Irish  ground, 
A  hundred  years  have  passed,  and  as  a  bard 

he  is  renowned; 
His  birth  is  marked  in  history,  his  fame  in 

verse  and  prose, 
By  countrymen,  by .  foreign  pen,  the  world 

his  title  knows. 

With  wreath  of  poesy  is  crowned  that  singer 
of  true  song, 

That  lovers  of  sweet  melody  hath  moved  to 
pleasure  long, 

And  Thomas  Moore  is  full  secure  in  memory 
stretching  far 

Whereto  the  future  promises  no  black  obliv- 
ion's bar. 

No  songster  else  more  varied  or  more  tuneful 

was  than  Moore: 
Burns'  tenderness,  Heine's  beauty  and  Be- 

ranger's  fire  allure, 
Yet  other  lands  of    South  or  North— the 

farthest  and  the  near — 
In  brimming  minstrelsy,  they've  not  the  Irish 

singer's  peer. 

The  moods  of  joy  and  grief  and   love,  of 

battle  and  of  peace, 
He  sang  in  strains  that  have  not  ceased,  nor 

will,  till  chaos  cease; 
For  they're  taken  up  from  heart  to  heart— 

from  lip  to  lip  their  tone 
Is  sounded,  till  the  stranger  feels  the  charm 

as  'twere  his  own ! 


A  loving  touch  was  Thomas  Moore's  that  the 

harp  of  Erin  thrilled; 
With  the  presence  of  his  music  the  Irish 

breast  is  filled; 
'Twas  caught  from  ancient  ballad -tunes,  'twas 

gathered  as  fine  gold 
From  the  deep-enriching  mine  of  song — from 

Erin's  heart  of  old. 

Thus,  while   we    wander   back   in   thought 

throughout  a  hundred  years, 
We  mark  the  great  and   master-bard,  e'en 

through  his  country's  tears, 
And  raise  the  voice  of  praise,  and  pray  that 

ever  may  endure 
The  memory  of  the  Irishman  and   poet — 

Thomas  Moore! 


THE  SHAMROCK  AND  LAUREL. 

THERE'S  a  lofty  love  abounding 

In  the  emblem  of  a  land ; 
There's  a  fellowship,  confounding 

The  evil  mind  and  hand, 
In  the  token  of  a  nation, 

In  the  flow'ret  of  a  race; 
And  a  multiform  oblation 

Is  lifted  by  the  grace 

And  patriotism  of  millions — 
To  the  hearthstones,  homes  and  hamlets 

Where  gush  the  native  fountains; 
To  the  valleys,  groves  and  streamlets, 

The  cities  and  the  mountains — 

With  a  pride  as  high  as  Ilion's! 

As  the  Lily  was  the  glory 

Of  the  olden  flag  of  France, 
As  the  Rose  illumes  the  story 

Of  Albion's  advance — 
In  the  Shamrock  is  communion 

Of  all  Irish  faith,  and  love, 
And  the  Laurel  crowns  the  union 

Of  grandeurs  interwove 

Round  the  temple  of  the  chainless 
To  the  Laurel  fill  libations, 

The  cup  with  Shamrocks  wreathing; 
And  before  the  monarch  nations 

Raise  the  symbol-breathing 

Equal  Rights — to  lordling's  gainless ! 


I'OKMS    OF   .IAMl->    MUM'IIY. 


1005 


Interweave  the  lowly  Shamrock, 
Freedom's  Laurel  to  endow: 

Ay,  unite  with  Ireland's  Shamrock 
Columbia's  Laurel-bough — 

For  there's  hope  and  help  unchary 
Columbia's  skies  beneath, 

And  from  ev'ry  cliff  and  prairie 
To  Erin's  hills  of  heath, 
Salutations  clear  and  cheerful 

Resound  across  the  ocean, 
And  Celts,  in  might  increasing, 

With  patriot-emotion, 
Vow  in  their  souls  unceasing: 
"  We  will  aid  thee,  Mother  tearful ! " 


SAINT   PATRICK'S   CATHEDRAL, 
New  York. 

THE  cause  of  God  ennobles  every  work 
Done  for  His  glory.     In  far  times  and  deeds 
Rose  the  vast  basilicas,  and  the  seeds 
Planted  through  Christ's  blood  had  generous 

fruitage, 

Despite  the  wars  of  heretic  and  Turk. 
How  is  it  with  the  Church  in  this  proud  age? 
Her  children  for  her  altars  plant  founda- 
tions, 

Erect  the  column  and  place  the  capital, 
Till  high  the  cross-crowned  spire  invites 

the  nations. 
There  rises  o'er  Manhattan  a  cathedral, 


Venerable,  yet  new,  of  Gothic  beauty. 
It  is  a  mark  of  holy  love  and  duty; 
'Tis  a  splendor,  resting  on  earth  in  blessing, 
Pointing  to  Heaven — Christian  Faith  «-on- 
f  easing. 


EASTER    LI  Li: 

WHAT  may  we  offer  to  the  Lord  arisen, 
To  Him  most  precious,  sweet  and  beaut, 
ous? 

Our  hearts,  all  purified,  like  lovely  lilies, 
Our  hearts,  in  God's  attachment  duteous. 

Some  flowers  that  grow  beside  an  earthly 

river 

Are  emblems  of  men's  thoughts  and  yearn- 
ings— 

Of  human  griefs  and  modesty  of  living — 
Of  sensual  and  heavenward  burnings. 

0  brothers,  sisters  of  the  race  of  Adam, 
Select  your  gifts  from  earth's  bright  floral 

Yet  gather  nothing  for  your  Lord  eternal 
That  breathes  not  of  His  grace  and  moral. 

Bring  ye  forth  lilies  of  your  hearts  to  give 
Him, 

Tokens  of  freedom  from  sin's  fetter: 
Ami,  as  they  never  fade  in  this  life's  winter, 

They'll  fructify  unto  a  Better! 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  MURPHY, 


THE   ADVENT   OF  THE    MILl->IA\s. 


THE    GIFT   OF   TIN:    (JAKI.K1   TO 

THE  summer  sun  is  streaming  o'er  many  a 
galley  tall, 

Where  Eastern  wave,  by  Syrian  coast,  builds 
up  of  foam  a  wall ; 

Ami  bright  the  golden  streak  of  rays  that 
marks  the  vessels'  track, 

And  bright  the  sheen  of  summer  light  tin- 
parted  wave  gives  back. 


But  brighter  far  the  lines  of  light  from  wav. -n 

swords  that  gleam. 
And  brighter  still  of  hi^'h  resolve  in  warrior 

eyes  the  beam: 
As  from  the  galley's  sun-lit  decks  into  the 

trmple's  irloom 
Pass  armed    hosts   with   plum-injj  helm  and 

wave  of  tossing  plum.  ! 

Thr  sacred  shrine  above  them— the  spreading 

sea  before— 
Tin- silken  sniN.  a<  \.-t  unfurled,  their  wait- 

ing  galleys  bore — 


POEMS   OF  JAMES   MURPHY. 


In  shrouding  mist  and  silence — none  dared 

to  whisper  then ! — 
Await  the  God  of  Destiny  a  thousand  bearded 

men. 

No  arching  roof  or  canopy  o'erspreads  the 

temple  where 
Before  the  awful  shrine  of  Fate  the  mustered 

warriors  are — 
In  solemn  silent  reverence  the  mystic  words 

of  fate 
From  the  High-priest  of  Prophecy  the  plumed 

chiefs  await. 

A  leader  stands  before  them,  whose  broad 

and  ample  breast 
In  mantling  folds  of  purple  cloth  by  kingly 

right  is  drest; 
A  head  above  the  tallest,  his  helm,  athrough 

the  mist, 
Beams  bright  as  day  with  diamond  and  gleam 

of  amethyst ! 

That  sword  he  bears,  in  Babylon  from  royal 

hand  he  tore; 
That   golden    circlet  on   his  arm  the    regal 

Pharaoh  wore; 
The  diamonds  on  his  sword-hilt,  that  gleam 

like  liquid  fire, 
Once  graced  the  golden  shrines  above  the 

idol-gods  of  Tyre. 

A  warrior  he  of  warrior  race,  Assyria  owned 

his  sway ;  * 
His  iron-bauds  through    Scythia  tore  their 

resistless  way; 
And  women  wailed  in  Egypt,  and  cities  lay 

as  lone 
As  Isis  in  the  desert,  when  once  his  flag  was 

flown! 

But  leave  he  must !  The  fabled  isle,  the  an- 
cient seer  foretold  f 

In  burning  words  of  prophecy — whose  hills 
were  throned  in  gold — 

*  See  O'Mahony's  "  Keating."  pp.  178-9. 

I'  Caicer,'1  a  principal  Druid  among  the  Gadelians  [a  kin- 
dred race  of  the  Milesians],  informed  them  by  his  prophetic 
knowledge  that  there  was  no  country  ordained  for  them  to 
inhabit  until  they  arrived  on  the  coast  of  a  certain  western 
isle— meaning  thereby  Ireland.—  Keating's  Ancient  Irish 
History, 


Whose  streams  were  tuned  to  melody — whose 
shores  with  pearls  were  lined — 

And  where  the  perfumes  of  the  East  sur- 
charged the  summer  wind — 

Called  him  afar !  He  cannot  stay !  At  night 
the  golden  beams 

That  flooded  that  fair  island-home,  shone  in- 
ward on  his  dreams; 

At  day  nor  eastern  wave  he  saw,  nor  eastern 
land,  nor  sky — 

Along  the  golden  rim  of  heaven  sought  out 
that  isle  his  eye! 

And  now,  amid  his  followers,  before  the 
shrine  he  stands — 

Before  the  unknown  God  that  holds  the  fu- 
ture in  His  hands — 

And  a  bright  blessing  prayeth  he  his  fol- 
lowers for,  and  on 

That  island-home,  that  fabled  land,  e're  yet 
his  ships  were  gone. 

The  aged  priest  before  them  stands,  the  mys- 
tic reed  in  hand : 

"Milesius!  Heber!  Heremon! — seek  ye  the 
fabled  land  ? 

My  heart-strings  rend  at  parting — with  grief 
my  breast  is  wrung — 

But  a  priceless  gift  I  give  thee: — the  Bless- 
ing of  the  Tongue ! 

"A  tongue  for  men  to  pray  in  to  listening 

gods  on  high, 
A  tongue  whose  ringing  accents  shall  cheer 

the  brave  to  die — 
Meet,  in  the  dark'ning  even,  when  falls  the 

night  above, 
For  red-lipped  maids  in  Eire  to  speak  the 

words  of  love. 

"A  tongue  wherein  the  Druid  may  worship 

at  the  oak, 
A  tongue  wherewith  magician   may  hidden 

spells  evoke —  J 
In  airy  mist  at  noonday  shall  her  fair  hills  be 

drest, 
Or  golden  light  shall  deck  her  at  eve — at  his 

behest. 


J  The  pagan  Irish  were  enabled  by  their  magic  gifts  to  en- 
shroud their  enemies  in  a  mist,  whereby  they  were  easily  de- 
feated.— Keating. 


POEMS   OF  JAMES   .MUM'IIY. 


"Its  notes  the  flow  shall  rival  of  Eire's  silver 

streams, 
Breathe  it  at  night — a  benison  falls  on  the 

sleeper's  dreams! 
And  angels'  speech  of  sorrow   (for   ruined 

souls)  in  bliss 
Shall  lose  its  tone  of  anguish  when  women 

cry  in  this!" 

The  chieftain  frowned  in  anger:   "Not  gift 

like  this,"  he  said, 
"  Want  we  to  stir  the  heart  to  love — to  sorrow 

for  the  dead ; 
For  the  brave  heart  to  conquer,  and  the  bright 

blade  to  slay, 
Shall  win  us  woman's  love,  I  trow — let  sorrow 

those  who  may. 

"Hast  thou  no  other  blessing?"  "Hush!" 

the  aged  seer  replies, 
"  Than  gleaming  sword,  or  gallant  heart,  in 

this  more  power  lies; 
Swords  rust  and  throbbing  hearts  grow  still, 

but  in  this  gift  I  give 
Thy  princely  name  and  glorious  deeds  and 

bright  renown  shall  live ! 

""  Its  kindling  words  shall  valor  feed  within 

thy  children's  breasts; 
Its  song  shall  prouder  tribute  be  than  heralds' 

gleaming  crests; 
Its  strains  shall  make  their  swords  out  flash 

when  dangers  gather  round; 
And  ever  shall  its  clarion  cheer  o'er  conquered 

foe  resound. 

"Its  trumpet  tones  in  battle  hour  shall  point 

the  lifted  spear; 
The  battle-axe  through  surging  foes  shall 

make  a  pathway  clear; 
For  victory  won  its  song  of  joy  shall  grace 

the  festive  cup  " — 
The  sword-blades  in  their  jewelled  sheaths 

came  ringing  swiftly  up! 

"But  hand  to  hand  unitedly — on  this  condi- 
tion rests 

The  mystic  charm  of  victory  that  in  this 
blessing  vests — 


Your  ranks  must  join;  your  arms  strike; — 
your  valiant  hearts  must  know 

Nor  treason  nor  disloyalty  when  dares  your 
strength  the  f<»e: 

"  Else  shall  your  pa?ans  of  victory  be  songs 

of  woe  instead; 
Else  shall  the  conquering  feet  of  foes  above 

your  bravest  tread; 
Else  shall — but  no! — the  perfumed  breeze  to 

bear  you  hence  away 
Swells  in  your  sails — mine  aged  lips  the  rest 

forbear  to  say ! " 

He  lifted   high   his    trembling   hands — the 

chieftains  forward  sprang 
And,  kneeling,  with  the  clank  of  spears  the 

marble  pavement  rang; — 
A  glorious  sunburst  flashed  athrough  the 

temple's  solemn  glooms — 
A  thousand  swords  outilashed! — the  air  was 

swept  with  tossing  plumes! 

Uprose  the  bannered  lances,  like  lines  of 
tapered  oaks; 

Rang  on  the  pave  their  sabres,  like  hammer- 
ing forgeman's  strokes : 

A  cheer  arose!  "  The  sunburst!  The  God  of 
Fate,"  they  cried. 

"Our  banner  in  the  golden  sky  with  golden 
light  has  dyed ! 

"Never  to  die  that    banner!      Never    that 

tongue  to  die, 
Till  the  warring  world  is  voiceless,  till  the 

sun  dies  in  the  sky: 
Till  the  god-like  gift  of  manhood   dies  out 

from  heart  and  veins. 
And  on  the  breast  of  Eire  no  son  of  our 

remains. 


"To  the  golden  shores  of  Kirinn!     To  her 

sun-lit  hills!"     The  cry 
In  the  mystic  tongue,  that   now  they  spoke, 

on  the  swelling  breeze  rose  high, 
And  the  silken  sails  and  theeedar  nuwta  that 

their  tossing  galleys  bore, 
On    that     Ka-trni    \v.i\.  .  when    the  sun    went 

down,  threw  a  shadow  nevermore! 


1008 


POEMS   OF  JAMES   MURPHY. 


THE   EXPULSION    OF   THE   MOORS.* 

'TWAS  in   Seville  Cathedral;    and   many   a 

gorgeous  hue, 
The  sunlight  on  the  marble  floor  in  chequered 

tracery  threw; 
On  carved  screen  and  silver  shrine,  through 

many  a  storied  pane, 
Pours,  in  all  its  wealth  of  glory,  the  golden 

sun  of  Spain. 

Nor  Mass  is  said,  nor  organ  peals  therein  this 

harvest  day, 
Nor  gather  aught  of  worshippers  before  the 

shrine  to  pray; 
No  prayers  arise  from   kneeling  forms  for 

mercy  or  for  grace, 
For  penitent  to  armed  men,  and  priest  to 

chief  give  place. 

Sandalled  and  tonsured,  mutely,  with  heads 

and  eyes  bowed  down, 
The  monks  stand  ranged  in  lengthening  line 

of  sombre-colored  brown, 
While  falls  upon  their  listening  ears,  where 

priests  were  wont  to  kneel, 
The  tread  of  armed  warriors,  the  clank  of 
ringing  steel ! 

"  The  Moor  has  passed  the  barrier ! "     'Twas 

thus  Count  Maurice  spake; 
"And  Spain  from  her  long  years  of  trance, 

at  length  to  life's  awake; 
Our  King,  with  princely  valor,  the  challenge 

stout  has  ta'en, 
And  at  his  call  are  mustering  the  bravest 

hearts  of  Spain. 

"  '  For  Freedom  and  for  Holy  Church !  '—the 
war  cry  has  gone  forth 

From  Seville  and  from  Malaga  unto  the  trusty 
north; 

Even  now  all  Spain  is  gathering;  and  press- 
ing southward  fast, 

The  mountain  chiefs  of  Arragon  the  Ebro's 
wave  have  passed. 


*  This  poem  was  intended  t-o  commemorate  the  call  made 
on  the  Irish  people  by  SIB  PHELIM  O'NEIIX,  in  the  great  re- 
bellion 1641;  but,  foi  reasons,  it  took  other  shape  during 
composition,  and  appeared  in  this  guise  in  the  columns  of 
the  Nation.  Hence  its  appearance  in  these  pages. 


"Valencia  sends  her  valiant  lords  with  many 

a  gallant  train ; 
Never  the  cry  for  Liberty  to  Creuse  has  gone 

in  vain; 
In  every  mountain  gorge  is  heard  of  naked 

steel  the  ring, 
As  Murcia  pours  her  thousands  forth  to  join 

our  Lord  the  King! 

"The  chivalry  of   old  Seville  have  risen  to 

the  call; 
Count  Alva's  marching  with  his  men  from 

Leon's  seabound  wall; 
Bishops  vacate  their  palaces;    priests  leave 

the  holy  fane, 
And  mothers  send  their  only  sons — to  fight. 

for  God  and  Spain ! 

"Never  since  first  the  Moorish  sword  was 

dyed  in  Spanish  blood, 
Never,  since  first  the  Crescent  flag  above  our 

fair  land  stood, 
Never,  since  first  a  Spanish  blade  by  Spanish 

arm  was  bared, 
The  fight  for  home,  with  fairer  chance,  the 

Spanish  heart  has  dared. 

"Will  you  stand  still,  when  Spain  is  stirred  ? 

When  Spain  her  children  calls 
To  Freedom!  will  you  dumb  remain  within 

your  convent  walls  ? 
Will  you  not,  like   your  brothers   through 

wide  Iberia,  bring 
Your  arms,  to  join  at  Toledo  our  sovereign 

lord  the  King?" 

With    folded   arms  and   bended   heads  the 

monks  unanswering  stood; 
Mayhap  long  years  of   solitude  has   chilled 

their  Spanish  blood. 
"Cloisters   but   ill  teach   nationhood-    their 

blood  but  sluggish  flows 
In  coward  veins,"  Count  Maurice  thought; 

when  slow  the  Abbot  rose : 

"For  fifty  years  my  life  has  passed  within 

these  convent  halls; 
For  fifty  years  the  Mass  I've  said  within  these 

sacred  walls; 


I'OKMS    <>F   .TAMKS    MI'IMMIY. 


1009 


And  not  till  now  has  vain  regret  within  my 

bosom  stirred, 
And  not  till  now  has  passed  my  lips  one  vain 

complaining  word; 

"  But  now  I  mourn  my  vanished  strength — I 

mourn  this  palsied  hand 
Must  fail  to  bear,  when  Spain  has  risen,  the 

soldier's  warlike  brand; 
Else   truly,  as  God  breathed  life  into  this 

breast  of  clay, 

And  Spain  gave  of  her  generous  strength, 
mine  arm  were  there  to-day ! 

"  The  guerdon  bright  of  those  who  tend  the 
sacred  shrine  is  sure, 

And  their  reward,  exceeding  great,  will  end- 
less years  endure; 

The  lives  of  those  are  blessed  indeed  whose 
steps  in  peace  have  trod, 

But — they  who  fight  for  Home  and  Faith, 
thrice  blessed  are  of  God! 

"For  He  of  old  in  Palestine,  His  chosen 
leader  gave 

The  stern  command  to  smite  the  foe,  and 
none  to  spare  or  save; 

At  His  behest  the  scimitar  the  gentle  Judith 
drew, 

And  Holofernes  in  his  tent  with*  arm  un- 
shrinking slew. 

At  His  behest  did  Gideon  the  tents  of  Midian 

smite; 
At  His  behest  o'er  Ajalon  the  sun  stood  in  his 

flight; 
And  Syrian  hordes  were  scattered  (as  good 

Elisius  said) 
When  Samaria's  sons,  unconquered,  swooned 

on  her  walls  for  bread. 

"  What  worse  were  they  in  Amaleck,  whom 

God's  white  wrath  effaced, 
Than  those,  of  Moslem  faith  accursed,  whose 

swords  our  lands  lay  waste  ? — 
Highest  and    holiest    destiny  the   Spanish 

heart  may  know, 
To  slay  the  foe  and  spare  not! — So,  brothers, 

arm  and  gol 


"Not  we — not  we — the  blood-shedders,  but 

they  who  seek  our  shame, 
Who  at  their  lying  Prophet's  call  give  our 

fair  homes  to  flame; 
Yea!    God  will    bless  them    lastingly   who 

fiercest  strike  the  foe, 
So,  brothers,  slay  and  fear  not — God  bless 

your  arms  and  go ! " 

Then  from   the  forms  uplifted,  along  the 

brown-robed  line, 
Rang  out  a  cheer  that  seemed  to  move  Our 

Lady's  silver  shrine: 
And  the  brave  cry  the  altars  gave  back  with 

echoing  ring — 
"God  speed  the  Spanish  arms — God  bless 

our  Lord  the  King !  " 

Doffed  robes  of  brown — doffed  cincture  grey 

— of  cloistered  life  all  trace; 
And  cuirass  bright,  and  belted  sword,  and 

spear,  supply  their  place, 
Showing  to  all — (lurk  cowardice  or  treachery 

where  it  will)— 
The  bravest  hearts,  when  strikes  the  hour, 

are  in  the  cloisters  still. 

As  well  became  their  stainless  lives,  as  free 

from  guile  as  dmul, 
Their  gallant  heart's  red   welling  flood  for 

Freedom  bright  was  shed ; 
And  never  cloistered  convent  .saw  them  kneel 

to  pray  again, 
For  they  died,  where  died  the  bravest,  in  the 

cause  of  God  and  Spain ! 


ST.    PATRICK'S    DAY    BY    THK    MIS- 

MSSIl'lM. 

FAR  from  the  fair  Green  Islam! 
Of  the  loving  heart  and  hand. 
We  meet  to-day  by  the  rushing  spray 

In  this  glorious  Western  l:m<l, 
With  thoughts  as  deep  and  fervid 

As  when  in  early  dreams 
We  saw  arise  in  morning  skies, 
Green  Ireland  of  the  streams. 

(Jrrcn  Ireland  of  the  streams,  boys, 

Dear  Ireland  of  the  stream-. 
As  when  we  dreamt  «>f  Freedom 
in  Ireland  of  the  streams. 


1010 


POEMS   OF  JAMES   MUEPHY. 


The  graves  our  kindred  rest  in, 

The  ruins  old  and  gray, 
The  holy  hills  of  Ireland, 

These  be  our  toasts  to  day ! 
The  hearths  our  mothers  knelt  at, 

The  legends  old  they  wove; 
But,  above  all,  in  cot  and  hall, 
The  treasured  hearts  we  love — 

The  throbbing  hearts  we  love,  boys, 

The  burning  hearts  we  love, 
Our  cherished  toast,  our  fondest  boast, 
The  dear  fond  hearts  we  love. 

And  sing  we  too  of  those  our  sires 

Who  broke  the  foemen's  laws, 
And  on  the  hill,  through  good  and  ill, 

Rose  up  for  Ireland's  cause; 
And  all  the  mighty  leaders 

Who  ruled,  of  old,  the  Gael, 
And  those  who  died  in  warlike  pride 
In  the  battles  of  the  Pale. 
In  the  battles  of  the  Pale,  boys, 

In  the  battles  of  the  Pale, 
For  those  who  died  with  patriot  pride, 
In  the  battles  of  the  Pale. 

Our  gallant  sires,  they  bore  thee, 

Bright  land !  brave  love  untold, 
They  dealt  the  foe  unceasing  woe ; 
They  spurned  his  bribes  of  gold; 
And  dauntlessly  they  forayed 

From  many  a  castle  hold, 
With  flashing  sword  by  bridge  and  ford, 
In  fearless  days  of  old. 

In  the  gallant  days  of  old,  boys, 

The  glorious  days  of  old 
They  poured  their  hot  blood  freely, 
In  the  glorious  days  of  old. 

"To  Ireland,  boys !  to  Ireland ! 

This  brimming  bumper  drain, 
And  may  we  see  great,  fair,  and  free, 

Our  native  land  again : 
.And  not  with  chains  unbroken, 

And  not  in  woe  or  pain, 
May  Ireland  be,  when  next  we  see 
•Our  native  land  again ! 

Our  native  land  again,  boys, 

Our  native  land  again, 
With  the  help  of  God  we'll  tread  the  sod 
.Of  our  mother -land  again! 


OUR  CRY! 

THEY  speak  us  false  who  say  our  hopes  of 

Nationhood  are  o'er; 
That    shame    and   folly   wait    on    him    who 

dreams  these  fancies  more — 
Those  dreams  that,  like  the  pillar-light  that 

wandering  Israel  led, 
For  seven  centuries  showed  the  way  unto  oar 

martyr'd  dead! 

If  peaceful  hearths  and  plenteous  boards  a 

-  nation's  needs  suffice, 
Sure  never  yet  on  chieftain's  head  were  set  a 

felon's  price, 
Never  O'Moore  had  drawn  the  sword — had 

Sarsfield  cross'd  the  foam, 
Never  a  grave  Tyrconnell  found  beneath  the 

shrines  of  Rome; 

O'Neale  might  rule  his  broad  estates  in  peace 
and  power  instead  [upon  his  head ; 

Of   wandering,  an  outlawed   chief — a  price 

The  bloodhounds  ne'er  had  Desmond  tracked, 
his  head  were  never  brought 

A  present  to  the  Saxon  foe,  if  wealth  were 
all  he  sought. 

Think  you  the  dreams  that,  vision-like,  for 

seven  centuries  long, 
Have  brightened  all  these  gloomy  days  when 

right  succumbed  to  wrong, 
The  glorious  hopes  that  never  ceased  their 

golden  rays  to  give, 
Shall  shroud  their  light  for  one  poor  gift — 

the  humble  right  to  live  ? 

The  laud  is  ours  by  right  Divine — no  title 
half  so  true,  [our  Freedom  too ! 

By  charter  from  God's  signet  hand  we  claim 

And  He  whose  breath  the  galleys  steered  that 
bore  our  fathers  here, 

When  next  the  Irish  flag  unfurls,  shall  make 
His  intent  clear. 

The  songs  in  days  of  gloom  and  woe  the 

hunted  minstrel  tuned, 
The  lays  the  Irish  mother  o'er  her  sleeping 

baby  crooned, 
The  hopes  that  lit  the  beacon  fires  on  many 

an  Irish  hill  [us  still! 

In  '98  for  Freedom  were — and  they  are  with 


A    i'OHM    liV    1'ATKK'K    S.    CI  I.MnllK. 


loll 


We  lack  not  hearts  of  chivalry — let  scot!  and 

scorn  who  may — 
To  kindle  bright  as  in  the  past  the  sacred 

fires  to-day; 
Nor  lack  we   ranks  of  serried  strength  to 

fight  for  freedom  still, 
Let  those  forget  the  Olden  Cause,  or  traitor 

turn,  who  will. 

Our  land  is  crushed  in  bitter  woe — but  not 

so  black  as  theirs, 
Who  once  in  Goshen  ate  their  bread  bestrewn 

with  women's  tears; 
Our  future   dark   and   gloomy  looks — what 

brighter  rays  were  shed 
O'er  those  who  through  the  parted  waves  of 

Egypt  Moses  led  ? 

The  God  of  Moses  guideth  us;  He  holdeth 

in  His  hand, 
To  human  prescience  unknown,  the  future 

of  our  land, 
And  never  yet  in  Nation's  heart  so  firmly 

hath  He  cast 
The  love  of  Freedom  strong  as  ours,  but  wins 

its  own  at  last. 

What  fear  we  ?  Ashur's  marshalled  hosts  re- 
sistless in  their  might; 

Sisera's  legions  countless  were  as  stars  of 
summer  night; 

The  spears  that  girt  Samaria  round — like 
web  the  toiler  weaves — 

Were  as  the  sands  upon  the  sea,  as  thick  as 
autumn  leaves: 


>ue  short  night  the  marshalled  host  of 
Ashur  saw  o'erthnnvn, 

Before  Baruck's  undaunted  men  Si  sera's 
might  had  flown; 

And  Jordan's  waters  witnessed — in  panic  dis- 
array, 

By  sudden  terror  stricken — the  legions  im-lt 
away. 

The  hand   that  smote  Sisera's  hosts,  that 

Hand's  potential  still, 
And   now,  as  then,  the  tyrant's  strength   is 

nought  before  His  will, 
But — God  helps  those  who  help  themselves. 

even  now  as  then ;  and  they 
Who  Freedom  seek,  through  struggle  !• 

and  long  must  cleave  their  \v. 

No  cravens  we  to  shrink  the  fight,  let  suffer- 
ing come  what  may : 

No  coward  hearts  bear  we  who  love  the  olden 
flag  to-day : 

But  trustify  and  sturdily  like  true  and  fear- 
less men, 

Are  ready  for  the  good  old  cause  to  challenge 
Fate  again! 

The  sapling  on  the  mountain  side  (a  tiny 
seed  at  first) 

A  giant  grown  by  light  and  air — the  iron 
rock  will  burst; 

So  never  yet  the  chains  were  wrought,  a  na- 
tion's neck  to  bend. 

The  iron  might  of  banded  men  could  not 
asunder  rend. 


A  POEM  BY  PATRICK  S,  GILMORK. 


IRELAND  TO   ENGLAND. 
I. 

EVERY  man  to  his  post  at  the  shrill  trumpet 

sound ! 
With  his  hand  on  his  sword  let  each  true 

man  be  found ! 
There's  no  power  on  the  earth  that  can  stand 

in  the  way  I  fray. 

Of  the  proud  Irish  lads  when  they  enter  the 


II. 

With  a  eanse  that  is  just  and  u  honrt   that  is 

brave, 
Is  there  one  son  of   Krin  who  would  be  a 

slave? 
If  there  is  let  him  die — he's  n  stain  on   the 

land! 
Ae'Jl  have  none  but  fo-.-nien  with  strong 

heart  r.nd  hand. 


1012 


A   POEM   BY   REV.   CHARLES   P.   MEEHAN. 


III. 

See  the  rivers  of  blood  that  for  England  we've 
shed, 

Fighting  battles  for  her  in  the  coat  that  is 
red! 

If  she'll  not  do  us  justice  let  none  stand  be- 
tween, 

And  we'll  march  to  our  graves  in  the  coat 
that  is  green. 

IV. 

But  if  England  will  come  with  her  heart  in 
her  hand, 

And  will  say,  "  My  brave  boys,  you  shall  have 
your  own  land 

If  you  swear  that  our  union  you'll  never  op- 
pose, 

We  will  drink  to  the  shamrock  that  clings  to 


the  rose. 


V. 


"We  will  give  you  'Home  Rule*  with  its 

pleasures  and  cares ; 
Go  and  make  your  own  laws  for  your  local 

affairs; 
But  the  Crown  of  Great  Britain  shall  reign 

over  all — 
You  must  stand  by  forever  in  its  rise  or  its 

fall. 


VI.. 

"  Then  what  more  do  you  ask,  will  you  an- 
swer us  now  ? 

And  for  evermore  banish  that  frown  from 
your  brow ! 

Tis  the  voice  of  all  England  your  rights  to 
restore 

And  from  Ireland's  old  heart  to  remove  every 


sore. 


VII. 


Let  these  words  once  be  heard  in  the  isle  ever 

green, 
And  a  million  of  healths  will  be  drank  to  the 

Queen. 
If  our  rights  we  can  have  without  striking  a 

blow, 
Then  we'll  stand  by  Britannia — our  breasts 


to  her  foe. 


vni. 


May  the  Lord  in  His  mercy  these  tidings  soon 

send, 
Then  the  whole  heart  of  Erin  with  England's 

will  blend, 
We  will  bury  our  sword — there'll  be  joy  in 

the  land — 

And  forever  and  ever  united  we'll  stand. 
NEW  YORK,  March,  1889. 


A  POEI  BY  REY.  CHARLES  P.  MEEHAK 


BOYHOOD'S   YEARS. 

AH  !  why  should  I  recall  them— the  gay,  the 
joyous  years,  [sorrow  and  by  tears? 

Ere  hope  was  cross'd  or  pleasure  dimm'd  by 

Or  why  should  mem'ry  love  to  trace  youth's 
glad  and  sunlit  way, 

When  those  who  made  its  charms  so  sweet 
are  gather'd  to  decay  ? 

The    summer's   sun    shall    come    again    to 

brighten  hill  and  bower, 
The  teeming  earth  its  fragance  bring  beneath 

the  balmy  shower, 


But  all  in  vain  will  mem'ry  strive,  in  vain 

we  shed  our  tears, 
They're   gone  away  and   can't  return — the 

friends  of  boyhood's  years. 

Ah !  why  then  wake  my  sorrow  and  bid  me 

now  count  o'er 
The  vanished  friends  so  dearly  prized — the 

days  to  come  no  more. 
The  happy  days  of  infancy  when  no  guile  our 

bosoms  knew, 
Nor  reck'd  we  of  the  pleasures  that  with  each 

moment  flew  ? 


POEMS   OF   REV.    MATTHEW 


LOIS 


'Tis  Jill  in  vain  to  weep  for  them — the  past  a 

dream  appears, 
And  where  are  they — the  lov'd,  the  young, 

the  friends  of  boyhood's  years  ? 
Go  seek  them  in  the  cold  churchyard — they 

long  have  stol'n  to  rest, 
But  do  not  weep,  for  their  young  cheeks  by 

woe  were  ne'er  oppressed. 

Life's  sun  for  them  in  splendor  set — no  cloud 
ciime  o'er  the  day, 


Thut  lit  them  from  this  stormy  world  upon 

their  joyous  way. 
No  tears  about  their  graves   be  shed,  but 

sweetest  flowers  be  flung 
The  fullest  off 'ring  thou  canst  make  to  hearts 

that  perish  young — 

To  hearts  this  world   has  never   torn   with 

racking  hopes  and  ft 
For  bless'd  are  they  who  pass  awny  in 

hood's  happy  years. 


POEMS  OF  KEY,  MATTHEW  RUSSELL 


OUR   MIDNIGHT   MASS. 

LOXG  hours  ere  yet  the  Christmas  sun 

Has  smiled  upon  the  snow, 
When  Father  Christmas  has  but  waxed 

A  minute  old  or  so; 
In  the  mid-hush  of  starry  night 

The  joybells  warble  clear. 
Out  on  the  moonlight  keen  and  crisp, 

And  through  the  warm  air  here. 

Here,  in  this  homeliest  home  of  God,* 

We  kneel  a  happy  few. 
While  the  first  buoyant  Christmas  glow 

Serenely  thrills  us  through. 
At  solemn  hour  and  strange  we  kneel 

Before  our  Captive's  throne- 
On  this  one  night  of  all  the  year 

He  must  not  watch  alone. 

He  is  not  lonely  now.     Around 

The  breath  of  prayer  asecnds. 
And  night  glares  redder  than  tin-  noon — 

With  silence  music  blends. 
Their  souls  are  on  the  singers'  lips. 

They  sing:  "A  Child  t*  ln»rn  ! 
Come,  let  us  worship  at  the  crU>. 

For  this  is  Christmas  morn." 


If. -rt  I,. 


*  The  room  which  served  aa  a  char^l  f-T  the  Jeaul 
hen  they  flrst  began  their  work  in  Limerick,  in  18DO. 


'Tis  Christmas,  and  green  arches  rise 

Of  ivy,  twined  with  flowers; 
From  lamp  and  taper  mellow  light 

Streams  round  in  joyous  show 
Nor  deem  that  hearth  -stone's  ruddy  blaze 

Too  home-like  or  too  gay  : 
Our  pilgrim-path  is  drear  enough, 

Beguile  it  as  we  may. 

The  light  upon  yon  altar  gleams, 

And  the  Cross  above  the  shrine. 
And,  higher  up,  on  Him  who  points 

Unto  his  Hi-art  divine: 
And  on  our  Mother's  queenly  form. 

Begirt  with  blushing  flow 
And  on  that  meek  old  man  whose  smile 

Half  srnns  to  answer  ours. 


And  then  within  the  lustrous  haze 
I'.asks  many  a  sculptured  form  — 

From  wreathed  wall  and  ceiling  peer 
The  Christmas  greetings  warm. 

But  now  a  broader,  merrier  glow 
The  wistful  ga/er  charms 

h  to  the  nook  where  Mary  beams, 
Her  Baby  in  her  arms. 

The  same  sweet  Child  dot!  ms, 

The  Child-saint,  raptured 
Ami  see!  again  It  smilea  at  ne 

Beneath  the  altar  there. 


1014 


POEMS   OF   REV.   MATTHEW   RUSSELL. 


There,  poor  and  cold,  yet  tenderly, 

The  new-born  Babe  is  laid. 
"Who  is  He  ?     It  is  He  who  said, 

"Be  light !  "  and  light  was  made. 

This  is  the  birthday  of  God's  Child : 

For  He  was  once  a  child, 
Born  for  our  sake  in  snow-roofed  cave 

One  winter  midnight  wild; 
Whilst  angels  chanted  from  the  skies 

(Are  those  their  voices  still  ?) 
"  Glory  on  high  to  God,  and  peace 

To  mortals  of  good -will !  " 

To-day  that  Child  is  born  again. 

The  Midnight  Mass  has  sped, 
And  Jesus  steals  in  meaner  guise 

Our  souls  more  close  to  wed. 
I  scarce  may  envy  her  who  clasped 

The  Infant  to  her  breast, 
Since  He,  the  Babe  of  Christmas,  comes 

In  this  poor  heart  to  rest. 

The  Midnight  Mass  is  o'er.     The  lamp 

A  paler  radiance  sheds 
On  cross  and  crib  and  gay  festoon, 

And  all  those  drooping  heads : 
While  flowers  and  leaves  and  happy  hearts 

Throb  with  a  Christmas  thrill : 
"  Oh !  glory  unto  God  on  high, 

And  unto  us  good-will !  " 

For  leaves  will  fall,  and  flowers  will  fade, 

And  Christmas  tide  will  pass, 
And  hearts  and  hopes  and  fondest  cares 

May  change,  must  change,  alas! 
Yet  still  let's  keep  the  simple  faith 

Of  those  whose  gifts  adorn 
This  modest  fane  so  lovingly 

To  welcome  Christmas  morn. 

God's  blessing  on  those  kindly  hearts, 

And  on  each  skilful  hand 
That  with  such  quiet  fervor  wrought 

What  pious  taste  had  planned. 
Heaven  is  for  such.     Yet  here,  e'en  here, 

May  fairest  fate  befall ! 
May  Christmas  last  their  lifetime  round !  * 

God  bless  us  each  and  all. 

*  This  was  the  Christmasof  1860,  and  before  thenext  Christ- 
mas came  round,  one  of  the  sisters  referred  to  in  the  last 
stanza  had  given  herself  to  God,  while  God  had  taken  the 
othei  to  Himself.  One  is  now  a  Sister  of  Charity,  and  the 
other  is,  as  we  more  than  hope,  in  heaven.  For  which  was 
the  minstrel's  prayer  best  fulfilled. 


THE   FIRST   REDBREAST: 

A  LEGEND    OF    GOOD    FRIDAY. 

A  QUAINT  and  childish  story,  often  told, 
And   worth,   perchance,  the   telling,  for   it 

steals 
i  Through  rustic  Christendom ;  and  boyhood,. 

bold 

And  almost  pitiless  in  pastime,*  feels 
The  lesson  its  simplicity  conceals. 
Hence  kind  Tradition,  to  protect  from  wrong 
A  gentle  tribe  of  choristers,  appeals 
To  this  ancestral  sacredness,  su  long 
In   grateful   memory   shrined,  and   now  in 

grateful  song. 

One  Friday's  noon  a  snowy-breasted  bird 
Was  flying  in  the  darkness  o'er  a  steep 
Nigh  to  Judea's  capital,  where  stirred 
The  rabble's  murmur  sullenly  and  deep. 
Far  had  it  sailed  since  sunrise,  and  the  sweep 
Of   its   brown   wing  grew  languid,  and   it 

longed 
To  rest  a  while  on  some  green  bough,  and 

peep 
Around    the    mass    that    on    the    hill-side 

thronged, 
As  if  to  learn  whereto  such  pageant  stern 

belonged. 

The  robin  whitebreast  spied  a  Cross  of  wood 
That  lifted  o'er  the  din  its  gory  freight. 
Beneath,  the  sorrow-stricken  Mother  stood, 
And  silent  wailed  her  Child's  less  cruel  fate. 
But  lest  she  mourn  all  lone  and  desolate, 
Has    reason   whispered    to    that    fluttering 

breast, 
Whom,  Whom,  on  Whom  those  fiends  their 

fury  sate  ? 

Mark  how  it  throbs  with  pity,  nor  can  rest, 
Till  it  has  freed  its  Lord,  or  tried  its  little 

best. 

And  see,  with  tiny  beak  it  fiercely  flies, 

To  wrench  the  nails  that  bind  the  Captive 

fast. 

Ahi  vain,  all  vain  those  eager  panting  cries, 
That  quivering  agony !     It  sinks  at  last, 
Foiled   in   the    generous    strife   and   glares 

aghast 


*  Un  fripon  d1  enfant  (cet  age  est  sans  pitie).—  La  Fontaine. 


I'M  K.MS    ()F    KKY.    M. \TTIIK\V 


To  seo  the  thorn-crowned  Head  droop  faint 

and  low, 
Mute  the  pule  lips,  the  gracious  brow  o'er- 


Wliile   from   the   shattered   palms   the   red 

drops  flow, 
Staining  the  pious  bird's  smooth  breast  of 

speckless  snow. 

That  snow  thus  ruddied  fixed  the  tinge  of  all 
The  after-race  of  robins;  and  'tis  said 
Heaven's  fondest  care  doth  on  the  robin  fall, 
In  memory  of  that  scene  on  Calvary  sped. 
Hence,  urchins  rude,  in  quest  of  plunder  led 
To  prowl  round  hedges,  never  dare  to  touch 
The  wee  white-speckled  eggs  or  mossy  bed 
Of  "  God's  own  bird."     So  from  the  spoiler's 

clutch 
''«uld  you,  God's  child,  be  free?    Ah!   feel 

for  Jesus  much. 


THE   LITTLE   FLOWER  STREWERS.* 

DEAR  children,  kiss  your  flowers,  and  fling 

them  at  His  feet ; 
He  comes,  the  Lord  of  flowers,  of  all  things 

fair  and  sweet. 
His  glory  all  is  hidden,  but  who  He  is  you 

know: 
Then  throw  your  flowers  before  Him,  and 

kiss  them  as  you  throw. 

Yet  envy  not  the  flowers  that  die  so  sweet  a 

death — 
One  heart's  fond  sigh  is  sweeter  than  rose's 

perfumed  breath; 
More  sweet  than  sweetest  incense  the  tears 

of  love  that  flow, 
The  thrill  of  faith  tlmt  mingles  with  every 

flower  you  throw. 

Yes,  let  your   flowers   be   emlilems  "f  holy 

thoughts  and  prayers 
That    from    your  hearts   are  springing — for 

hearts  alone  lie  cares. 


*  These  verse*,  which  borrow  their  name  from  one  »f  ilu- 
prettiest  storlM  ever  written  "'Hi'1  Little  KI.IW.T  Swkpra" 

w.-rc  snirk-'  •'  c-liildrrii  kis*  e«rh  hnn.lful  of 

flowers  w  ith  which  tht>y  strrwr«l  th.'  COfTtton  of  the  Convent 

(  f  y.-iv\.  HiiKk'i.t  str.'.'t.  iniiiiin,  duriiiK  the  ProoeMion  of 
.  June  24,  1879. 


<  Hi !  may  your  hearts  before  Him  with  loving 

worship  glow, 
Wliile  thus  you  throw  your  flowere  and  kiss 

them  as  you  throw. 

• 
With  lips  unstained  and  rosy,  kiss  all  the 

roses  fair — 
But  thorns  lurk  'mid  the  roses,  and  life  is 

full  of  care. 
Accept  its  thorns  and  roses — both  come  from 

God,  you  know : 
So  bear  your  crosses  gaily,  and  kiss  them  as 

you  go. 

Not  all  your  path,  dear  children,  can  smile. 

like  this,  with  flowers: 
For  lifetimes  would  be  fruitless,  if  all  were 

sunny  hours. 
The  rain  and  snow  in  season  must  make  the 

roses  grow: 
So   throw  your  flowers,  dear  children,  and 

kiss  them  as  you  throw. 

Ah!    soon  the   rose-leaves  wither — we,  too, 

like  flowers  must  die, 
But  in  the  heavenly  springtime  shall  bloom 

again  on  high, 
That  God  unveiled  beholding  whom   'neath 

these  veils  we  know, 
And  at  whose  feet.  <lear  children,  our  flowers, 

our  hearts,  we  throw. 


TO    T.    D.    sri.l.l\ 

1:1  MUM;    l\i*  "  Pi.  I  \    KOH  TIIK  s<» 
HUM'"." 


Tin-  .\nfinn.  !•'>!>.  I1,'.  : 

ive  the   little  soiiL'-l'irds.  and  bid   them 

fill  the  gl 
With  mirth  and  life  and  motion,  with  melody 

and  1" 
Hut    vet   their  fate  so   cruel  we   now  tlu>  less 

dej>: 

Since  it    h;:s   forced    tip  :!lg  fof  US 

olice    III 


1016 


POEMS   OF   LOUISIANA  MURPHY. 


The  chirping  of  the  robin,  the  carol  of  the 
thrush, 

The  nightingale's  rich  warbling,  the  sky- 
lark's liquid  gush — 

Each  in  the  glorious  concert  of  nature  has 
its  part; 

But  better  than  all  song-birds  our  Irish  poet's 
heart. 


Then  let  the  gentle  birdies  still  flit  from 

spray  to  spray, 
Still  lilt  their  airy  music  and  live  their  little 

day; 
But  they  for  whom  thou  pleadest  have  no 

such  gift  of  song 
As  God  has  lent  thee,  Poet.     Ah!   be   not 

silent  long. 


POEMS  OF  LOUISIANA  MURPHY, 


"WHAT   WOULD   YOU   DO   FOR  IRE- 
LAND?' 

WHAT  would  you  do  for  Ireland, 

When  o'er  the  mist  of  passion  tears 
Rise  mem'ries  of  the  glorious  band 

Who  strove  for  her  through  cheerless  years? 
To  win,  like  these,  and  wear  anew 

The  fadeless  wreaths  that  hail  the  sky 
From  Erin's  palm,  what  would  you  do  ? 

You  ask  me  this,  and  I  reply : — 
I'd  write  a  song  for  Ireland — 
A  ballad  of  the  Red  Right  Hand, 
Whose  measures,  ringing  wild  and  free, 
Would  stir  the  pulse  of  Liberty; 
And  when  courageous  deeds  had  sprung, 
Like  off -shoots,  from  my  words  so  sung, 
A  place  I'd  claim  her  crowned-  among, 
Saying,  "  Mine  these  deeds  for  Ireland ! " 

What  would  you  do  for  Ireland, 

When  by  some  high  ambition  stirred 
Amongst  the  throng  to  take  your  stand, 

Your  name  hath  grown  a  household  word  ? 
That  ages  thus  should  honor  you, 

And,  meetly  thus,  your  life  complete, 
What  would  you  choose  to-day  to  do  ? 

You  ask  me  this,  and  I  repeat : — 
I'd  write  a  song  for  Ireland— 
A  lyric  for  her  hero  band 
My  spirit  to  the  world  would  give, 
That  I  in  it  might  ever  live. 
Were  this  my  sole,  undoubted  claim, 
To  shine  on  Erin's  roll  of  Fame, 
I  know  she'd  chronicle  my  name. 
Saying,  "This  she  did  for  Ireland!" 


SONG. 
FROM  "  DUNMORE." 

I  FEEL  my  heart  and  brain  on  fire, 

On  sad  decline,  whilst  gazing, 
Of  all  the  valiant  sons  of  Eire 

Once  held  beyond  all  praising. 
The  mingled  scenes  I've  looked  upon, 

These  days  of  fierce  endeavor, 
Proclaim  that  chivalry  is  gone 

From  Ireland's  shores  forever! 

CHORUS — Sing  sad  a  dirge  in  memory 
Of  Ireland's  ancient  chivalry! 


Time  was  when  woman's  piteous  plight 
No  cry  appealing  needed, 

Forth  from  their  scabbards  at  the  sight 
Strong  swords  were  swift  unsheathed ; 

To-day  strong  men  gaze  carelessly 
When  she's  to  prison  borne, 

And  Ireland's  ancient  chivalry 
Her  wailing  daughters  mourn. 

CHORUS — Sing  sad  a  dirge,  etc. 

Dear  maid,  when  in  thy  dungeon  cell 

The  shadows  close  around  thee, 
Know  there  are  willing  hands  which  well 

Would  like  to  have  unbound  thee. 
Yet  stayed  these  hands  from  aiding  thee, 

And  man  may  please  thee  never, 
For  thou'lt  believe  that  chivalry 

Is  gone  from  us  forever! 

CHORUS — Sing  sad  a  dirge,  etc. 


POEMS   OF   LOt'IHANA    Mi   [{I'll  i'. 


OHOBU8, 

FROM  "DUNMORE." 

HARK  !  from  the  tomb  they  cry 

Death  to  the  tyrant! 
Ring  out  our  fierce  reply, 

Death  to  the  tyrant! 
High  on  the  breeze  it  thrills, 

Death  to  the  tyrant ! 
Feur  his  pale  visage  chills, 

Death  to  the  tyrant ! 
Dark  was  the  life  he  chose, 

Death  to  the  tyrant ! 
Dark  be  its  sudden  close, 

Death  to  the  tyrant! 
For  him  no  tear  shall  flow, 

Death  to  the  tyrant ! 
With  him  no  blessing  go, 

Death  to  the  tyrant ! 
Earth,  Hell,  and  Heaven  shout, 

Death  to  the  tyrant! 
Whilst  justice  wild  metes  out 

Death  to  the  tyrant ! 
To  him  and  his  minion  base, 
The  death  linked  with  foul  disgrace, 
Death  to  them !     Death  to  them !     Death  to 
all  tyrants ! 


SONG. 

COULD  I,  an  Irishman,  prove  ungallant  ? 

Verily,  no,  not  I ! 
Pause  when  a  widow  protection  may  want. 

Verily,  no,  not  I ! 

Carp  at  her  figure,  her  eyes,  or  her  hair. 
Hint  that  her  age  she  does  artfully  wear, 
Let  such  mere  trifles  my  ardor  impair !' 

Verily,  no,  not  I ! 

Shall  I  a  proxy  instruct  on  the  ca.- 

Verily,  no,  not  I ! 
Am  I  unequal  its  bearings  to  face  ? 

Verily  no,  not  I ! 

Could  I  unfeelingly  turn  me  aside. 
When,  on  my  appreciation  relied. 
Widowhood  i/iftcil  in  me  did  confide  ? 

Verily,  no,  not  I ! 


Shall  I  prove  false  to  so  precious  a  trust  ? 

\Vrily,  no,  not  II 
Let  her  large  funds  uninvestedly  rust  ? 

Verily,  no,  not  I ! 
Happy  idea !— Could  any  such  be 
Better  invested,  henceforth,  than  in  me, 
Know  I  than  Hymen  a  better  trustee? 

Verily,  no,  not  I ! 


BALLAD. 

AM  I  of  those  we  see,  too  late, 

Life's  early  faults  retrieving  ? 
Must  I,  too,  share  the  sceptic's  fate 

Reduced  to  stern  believing  ? 
At  Love  I've  mocked,  at  Passion  smiled; 

To  find  my  heart  in  peril 
In  sight  of  Nature's  sweetest  child, 

An  artless  Irish  girl  ! 
So  frank  and  free, 
Yet  maidenly, 

This  simple  Irish  girl  ! 

I've  drunk  of  Cyprus'  sparkling  wines, 

A  gay  and  laughing  lover; 
I've  worshipped  at  a  hundred  shri: 

The  smiling,  broad  earth  over: 
I've  sorrowed  o'er  a  faded  flower. 

Penned  sonnets  to  a  curl. 
Yet  never  felt  true  Passion's  power 

Till  came  this  Irish  girl. 
Of  wayward  mood, 
Ami  charm  subdued, 

A  winsome  Irish 


Oh!   she  is  true,  ami  such  as  she 

Response  miirln  aptly  render 
The  honest  heart's  idolnt: 

Whilst  scorning  wraith  and  splendor. 
From  such  belief  fond  hopes  n; 

He'd  be  a  soulless  churl 
Who'd  gazo  into  those  candid  i«ye«, 

Ami  dotiht  my  Irish  girl  — 
Whose  orbs  of  blue 
Proclaim  her  tn 

My  dauntless  Irish  girl. 


POEMS  OF  ROSA  MULHOLLAND. 


EMMET'S  LOVE. 

IN  yon  green  garden,  sweet  with  hawthorn- 
breath, 

Knee-deep  in  flowers  we  talked  of  love  and 
faith, 

0  year-dead  Love,  and,  smiling,  you  and  I, 

We  did  not  think  of  death. 

The  crimson  rose,  with  rain-drops  'neath  its 
hood, 

1  plucked  for  you  reeked  not  with  tear  of 

blood, 

Like  these  I  gather  now;  we  did  not  sigh 
When  past  us  from  the  wood 

The  night  owl  whirred,  as  silver-sandalled 

Eve, 

With  floating  veils  around  her,  'gan  to  weave 
Sad  spells  across  the  grass,  and  at  our  ears 
Made  the  young  pigeons  grieve. 

We  had  no  sorrow;  all  that  life  we  knew 
Was  like  our  summer  walk  'neath  skies  as 

blue 

As  violet-drifts,  and  we  could  see  our  years 
Before  us  in  the  dew, 

Like   miles   of   hawthorn    bloom   the   lanes 

along, 
That   slant   toward    purple   rain-mists    out 

among 

The  sunlit  hills,  while  all  the  perfumed  air 
Is  sweet  with  thrushes'  song. 

I  had  no  fear  save  that  some  nobler  eyes 
Might  win  my  love  from  me,  so  little  wise, 
So  weak  and  small,  although  you  called  me 
fair 

With  love  that  glorifies. 

And  I  was  jealous  once.     'Twas  thus  it  came : 
I  heard  you  say  some  other  woman's  name 
I  knew  not,  and  my  wits  were  all  undone, 
My  heart  was  in  a  flame, 


Till  out   you  laughed,  such  laughter  good,. 

and  cried, 
"  The  land,  my  love !     Are  you  or  she  my 

bride  ? 

No  other  rival  have  you  but  this  one, 
Erin,  the  queen  sad-eyed ! " 

And  then  you  told  me,  for  I  had  not  known, 
Pent   in   this   garden,  how  the  land   made 

moan, 
The  lovely  flower-faced  land  that  gave  us 

life, 

A  queen  without  a  throne — 

A  beggar  queen,  with  bare  feet  in  the  snows, 
No  crown  upon  her  head,  and  no  sweet  rose 
Within  her   breast,  with  soft  hands  scarred 
from  strife, 

Who  weepeth  as  she  goes, 

A  vagrant   'mid    the   kings   and    queens  of 

time, 

Yet  ever  lovely  in  the  gracious  prime 
Of  beauty  nourished  by  her  children's  love ; 
Though  monarchs  fall  and  climb, 

Still   lives  she  'mid   the   bramble   and   the 

thorn, 

Her  fair  face  lifted  to  eternal  morn, 
While  nest  with  her  the  lark  and  the  pale 

dove, 

In  the  shamrock  grass  unshorn. 

Weeping  I  heard,  and   cried  your  heart,  I 

knew, 
Was  Erin's  more  than  mine.     Love,  it  was 

true. 

For  her  you  died,  and  where  so  cold  you  lie, 
Under  the  shamrock  dew, 

I  am  forgot,  and  she  is  mourning  still. 
But  then  you  chid  me,  telling  many  an  ill 
Her  children  bore,  like  savage  beasts  at  bay 
In  hunted  wood  and  hill, 


POEMS   OF    K<»A    MrLMoLLAM). 


1019 


While    all     the    thick-draped,    wide-armed, 

friendly  trees 
That  hid  their  woes  wore  fired  against  the 

breeze, 
And  near  the  mounds  of  flame  the  s'.ave-ship 

lay 

Fast-bound  for  foreign  seas: 

How  in   the  mountain  cave  the  priest  was 

snared, 
The   law-breaker   who    death    and    torture 

dared 
With  Christ's  red  wine-cup  in  his  obstinate 

hand, 

And  crucifix  all  bared  : 


How  you  yourself  beneath  the  sick  moon's 

beam, 
Had  heard  strange  flutterings  and  an  eagle's 

scream, 

And  seen  a  rood  across  the  haunted  land, 
As  in  a  horrid  dream, 

The  dead  Franciscan  in  his  monkish  gown, 
His  cord  of  poverty  and  shaven  crown. 
Swing  from  the  bough  and  with  the  irrever- 
ent winds, 

Go  wavering  up  and  down. 

I  had  not  known,  here  in  this  garden  green, 
"Walled  high  with  poplars  and  the  tall  beech 

screen 
Of   hedges,  where  the  white    the    red    rose 

binds, 

Such  things  had  ever  been. 

My  days  had  been  so  fair,  so  tranquil  sweet. 
I'ntil   you  came  ami  made  t lie  world's   heart 

beat 
For   me,  and    'twixt    the    fluttering   of   the 

flowers 

Showed  me  the  yellowing  \\  i 

Love's    harvest    growing,   our    life's    M 

ance, 

Out  in  the  open  where  the  shadows  danee. 
Dropped  from  the  hill-tops  with  the  slanting 

showers, 

Down-driven  by  many  a  1: 


And  glittering  spear  of  sunshine.    Our  i 

right 

That  field  of  golden  grain  and  waving  I 
And  flame  of  poppies  cooled  with  steadfast 

Mile 

Of  meeker  blossoms  bright. 

I    had  not  known,  nor  yet  full  knowledge 

came 

Until  your  sudden  sword  leaped  out  in  flame 
Of  hate  for  tyranny,  and  struck  the  Untrue 
That  willed  your  death  of  sh;.me. 

On  that  red  day  that  drained  my  world  of 

tears  : 

A  dry  old  world,  unknowing  hopes  or  f 
That  weeps  no  more,  but  only  groans  and 

turns 

The  wheel  of  its  slow  years  ; 

Asking  for  you  with  eyes  that  strain,  and 

stare, 
And  will  not  close  though  seeing  you  no- 

where, 

"While  every  floweret  for  a  rain-drop  burns 
Under  a  mad  sun's  gl: 

Save  when  the  tender  night  will  sometimes 

have 

A  drop  of  dew  for  your  unhoi:. 
In   that  green   gloom    unnamed    v  '. 

your  <|U* 

Hides  all  her  vanquished  !>:::\t  . 

Krin,  the  (jiieen  who  won  you.      She  hath  yet 
Full  many  a  love  will  woo  her  to  fr- 
She  lies  not  prone  upon  one  sp. 
Seeking  with  dev 

With   dews   of    gni88   to    Wet     her    with. 

Sweet  tea-  r  'neath  her  fair  ! 

To  float  her  smiles  along  the  coming  years 
Toward  '  -  sympathies. 

She    might    have   left    me   you. 


It   i-  not  .-he  who  cra\e-  you  from  a' 
And    from    below,    with    eyes    that    ha\  • 

And  voice  like  that  wood  d 


1020 


POEMS   OF   ROSA   MULHOLLAND. 


That  ever  moans,  moans,  moans  and  has  no 

word 
To    tell   her   pain, — not   Erin,  whom   your 

sword 

Leaped  for, — not  she  of  whom  you  dreamed, 
And  with  your  death  adored. 

For  her  you  died.     Now  would  I  that  you 

might 
Have  turned  on  me  your  sword,  and   in  the 

light 
Have  lived  for  her.     Full  sweet  to  me  had 

seemed 

Forgetfulness  and  night. 


THE   BUILDERS. 

I  SAW  the  builders  laying 

Stones  on  the  grassy  sod, 
And  people  praised  them,  saying : 

"A  fane  to  the  mighty  God 
Shall  rise  aloft  in  glory, 

Pillars  and  arches  wide, 
Windows  stained  with  the  story 

Of  Christ  the  Crucified." 

I  saw  the  broken  boulders 

Lie  in  the  waving  grass, 
Flung  down  from  bending  shoulders, 

And  said,  "  Our  lives  must  pass 
Ere  wide  cathedral  spreading 

Can  span  this  mossy  field 
Where  kine  are  slowly  treading 

And  flowers  their  honey  yield. 

"Oh,  dreaming  builders,  tarry! 

Unchain  your  souls  from  toil, 
Leave  the  rock  in  the  quarry, 

The  bloom  upon  the  soil; 
For  life  is  short,  my  brothers, — 

And  labor  wastes  it  sore, — 
Why  toil  to  gladden  others 

When  you  shall  breathe  no  more  ? 

"  Oh !  come  with  footstep  springing, 
With  empty  hands  and  free, 

And  tread  the  green  earth  singing 
' The  world  was  made  for  me! ' 


Pray  amid  nature's  sweetness 

In  pillared  forest  glade, 
Content  with  the  incompleteness 

Of  fanes  that  the  Lord  has  made ! " 

The  builders,  never  heeding, 

Kept  piling  stone  on  stone, 
Their  hands  with  toil  were  bleeding — 

I  went  my  way  alone. 
Prayed  in  the  forest  temple 

And  ate  the  wild-bee's  store; 
My  life  was  pure  and  simple — 

What  would  the  Lord  have  more  ? 

The  years,  like  one  long  morning, 

They  all  flew  swiftly  by; 
Old  age  with  little  warning 

Came  creeping  softly  nigh. 
Now  (be  we  all  forgiven !) 

I  longed  to  see,  alas! 
What  the  builders  had  raised  to  heaven 

Instead  of  the  tender  grass. 

I  heard  a  sweet  bell  ringing 

Over  the  world  so  wide; 
I  heard  a  sound  of  singing 

Across  the  eventide. 
What  sight  my  soul  bewilders 

Beneath  the  sunset's  glow  ? 
The  fane  that  the  dreaming  builders 

Were  building  long  ago ! 

'Tis  not  the  sculptured  portal, 

Or  windows  jewelled  wide, 
With  jeys  of  the  life  immortal, 

And  woes  of  Him  who  died, 
That  fill  my  soul  with  wonder, 

And  drain  my  heart  of  tears, 
And  ask  with  voice  of  thunder, 

"  Where  are  thy  wasted  years !  " 

But  a  thousand  thousand  creatures' 

Kneel  down  where  grew  the  sod, 
And  hear  with  glowing  features, 

The  words  that  breathe  of  God. 
Alone  and  empty-handed 

I  wait  by  the  open  door : 
Such  work  hath  the  Lord  commanded,. 

And  I  can  work — no  more ! 


A     I '<>!•:  M     I'.V    A.     M.    SULLIVAN. 


The  builders,  never  heeding, 
They  lie  and  take  their  rest, 

And  hands  no  longer  bleeding 
Are  folded  on  each  breast — 

The  grass  waves  o'er  them  sleeping, 
And  flowerets  red  und  white, 

Where  I  kneel  above  them  weeping, 
And  whisper,  "  You  were  right." 


A    FLEDGLING. 

A  BIRD  was  sheltered  in  my  breast 
That  sang  both  night  and  day, 

And  had  I  toil  or  had  I  rest 
That  birdie  sang  alway. 

I  sleeked  its  feathers  'gainst  my  heart, 
And  laughed  to  hear  it  sing; 

The  wind  kissed  not  in  any  part 
A  sweeter,  blither  thing. 

It  piped  upon  the  hedge-row  green, 

It  sang  up  in  the  blue, 
At  morn  it  bathed  in  sunlight  sheen 

At  eve  it  sipped  the  dew. 

On  one  green  bough  it  perched  at  night 
And  trilled  through  all  my  dreams, 

And  wakened  me  at  peep  of  light 
To  see  the  first  dawn-gleams. 

It  cooed  so  soft  of  moonlit  eves 

I  dared  not  let  it  sing, 
But  covered  it  with  red  rose-leaves, 

Its  head  beneath  its  wing. 


I  swore  that  we  should  never  part, 

And  then  I  let  it  fly. 
No  music  have  I  in  my  he-irt, 

No  more  until  I  die. 


HOPE   DEFERRED. 


A  DREARINK.^S  i-jime  o'er  me 
Once,  on  a  dim  spring  day; 

The  summer  on  before  nit- 
Seemed  far  and  far  away. 

Full  dark  had  reigned  the  win 
With  cloud,  and  mist,  and  gloom; 

My  spirit  longed  to  entt  T 
Into  the  fields  of  bloom. 

The  tempest's  wild  repining 

Made  sorrow  in  my  soul; 
I  craved  the  cheerful  shining 

When  heavy  clouds  unroll. 

I  saw  a  gleam  on  heather 
Stray  through  u  rifted  cloud; 

The  masses  swept  together, 

The  winds  spoke  fierce  and  loud. 

The  mist  upon  the  mountain 
Dropped  down  in  hopeless  rain  ; 

Fell  in  a  bitter  fountain 
Over  the  grieving  plain. 


A  POEM  BY  A,  M.  SULLIVAN. 


THE  DYING   BOY. 

"  MOTHER,  say  why  are  you  weeping, 
Sitting  there  beside  my  bed. 

While  this  weary  vigil  keeping, 

And  from  tears  your  eyes  are  red  ?  " 

"Ah,  my  child,  I  thought  you  sleeping, 
And  a  rosary  I  suid." 


"  M. >t her.  do  M<>:  thus  l»e  grieving 
That  all  hope  for  me  is  \ain. 

Do  you  WCCp  that  I  am  leaving 
Sueh  a  world  of  jrrief  and  j»a 
.  my  ehild.  in  hope  helieM 
\\  <•  shall  meet  in  Heaven  aga 


1022 


POEMS  OF  M.  J.  O'MAHONY. 


"  Mother,  where  the  flowers  are  springing 
Make  my  grave  among  the  trees, 

That  a  requiem  may  be  singing 
Always  o'er  me  in  the  breeze." 

"Ah,  my  child,  my  heart  you're  wringing 
By  such  bitter  thoughts  as  these." 

"  Mother,  'tis  not  death  before  me 
Brings  this  tear  upon  my  cheek; 

But  my  father — he'll  deplore  me 
Till  his  poor  old  heart  will  break." 

"  0  my  child,  may  Heaven  o'er  me 
Give  the  comfort  we  must  seek." 

"  Mother,  comfort  him  and  give  him 

My  own  little  cross  of  gold ; 
Mother,  cheer  him,  do  not  grieve  him, 

When  this  heart  of  mine  is  cold." 
"  0  my  child,  all  heart  will  leave  him, 

And  he  will  not  be  consoled." 


"  Mother !  hark !  what  voice  is  saying 
'  Hasten,  hasten,  come  away '  ? 

I  have  heard  sweet  music  playing 
Somewhere  near  me  all  the  dv.y." 

"  Hush,  my  child,  'tis  I  am  praying 
'Twas  an  echo  you  heard  play." 

"  Mother,  mother,  who  is  crying, 
And  why  turn  you  now  so  pale  ? 

Now  I  know  that  I  am  dying  ; 

'Tis  the  Banshee's  mournful  wail." 

"  Hush,  my  child,  'tis  but  the  sighing 
Of  the  beech  trees  in  the  gale." 

"Mother! — ah! — my  sight  is  growing 
Dim;  my  feet  are  cold  as  lead. 

Kiss  me,  mother;  I  am  going, 
Up." — The  weary  spirit  fled  ; 

And  the  mother's  tears  were  flowing 
O'er  the  features  of  the  dead. 


POEMS  OF  I.  J,  O'MAHONY. 


A   WELCOME    TO   A   FRIEND.* 

I. 

HE  comes !  for  lo,  the  bright  horizon  bursts 
with  gleaming  golden  glee, 

And  fast  shoots  forth  the  rider  from  the 
deepest  depths  of  sea. 

He  comes !  the  waves  grow  sadder  in  their 
sullen  monotones, 

And  joy  is  past  the  wailing  of  the  wind's  sep- 
ulchral moans. 

II. 

He  comes  not  as  a  stranger  to  the  stran- 
ger's heedless  home ; 

He  comes  not  as  an  exile,  where  none  might 
bid  him  come. 

No !  the  very  earth  is  cheerful,  and  his  foot- 
prints on  her  shore 

Are  cheered  by  fellow-workmen,  whose  wel- 
comings  outpour. 

*Mr.  Mannis  J.  Geary,  of  the  N.  Y.  Herald,  on  his  return 
from  England. 


III. 

Thou  wert  lonesome  in  thine  exile — thy  home 

was  all  to  thee; 
Though  round  about  thee  splendor  flashed, 

and  Pleasure,  proud,  was  free  ; 
But  all   her   grand   allurements    could    not 

swerve  thy  noble  soul ; 
It  yearned  to  see  the  beauteous  land  where 

Stars  and  Stripes  unroll. 


IV. 

Ta  safailtliemor  ta  naliar  mavoureen,  ay  us 
failtlie  nis  ! 

The  mothers  of  the  weary  heart  and  chil- 
dren's longing  wish, 

Who  watched  while  hours — like  seasons — 
weighed  down  their  aching  breasts, 

Until  the  dove  returned — in  their  bosoms 
now  he  rests. 


POEMS  OF  M.  J.  O'MAHONY. 


V. 

The   dreary   clouds   of    England   shall   not 

break  thy  slumbers  now, 
Nor  heavy  tread  of  man  to  toil,  to  furnace  or 

to  plough, 
Where  mighty  towers  of  labor  vomit  forth 

their  wealth  of  woe, — 
For  "sundry  blessings  "  crown  thy  brow  and 

in  thy  spirit  glow. 

VI. 

Oh,  could  we  give  the  greeting  from  out  our 

souls  to-day, 
We  would  give  thee  grace  and  length  of  days 

upon  the  pilgrim's  way; 
But  from  our  heurt  of  hearts,  dear  Friend, 

our  welcomes  doth  essay 
And  the  uir  resounds  the  echos  of  a  loud  and 

long  hurrah ! ! ! 


WASHINGTON.* 

I. 

FAR-FAMED  Mount  Vernon,  fair  shrine  of 

the  brave, 
l':ifold  thy  mantle  of  death — let  him  come 

forth 
Who  within  thy  breast  serene  hath  slept  so 

long,  so  well, 
Unto  the  land  of  love,  which  teemeth  with 

his  worth. 

II. 

Oh,  let  his  spirit  beam  in  floods  of  light. 
And  mingle  with  the  song  of  joy  that  floats 

to-day 
Unto  that  realm   of  peace  where  Freedom 

reigns  with  God, 
And  prostrate  angels  ministering  doth  his 

name  essay. 

*WritU-n  in  honor  of  tin- <Tlflir.iin>n  ••(  tl»«  «•!•••  lum<livih 
anniversary  of  Washington'*  Inaugiirntnu  M  Prwidcut  <.f  (In- 
United  StllttiH. 


III. 

Nor  peaceful  shall  thine  opening  be,  0  tomb! 
But  with  thundVouB  voice  the  very  elements 

might  shake, 
As  he  whom  thou  dost  now,  with  awful  grasp, 

embrace, 
When  bade  Columbia's  fetters  evermore  cast 

down  and  break. 

IV. 

But  if  the  trump  of  man  disturb  him  not, 
Nor  cannon's  boom,  nor  shrieking  maid,  nor 

warrior's  cheer, 
Let   him   still    sleep  on,   unmindfully   and 

dreamless, 
In  his  dream's  fruition,  when  to  him  not 

death  itself  wus  fear. 

V. 

When  nations  waged  with  fearful  thought 

the  blow, 
Which  shed  the  Patriot's  paroxysmal  pride, 

and  paralyzed  the  proud, 
When   Napoleon's   shattered   Throne  stood 

tottering  in  the  grasp 
Of  England's   ruthless  hand,  and  Ireland's 

Cross    shone  forth    thro'    Freedom's 

cloud, 

VI. 

Then  'twas  thine,  0  mighty  Man  of  War! 
To  raise  that  banner  of  the  free,  whose  Stars 

should  shine 
Through  the  dreariest  dreariness  of   War's 

direst  gloom, 
An. I  crush   thy  foe  beneath  its  Stripes — thin 

was  thine. 

Vll. 

Then  earth's  proud  nations' onward  tnardi 
stood  still. 

The  heavens  reversed  a*  thunder  from  thy 
crashing  gun 

Reached  the  very  Throne  of  (I nice,  with  joy 
most  (air. 

And  Angeli  Bang  thy  immortality.  o  Wash- 
ington !  ! 


POEMS  OF  WILLIAM  BOWLING. 


LOVE'S  LONGINGS. 

"  Hei'e  is  the  thought  that  makes  my  bliss: 
To  find  a  face  that  a  child  would  kiss, 
Gentle,  tender,  brave  and  just, 
That  a  man  might  honor  or  woman  trust." 

J.  G.  WHITTIER. 

MANY  a  time,  in  prose  and  rhyme, 

I  have  tried  arid  tried  to  tell 
The  hope  of  hopes  that  makes  my  heart 

With  a  love  of  life  to  swell ; 
The  hope  that  gilds  each  passing  hour, 

As  its  swift-winged  moments  flee, 
With  a  warm  glow  of  pure  desire 

Now  comes,  dear  one,  from  thee, — 

From  thee,  and  only  thee. 

Many  a  time,  as  day  calls  me  forth, 

I  long  for  the  time  to  come 
When  a  loving  voice  might  eager  ask, 

How  soon  are  you  coming  home  ? 
And  the  voice  so  sweet  to  the  mental  ear, 

Bringing  life  and  joy  to  me, 
Is  but  the  echo  of  my  heart, 

Of  a  hope  that's  born  of  thee — 

Of  thee,  and  only  thee ! 

Many  an  eve,  as  I  sit  alone, 

While  the  stars — those  eyes  of  night — 
Look  from  their  homes  in  God's  vast  domain 

With  a  solemn,  tranquil  light. 
From  year  to  year  unchanged  they  look — 

Ever  the  same  to  me; 
And  Faith  points  them  to  my  heart 

As  what  it  dreams  of  thee — 

With  love  and  trust  of  thee. 

Storms  may  come  and  life  may  frown 

As  dark  as  life  can  be : 
What  care  I  if  you're  all  my  own — 

If  you  but  smile  on  me! 
With  constant  heart  that  knows  no  change 

Whate'er  our  fortune  be, 
Love  shall  the  future  overthrow; 

My  heart's  hope's  built  on  thee, 

On  thee,  and  only  thee! 


LINES. 


To 


EVEN  simple  words,  when  kindly  meant, 
May  bring  the  heart  supreme  content, 
May  kindle  hope  or  banish  fear, 
And  make  the  path  of  duty  clear. 
Curbed  as  I  am  by  rule  and  line, 
Redundant  fancy  can  entwine 
Only  kind  wishes  such  as  flow 
From  friendship's  pure  unselfish  glow. 
Time  in  its  flight  may  bring  to  you 
Strains  far  more  sweet,  but  none  more  true. 


"WHERE   IS   LITTLE   MUCCO"?* 


My  spirit  o'er  an  early  tomb 

With  ruffled  wing  lies  drooping. 
And  real  forms  of  blighted  bloom 
Have  in  my  heart  left  little  room 

For  those  of  fancy's  grouping. 
The  eyes  that  kindled  with  delight 

In  death  are  sunk  and  hollow- 
No  more  I'll  tempt  the  inborn  might 

Of  that  young  heart  to  follow."— J.  D.  FKAZER. 


THE  little  voice  is  silent, 

The  little  heart  is  chill, 
The  little  feet  in  death's  repose 

No  more  obey  the  will. 
The  little  hands  are  folded 

Calmly  upon  his  breast, 
And  the  bright,  joyous  spirit 

Has  found  eternal  rest. 

Ye  who,  like  me,  with  nameless  joy, 

Have  watched  some  tiny  bed, 
Can  know  how  dark  is  hope's  eclipse 

When  the  little  tenant's  dead. 
Though  few  and  simple  were  the  words 

That  little  voice  might  speak 
Yet  for  us  no  minstrel's  muse 

Could  such  melody  awake. 


*  Mr.  Dowling  had  lost  a  beautiful  child.  Returning  from 
the  funeral,  one  of  the  little  toddlers  of  the  household  met 
the  father  at  the  door,  and  the  first  question  he  asked  was  : 
"  Papa,  where  is  little  Mucco?  '  This  incident  suggested  the 
poem,  under  this  title. — EDITOR. 


A    1'OKM    I'.V    MirilAKL    DAVITT. 


0  wondrous  Heavenly  Father, 

Il"\v  mysterious  are  Thy  powers! 
Tis  but  a  few  brief  moments 

Since  this  folded  bud  was  ours, 
Which  now,  like  the  smile  of  morning, 

Can  scan  the  realms  of  space, 
With  the  halo  of  Thy  glory 

Evermore  upon  its  face. 

Drawn  back  again  by  daily  toil 

We  seek  our  silent  home; 
We  set  the  little  shoes  away 

With  a  grief  that's  all  our  own. 
In  silent  thought  we  move  around 

Through  each  familiar  place, 
But  vainly  bid  our  hearts  forget 

The  joyous  little  face. 


We  know  our  love  is  selfishness 

That  would  again  reclaim 
From  a  present  home  of  endless  bliss 

To  one  of  care  and  jiaiu. 
We  will  span  life's  turbid  river  - 

Soon  its  waters  pass  away, 
And  merge  themselves  in  the  Ocean  vast 

Of  God's  eternal  day. 

But  look  down  from  that  home  in  heaven, 

My  beautiful  angel  boy, 
Where  thy  untried  spirit  quaffeth 

From  the  founts  of  eternal  joy. 
Let  thy  mother's  sad,  low  wailing 

Thy  joyous  spirit  move, 
To  dry  with  thy  anjrcl  pinion 

Her  bounteous  tears  of  love. 


A  POEM  BY  MICHAEL  DAYITT. 


INNISFAIL. 

IN  England's  felon  garb  we're  clad,  and  by 
her  vengeance  bound  ; 

Her  concentrated  hate  we've  had — her  jus- 
tice, never  found. 

Her  laws,accurs'd,  have  done  their  worst  ;  in 
vain  they  still  assail 

To  crush  the  hearts  that  beat  for  thee,  our 
own  loved  Innisfail. 

Nor   can  the  dungeon's  deepest  gloom  but 

make  us  love  thee  more : 
WeM  brave  the  terrors  of  the  tomb  to  keep 

the  oath  we  swore  ; 
In  chains,  or  free,  to  live  for  thee,  and  never 

once  to  quail 
Before  the  foe  that  wrought  such  woe  to  our 

loved  Innisfail. 

From  Irish  mothers'  hearts  has  flowed  this 

sacred  love  of  thee. 
And  Erin's  daughters'  cheeks  have  glowed 

that  love  in  deeds  to  see, 


A  coward-born  fair  lips  will  scorn,  while  joy- 
ously they  hail 

The  hearts  that  heat  for  love  of  thee,  our 
own  loved  Innisfail. 

Then  let  our  jailers  scowl  and    roar  when 

cheerful  looks  we  wear  ; 
The  patriot's  (lod  that  we  adore  will  shield 

us  from  despair. 
Fair  bosoms  rise  with  love-drawn  sighs  by 

mountain,  stream  and  \.ile 
And  dav  and  night  in  prayers  unite  for   us 

and  Innisfail. 

.  chained  lu-neutli  the  tyrant's  hand,  l>y 
martyr's  Mood  we  swear 

To  Freedom  and  to  Fatherland  we  «till  alle- 
giance I*' 

Nor  felon's  fate,  nor  Kngland'g  hate,  nor 
hellish-fashioned  jail 

Shall  stay  this  hand  to  wield  a  orand  one 
day  for  Innisfail. 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  THOMAS  GALLAGHER, 


BIOGRAPHICAL    NOTE. 

James  Thomas  Gallagher  was  born  in  Ougham,  county  of  Sligo,  Ireland,  in  1855. 
His  parents,  who  belonged  to  the  "well  to  do  "  farming  class,  intended  him  for  the  priest- 
hood, but  he  chose  rather  the  profession  of  journalism.  He  was  for  years  connected 
with  the  Dublin  Nation  and  Shamrock,  and  some  of  his  best  and  most  spirited  poems 
were  written  for  those  journals.  ],n  the  great  struggle  for  the  Parliamentary  repre- 
sentation of  Roscommon  in  1879  between  Charles  Stewart  Parnell  and  the  O'Connor 
Don,  Mr.  Gallagher  first  distinguished  himself.  The  distinguished  Irish  leader  stated  at 
a  public  banquet  given  him  in  Roscommon  "  that  without  the  assistance  of  the  young 
Poet  he  would  never  have  won  that  O'Connor  Don  stronghold."  For  his  service  in  that 
struggle  Mr.  Parnell  offered  to  procure  his  election  to  Parliament,  but  being  too  poor  he 
declined.  In  1S80  he  came  to  New  York,  in  which  city  he  still  resides.  His  poems 
and  sketches  are  among  the  leading  features  in  the  best  journals  and  magazines  of  the 
city.  In  1884  he  entered  Bellevue  Medical  College,  graduating  with  honor  in  March 
1889,  when  he  joined  the  regular  house  staff  of  that  institution  as  a  surgeon. 


OUR  BELOVED  DEAD. 

IN  MEMORIAM — REV.  THOS.  N.  BUEKE. 

DEAD!     Erin,  weep!  your  friend  is  gone; 

Your  truest  and  your  best; 
The  bright  unchanging  star  that  shone 

Across  your  darKened  breast. 
The  star,  when  slander's  poisoned  breath 

Would  blast  your  flower  of  fame, 
Which  scorched  the  slanderer  to  death — 

Immortal  made"  your  name. 

Yes,  weep;  the  tongue  is  chained  in  death, 

That  pity  woke  for  thee; 
The  voice  is  hushed,  and  still  the  breath 

That  told  thy  misery. 
The  arm  that  did  defend  the  right 

And  battle  with  the  foe 
Will  ne'er  again  storm  falsehood's  height 

Nor  lay  a  bigot  low. 

Oh!  how  the  haughty  foeman  reeled 

Before  his  lightning  glance; 
How  soon  he  pierced  the  braggart's  shield 

With  truth's  subduing  glance. 
Such  mighty  flood  of  facts  he  poured 

Upon  the  Saxon's  head 
That  shamed,  defeated,  drenched  and  gored 

The  brazen  liar  fled. 


Oh,  patriot!  and  gifted  sage 

And  eloquent  divine, 
Time  has  not  traced  upon  her  page 

A  grander  name  than  thine. 
But  ah,  too  soon  you  passed  away — 

Too  soon  withdrew  your  light — 
Still  memory  holds  one  treasured  ray 

To  cheer  us  through  the  night. 


Many  a  heart  is  sad  to-day, 

Many  a  tear  is  shed ; 
Bright  hope  that  cheered  the  exile's  way 

For  evermore  is  fled. 
Thou  wert,  brave  Father  Tom,  the  pride 

Of  all  who  love  to  see 
Poor  Erin  take  her  place  beside 

The  nations  that  are  free. 


Light  press  the  turf  upon  your  breast, 

You  sleep  in  Irish  clay; 
We'd  rather  all  beside  you  rest 

Than  thus  in  exile  stray. 
Rest,  spirit,  rest!  while  bends  a  sky 

Above  your  native  shore, 
Your  name  and  fame  shall  never  die — 

Shall  loved  be  more  and  more. 


POEMS   OF  JAMES  THOMAS   <;.\  I.I.Ai;  II  I.I;. 


108? 


ANNIE. 

BRIGHT  as  the  face  of  a  morn  in  May, 
When  first  from  the  East  it  wings  forth  it 

bright  way; 
Sweet  as  the  thrushes'  first  note  in  the  grove 
Or  pale  infant  primrose,  is  Annie,  my  love. 

Pure  as  the  dew-drops  that  lovingly  creep 
Into  the  young  lily's  bosom  to  sleep; 
Fair  as  the  hawthorn  wreath  that  is  wove 
By  nature's  own  hand,  is  Annie,  my  love. 

Chaste  as  the  breath  that  at  eventide  flows 
From  the  bright  dewy  lips  of  the  opening 

rose; 

True  as  the  vow  of  seraph  above, 
Rarest  of  rare  ones,  is  Annie,  my  love. 


TRUE  LOVE. 

OH,  what  on  earth  is  half  so  sweet 

As  love,  true  love  ? 
An  equal  joy  you'll  only  meet 

In  realms  above, 

Where  all  is  beauty,  all  is  bliss — 
One  long  day  of  happiness. 

Oh,  what  on  earth  is  half  so  bright 

As  love,  true  love  ? 
What  thrills  the  heart  with  such  delight 

As  love,  true  love  ? 
Not  all  the  song  birds,  all  the  flowers, 
That  sing  or  bloom  in  earthly  bowers. 

Oh,  what  on  earth  is  half  so  grand 

As  love,  true  love  ? 
Be  its  chain  for  motherland 

Or  mankind  wove, 
Its  every  link  is  rarer  gem 
Than  ever  flashed  in  diadem. 


TELL  ME  YOU  LOVE  ME. 

STAR  of  my  night! 

Sun  of  my  day! 
Happy  when  near  thee, 

Sad  when  away. 
Beautiful  maiden 

With  smile  half  divine, 
Tell  me  you  love  me, 

Say  you'll  be  mine. 


How  dearly  1  love  thee 

Words  cannot  tell; 
Mortal  has  n< 

Loved  woman  so  well. 
Since  first  I  saw  thee 

My  heart  is  thine; 
Tell  me  you  love  me, 

Say  you'll  lie  mine. 

In  every  tress 

Of  thy  rich,  wavy  hair, 
That  streams  down  thy  neck 

And  shoulders  snow  fair; 
In  every  feature 

Such  rare  beauties  shine, 
I  would  not  exchange  them 

For  earth's  richest  mine. 

Peace  of  my  soul, 

Comforter,  kind, 
Deep  in  my  heart 

And  fond  thou  art  shrined; 
So  deep  and  true 

Time  can't  undermine; 
Tell  me  you  love  me, 

Say  you'll  be  mine. 

Oh,  for  that  word 

I'm  longing  to  hear! 
Earth  knows  no  sound 

Half  so  sweet  to  mine  ear. 
Oh,  for  those  lips. 

More  ruby  than  wine; 
Tell  me  you  love  me, 

Say  you'll  be  rnim •. 


GRANT  AND  DEATH. 

THE  hand  of  dawn  with  pencil  bright. 
Was  tracing  morning  o'er  the  sky 

iVhen  Grant  up«»n  McGregor's  height. 
Beheld  grim  Death  in  armor  nigh, 

'  0  hero  of  undying  fame! 

Who  saved  the  Union,  peace  restored! 
Grant!  Victor!  Chief!  on  Mars'  red  plain. 

Yield,  yield  to  Death  thy  flaming  sword !  " 

Spoke  Grant ;  and  valor  sat  enthroned 

Upon  his  brow's  majestic  field ; 
'  What  victor  never  claimed  before 

To  thee,  King  Death,  my  sword  I  yield." 


A  POEI  BY  JAMES  MARTIN, 


THE   MARCH   OF   THE   IRISH   RACE. 
0,  spirits  that  watch  for  the  coming  dawn 

at  the  promised  Arcadian  gate, 
Have  you  read  God's  signs  in  the  arching 

skies,  aud  his  lines  in  the  book  of  fate? 
Have  your  weary  eyes  been  at  last  made  glad 

with  the  visions  that  seem  to  say 
That  the  alien's   cause,  like  the  gloom   it 
.     brought,  is  fading  in  death  away? 

0 !  patriot  hearts  that  have  throbbed  to  be 

free,  as  free  as  your  sires  of  yore, 
Do  you  feel  the  thrill  of  the  roseate  hope 

you  never  had  felt  before? 
0,  bards,  you  may  hush  your  requiem  lays 

o'er  the  loss  of  our  glories  gone. 
For  the  Irish  race,  'neath  its  banner  of  old, 

is  speedily  inarching  on. 

Out  of  the  valley  of  sin  and  death,  down 

from  the  barren  crags, 
Where  a  peasant  toiled  (that  a  lord  might 

wine)  while  his  children  slept  in  rags. 
Out  from  the  scorn  of  serfdom's  shame,  out 

from  the  dungeon  grim, 
Out  from  the  lair  where  gyves  and  chains 

encumbers  each  Irish  limb. 

On,  on  to  the  vistas  of  human  light,  on,  on 

to  the  uplands,  where 
Men  kneel  at  the  shrine  of  freedom's  God, 

and  the  skies  look  ever  fair. 
On,  on  the  shores  where  the  sands  be  gems 

that  are  kissed  by  the  glad  sunbeams; 
On,  on  to  each  plain  where  the  waving  grain 

from  the  golden  meadow  gleams. 


Tip,  up  from  the  swamps  where  the   fetid 

gusts  of  the  poisonous  vapor  kill. 
On,  on  in  the  march  of  the  people's  might, 

with  the  strength  of  a  people's  will. 
On,  on  in  the  part  of  the  human  race,  to  the 

light  of  a  better  day, 
Where  tyrants'  thrones  and  sceptered  drones 

be  ruthlessly  swept  away. 

Where  the  earth  shall  riot  store  the  stains 

of  an  outraged  country's  tears, 
And  the  world  will  bask  in  peace  and  rest 

'neath  the  glow  of  the  coming  years, 
Then  hurrah!  hurrah!  for  the  onward  march 

to  the  gates  of  the  promised  land, 
Where  never  again  the  sceptre  of  state  shall 

be  grasped  by  an  alien's  hand. 

0,  shades  of  our  Hugh  and  Owen  Roe,  and 

Emmet,  and  Orr,  and  Tone, 
The  land   that  you  died   to  disenthrall   is 

boldly  marching  on. 
On,  on  through  the  night  to  the  morning 

bright  where  the  green  flag  points  the 

way, 
While  her  titled  peers  in  terror  fly  like  ghouls 

at  the  dawn  of  day. 

Till  the  castle  be  wrecked,  and  the  last  red 
coat  of  its  myrmidon  hordes  be 
gone, 

The  Irish  race,  through  time  and  space, 
shall  ever  go  marching  on. 


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